When Darlin and Paw came to town last weekend, they brought along a fresh batch of childhood memorabilia and family photos as they slowly clear out the big house in Welsh. This started a few years ago, when they showed up with a box of old newspaper clippings and the sudden, nostalgic return of my childhood Spider-Man wallet.

Last Friday, I was told to take the large plastic storage container out of my mom’s car. All 68.7 pounds of pictures! Yes, I weighed them. Memories, I found, can be quantified. There were seven yearbooks, seven overstuffed photo albums, and a stack of burned CDs, most of which were Gov’t Mule, a ’70s-style blues-rock band, courtesy of my brothers. There were also a few plaques: 1st place Goat Flipper in the 1991 Silver Spurs competition, 1st place in FFA’s 1999 skeet-shooting competition, and, arguably, my greatest achievement: an award for perfect attendance from 1989 to 2002.

With my parents on the couch beside me and college football on the television, I combed through the loose photos, creating piles that would define my early life. Outdoor Sportsman: I hunted, fished, hiked, and rodeoed. One photo captured me holding an unborn calf by the hoof as I attempted to assist in its birth. School & Sports: I played every sport Welsh had to offer at one point or another, although the box was suspiciously empty of athletic awards. But, hey, I played! Christmas: Lots of pictures of my brothers and me surrounded by wrapping paper in our long johns. Showing Pigs: This was by far the largest stack. I had devoted myself to showing hogs, and judging by the pictures, I was clearly locked in. I even felt a little pride seeing photos of me winning some of the biggest shows Louisiana had to offer.

I had a few talents. Though at the time, and even now, I wouldn’t necessarily see myself as a talented person. I mean, you don’t have to be talented to go to school. And it seems I’m still coming to grips with a bad habit of selling myself short. But having my two loving parents sitting beside me, listening to their memories and seeing my childhood through their eyes, helped me appreciate my own history. It turns out I did a few things well. I was clearly excitable from birth. I liked to be the life of the party. I didn’t mind getting in costume and acting a fool. I had a knack for making people laugh, even if I was too skinny to lay a crackback block as Welsh Greyhounds’ #4 wide receiver.

But as I looked through the pictures, I realized something else. There were plenty of things I was good at that never made it into those photo albums. Some of my most developed talents never received a plaque, a ribbon, or even a photograph. And that’s probably a good thing.

Because if we all have natural talents that are good, I do wonder if we also have certain talents for sin.

In all that digging, I found a photo that brought back a Thanksgiving I remember all too well. I was a junior at Welsh High. It was Thanksgiving break, and my brothers were in town. And to top it off, it was my birthday, and I was going out that night! I was going to express my not-so-hidden talent for trouble.

Back then, I figured being a good liar was pretty much the same as being a good actor. And maybe I had a bit of both in me. But eventually, you lose track of your own stories. That night, mine caught up with me.

On that birthday night, my parents caught me drinking… again. I arrived home buzzed in the pitch-black night, and my father greeted me with a job: “You’re going to stay up all night cleaning the tack room.”

A tack room is a barn storage room filled with all manner of ancient equipment from our rodeo days, with 50 years of feed dust layered on every wall and workbench. And best of all, it was filled with twenty-plus bales of hay.

Here’s how to clean a barn in the middle of the night: Take everything out of the barn, cuss, sweep off the low ceiling and walls of 1,000 cobwebs before laying your broom to the concrete floor, cuss more, watch the dog chase mice as you clean equipment before returning it into the barn, watch the sun rise, cuss a little more, watch your well-rested dad inspect your work, try as hard as you can not to look him in the eyes or let his love in.

The sun was now in the middle of the sky, and my belly was full of Thanksgiving dinner. My mom, having all three of her boys home, declared that we needed to mark the occasion with a photo. Exhausted from a sleepless night, I trailed behind my two college brothers, who were free from the tyranny of parental rules and curfew. We set up the digital camera in the backyard. My dad set the timer for 10 seconds. As I stared at the camera, I couldn’t help but see the clean tack room behind it in the middle distance. 5 seconds. My dad hustled back to the boys, inserting himself between us. 2 seconds. He wrapped one arm tightly around my shoulder. 1 second. I was filled with emotion: mad, sad, tired, frustrated, ashamed, and oddly content. Click. The moment captured. My father still loved me even with all my talents.

“I can’t believe I found it!” I told my parents, sitting next to me. “Oh, I remember this picture. Do you remember this picture?” I handed it to them and gave them some hints. “It was Thanksgiving,” I told them. “Look at my face? Do you see my expression?” They were only more puzzled. I shoved it at my dad, who was lying on the couch, trying to interrupt the football game on the TV. “Dad, do you remember?”

Neither of my parents had the slightest clue. How could they not remember! I mean, it’s written as plain as day on my face. I was mad, sad, tired, frustrated, ashamed. I remember, like it was yesterday, taking my joie de vivre and my talent for acting and turning them into selfish disobedience.

I recounted the whole story, ending with the fact that I was constantly getting in trouble. They had to stop me. My dad, turning his head to look at me, said, “Oh, Bo. You weren’t that bad.” “You were a good kid.” My mom followed with a side hug, saying, “You were my fun-loving boy.” I didn’t cry then. But I do now.

How could my parents not remember that day? What happened in them that they could forget my own personal judgment day?

I looked at the picture of my father’s arm holding me tightly. While I was holding on to bitterness in that photo, my father had already forgiven me. And now, over two decades later, they couldn’t even remember my shame. They were still cleaning house. Layers of dust and dirt, pain and shame, sin and sorrow had been painstakingly removed. Now all that’s left are the photos of a wonderful childhood. One of a fun-loving kid surrounded by a strikingly beautiful mother, a smart, hardworking father, two strong, protective older brothers, and a whole host of friends, classmates, and animals on a farm where I was unconditionally loved, even with all his talents.

As I close the picture book, I find I’m still learning to let in my heavenly Father’s love. I hear his voice saying, “For I will forgive their wickedness and will remember their sins no more”.

Warning: This post describes in detail my experience of the meat industry.

If I wanted an easy class, I should have taken Golf 101 or Beginner Bowling. Why didn’t I take Scuba Diving? I’m not saying I regret my classes at LSU, but being an Animal Science major had a particular direction. I don’t know if it’s just my brain—it probably is—but I don’t remember many of my classes in BR. On the other hand, I do remember ANSC 3053: Meats, aka butchering class.

It’s exactly what you think it would be. And, no, it was not easy. I can’t remember my child’s phone number, but I remember learning about ATP—adenosine triphosphate—the energy source used by cells, including our muscles, which allows them to move and grow. After all the heavy sciences, we finally got onto the processing floor. We watched as a live hog, lamb, and cow became the meat we eat every day. Exsanguination and evisceration are scientific terms for things most of us never see.

Butchering these animals is nothing like shooting a deer from afar. Cattle are incredibly big, weighing 1,300 to 1,400 pounds. Once that animal is downed, you’re not picking it up. First, it has to be stunned with a captive-bolt gun, placed against its forehead. One must literally look it in the eyes before killing it.

Once the animal drops, a chain is fitted around its hind legs, it’s lifted into the air, and a long, sharp sticking knife is used to cut the carotid artery in its neck. It was at this point that my mind turned on its recorder.

Jewish law is serious business, and this applies to the killing floor of a slaughterhouse. Kosher slaughter, called shechita, is performed by a trained shochet using a specialized knife, the chalaf. The cut must be precise and uninterrupted, with no pausing or downward pressing. Even the inspection of organs and removal of blood are governed by detailed rules. Traditional shechita does not use the captive-bolt stunning I just described. For it to be kosher, the animal is completely alive, conscious, and uninjured prior to the cut.

If you’re only a little shell-shocked, you’re welcome. I didn’t describe the bone saw, the removal of 16 gallons of blood, or how 1,400 pounds of cow becomes only 400 pounds of packaged beef at your grocery store. Death is unsettling. And if you're unnerved, it’s because you’ve successfully cut yourself off from taking life.

This isn’t your fault; I’ll tell you why.

People talk about ultra-processed food being terrible, but I don’t see anybody volunteering to be part of the process above. Check that … I do know someone. Matt and Emily Martelli own Fox Hill Farms (foxhillfarmms.com). The picture above is their beautiful home, and the grass-fed beef in the foreground is eating their backyard. And yes, they welcome you to come eat their cows.

If you struggled through that introduction, I understand. Some of you probably stopped reading at the warning. We don’t want to know how the sausage is made. Except me, apparently. I took a class specifically to learn how the sausage is made.

Thanks to refrigeration and transportation, our meals can come from hundreds of miles away, from animals slaughtered weeks earlier in facilities we’ll never enter. At the grocery store, the butcher works behind glass. And we enjoy eating chicken sandwiches that come in boxes sold by happy cows telling us to eat more chicken.

We’ve forgotten that death is a requirement for us to eat. “Normal” people today have little experience with death. And nearly all the animals we know have names. You can’t eat your pet pig named Butters! Except I did eat every pig I ever showed in 4-H and FFA. I stopped naming them after I found out my family and I were eating Rocket.

We do something similar with death itself. We remove it from daily life. We don’t want to see it. Unless it’s Halloween. Then we make it into a costume. We’ve gone so far as to make death into a silly plastic mask! Not real. Pretend.

I think it was Lindsay, my wife, who told me about the history of the front parlor. And if you’re from the steel-magnolia South, you call it the “pah-luh.”

For generations, families washed, dressed, and laid out their dead loved ones in their own homes, often in the front parlor. Neighbors and friends came by to pay their final respects. In the early 1900s, there were so many deaths due to influenza and World War I that we gave the parlor a nickname: the death room. But leave it to us to change the name again; now it’s the living room.

Around the same time, we moved our dead out of the house altogether, preferring they go to a newly created business: the funeral pah-luh.

In 2019, my Thursday Morning Men’s Group spent several months studying the Old Testament festivals. And it was at that time that Bruce Rapp from Jews for Jesus came to demonstrate the connection between the Passover meal Jesus celebrated and what Christians call the Lord’s Supper.

Listen to the death message in the institution of the Lord’s Supper:

Jesus said, “This is my body, which is for you” (1 Corinthians 11:24). “This cup is the new covenant in my blood” (v. 25). Matthew records him saying, “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins” (Matthew 26:28). Paul writes, “Christ, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed” (1 Corinthians 5:7).

The bread is given. The cup is poured. We eat and drink. By faith, we feast upon Christ. And Paul reminds us of what we are doing: “You proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes” (1 Corinthians 11:26). We gather in the sanctuary to look Jesus in the eyes, remember his death, and celebrate his resurrection.

Long ago, God commanded his people to bring animal sacrifices to the altar. Blood was shed before their eyes. Nobody was standing behind glass, trying to spare them the sight. In Leviticus, God explained why: “For the life of the flesh is in the blood” (Leviticus 17:11). Blood represented life given, and God appointed it for atonement.

But our sensibilities recoil. We don’t want to know our food had a face. We prefer our loved ones’ final viewing be at a funeral parlor rather than our homes’ death room. We can tolerate death in costume, but do we really want to think about Jesus being tortured and nailed to a cross?

I know it’s unsettling. It’s supposed to be.

Hebrews says, “Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins” (Hebrews 9:22). In the Old Testament, confession and sacrifice went hand in hand. Those sacrifices pointed forward to Jesus, who willingly gave his life once for all. His blood is a beautiful gift, even when we cannot bear to look at what it cost. When we confess our sins, we acknowledge that forgiveness was purchased through his sacrifice.

I don’t remember much from college. I’ve forgotten formulas, professors, and more than a few classes. But I remember that cow and its blood.

We’ve become remarkably good at hiding death—behind the butcher’s glass, outside our living rooms, and beneath plastic Halloween masks. Yet every time we come to the Lord’s Table, Jesus puts death right in front of us. The bread is given. The cup is poured. And he says, “Do this in remembrance of me.”

There is a death you are commanded never to forget; it’s the one that gives you eternal life.

All that meat talk might have you hungry… Is that weird? Maybe it’s just lunchtime. Here is an article with a dinner idea:

Kids love to wrestle, and some of the most fun I had with my two girls was grappling on the couch. They loved being thrown and pinned, and within seconds of my turning to walk away, one of them would become Lou Ferrigno, launch herself onto my back, and start the whole thing over again. These days, now that my girls are in and around their teens, there’s an occasional pillow fight mixed with shadow boxing. That turns into tickling, which ultimately devolves into one of them becoming the Hulk.

These days I have a new reputation at our church’s playground. On Wednesday nights, the kindergartners wage war against me. It usually starts with one of them poking me in the back. That’s fine; I can take it. I’ll take the jab until I flip a few, but, like throwing water on Gremlins, they instantly multiply. Have you ever been chased by ten kindergartners with malicious intent? It’s terrifying.

Last week I literally ran to hide behind two parents. They laughed at me! Then they backed away as a dozen children surrounded me. Soon, I was lying on the ground while kids with sinister names like Parks, Thomas, and Henry used me as their personal trampoline. I left church exhausted, sweating, and so happy.

There is something about wrestling that seems built into us. The Bible gives us Jacob wrestling with God through the night, fighting for leverage until daybreak and walking away with a limp and a new name. Physical sports make the instinct obvious: the winner is usually the one who can gain and maintain control; everyone is looking for leverage. We want to dictate where our opponent can go.

With kids, of course, it’s all play. Because I have nearly all the leverage, I can tailor the game to my will. If I want a child to have the upper hand, I just use less strength. I can let them pin me, escape when I want, or end the game altogether. With children, I have the luxury of being in control.

But what happens when it’s no longer child’s play? And what happens when it’s adults that need to be restrained?

How do you stop someone who is capable of hurting himself or others? What do you do when another person is completely out of control?

With children, we call them fits or tantrums. If you’ve spent enough time in Walmart, you’ve seen one. I’m always curious about other people’s parenting styles in those moments, though I try hard not to judge because we’ve all been there. The child is beyond reason. Perspective is gone. Sometimes they simply need to be restrained.

When my girls were little, and this happened in a store or restaurant, my method was simple: I picked them up and carried them outside. I’d say, “We’re going for a walk.” I’m convinced there is something about the sudden change of scenery—the fresh air, big sky, direct sunlight, big trees, even the heat coming off the parking lot—that worked like smelling salts. They woke up to where they were. Eventually, they calmed down.

At home, there were times when I would hold them in a strong hug to keep flailing arms and legs from hurting themselves or somebody else. Then came time alone in their room. Other freedoms disappeared for a while. Screen time or a favorite toy might be taken away. Discipline almost always involved some kind of restraint. Lindsay and I determined where you could go, what you could do, or what you could have.

Kids I can kind of handle. But how do you restrain adults?

Human beings have been trying to answer that question for thousands of years, and the history is not particularly pretty. Most of my reference points come from books I’ve read and movies I’ve seen.

• One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest — Ken Kesey. A sane man enters a psychiatric hospital and finds himself fighting over sanity, obedience, and freedom.

• The Count of Monte Cristo — Alexandre Dumas. Edmond Dantès is falsely imprisoned in the Château d’If for years, where confinement nearly destroys him before his escape.

• The Gulag Archipelago — Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Arrest, interrogation, forced labor, and confinement become tools for breaking people and controlling a population.

• The Heavenly Man — Brother Yun. Yun tells of imprisonment and mistreatment in Chinese prisons alongside God’s work through persecution.

• Trust — Hernan Diaz. How much power should a wealthy husband have over his wife’s confinement and psychiatric treatment?

Human restraint can only do so much. The Bible gives us stories where human strength reaches its limit.

In Mark 5, we meet a man living among the tombs who was uncontrollable and hurting himself. People had repeatedly tried to control him. He had “often been bound with shackles and chains,” but he broke them. Mark says no one had the strength to subdue him.

A few chapters later, a father brings Jesus his son, who has suffered since childhood from a spirit that seizes him, throws him to the ground, and leaves him foaming at the mouth and grinding his teeth. The father says, “It has often thrown him into fire or water to kill him.” The text doesn’t tell us exactly what this father had done over the years to restrain his son, but you can imagine him in Walmart, can’t you?

In both stories, we identify with humanity’s fallenness. We are simple people trying to gain leverage over something outside our control. We restrain, protect, intervene, and do what we can. Eventually, human strength reaches its limit.

Jesus does what chains, desperate fathers, and human strength cannot do. He speaks, the spirits obey, and the uncontrollable are restored to themselves.

And here is the good news: Jesus has control.

What drew me to this topic in the first place was Hosea. If you can’t identify with evil spirits, prisons, or padded rooms, you’ll get this. Hosea is a book about wanting a freedom that will destroy you. Hosea’s marriage to Gomer becomes a living picture of Israel running from God after other lovers. I told you you’d get this one.

And God does something you’re now familiar with: he restrains her. “I will block her path with thornbushes; I will wall her in so that she cannot find her way.” She chases what she wants, and God responds like a parent protecting a child. He gets in the way.

Then the God who blocks the road speaks as her husband: “I am now going to allure her; I will lead her into the wilderness and speak tenderly to her.” God restrains and loves. In his hands, restraint becomes embrace.

God knows exactly how to restrain us, redirect us, and protect us from ourselves and the world around us. His Word corrects us and directs our steps like a lamp to our feet. Through the Holy Spirit, even now, we hear his voice speaking both correction and tenderness.

In the end, I see myself back on the playground. Like Jacob, I’m wrestling with God, straining for leverage and convinced I know where I need to go.

But God always has the leverage.

And the hands I experience as restraint are the same hands refusing to let me go.

How long can you stay in a tent before you’re ready to go home? Personally, it doesn’t take me long. I really wish I liked camping. Really, I do. When I hear about other men taking their families camping, I secretly feel ashamed. But no, please don’t invite me on your canoe trip unless it ends at a Holiday Inn.

My dad was a better man. He took my brothers and me on real camping trips. And I’m talkin’ real camping. This wasn’t a hundred yards behind your house between the pine trees. From Welsh, Louisiana, we traveled 11 hours across 728 miles to Big Bend National Park in West Texas. My brothers and I, with a small group of brave friends, hiked for days across desert trails to camp on a cliff that overhung the Rio Grande.

That trip ended when our water ran out. After a fitful sleep, we faced a half-day desert hike, swallowing our own spit till we got back to the outhouse they called the visitor center. By then, its water fountain resembled an oasis.

You’d think I would have learned. But before Lindsay and I were married, I thought it would be a good idea to take her camping. We flew to Denver, where a friend took us up to the Sangre de Cristo mountain range. We hiked all day to the Lake of the Clouds. That trip should have ended with my future bride and me cuddling by a fire, with rainbow trout jumping out of the lake.

Instead, during the last hour of the hike, a summer thunderstorm threatened to drown or freeze our budding relationship. Nothing says “I love you” like pouring boiling water into a Nalgene, then telling your girlfriend to hug it so she doesn’t develop hypothermia. And no, baby, you can’t get your own tent tonight. You’ll be sleeping between my buddy, who you just met, and me to conserve body heat. (That was survival, not a pickup line.)

So, yeah, I don’t like tent camping. Tents are basically thin sheets of plastic held up with pickup sticks. The air “mattresses” are nowhere close to anything I’d call a mattress. Here’s a strategy for sleeping: lie perfectly still and try not to dream of bears confusing you with a fruit roll-up.

Tents are temporary. And on that point, the Bible will back me up.

In 2 Corinthians 5, Paul describes our bodies as tents. Then he says something every camper understands:

“For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened…”

It’s a fitting picture of a body that wears out. So many of our prayers are for safety or health. We call it “traveling mercies” in the South. We pray over our violent football games and ask God to keep us from injury. My workout buddies and I pray before every workout. We have to, because our aging bodies are one bad lift from snapping like twigs. Our church’s prayer list reminds me that 40 of my friends have tents in disrepair.

Now I’m getting prayer requests from strangers. In August, we added an anonymous prayer form to fpcmeridian.com/prayer-request. People from around the world are finding it. I’m the only one who sees these requests. (Let me know if you’d like to join in praying.) This was one of the dozen we’ve received:

Who can we pray for? Anonymous

Request Subject: Healing of cancer

Request Details: Please pray for God blessed, powerful hands be upon me, heal the cancer in my body. Let His healing flow through my veins.

I don’t know this person’s name or where they live. But I know something about the tent they’re living in. Join me in praying for this person’s earthly tent.

That prayer belongs beside some very old prayers in Scripture.

In Job’s case, we’re told that Satan attacks his life and health, within the limits God allows. As Job and his friends struggle to understand his suffering, the book piles up images for our bodies. Eliphaz calls them “houses of clay” (Job 4:19). Job speaks to God as the craftsman who made him. To paraphrase: You shaped me like a potter shapes clay. You poured me out like milk and curdled me like cheese. You clothed me with skin and flesh and knit me together with bones and sinews. You gave me life and watched over me. Will you now undo the work of your own hands? (Job 10:8–12).

A house, a potter’s work, curdling cheese, clothes of flesh, the knitting of bones. Our bodies are crafted with care, and yet we suffer.

The person with cancer asks for God’s healing hands. Job appeals to the hands that shaped him. We praise and pray to the God who made our bodies.

As we wait for God to answer, the New Testament offers another image: God is willing to come and live with us here.

Jesus came.

John says the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. His word for dwelling carries the image of pitching a tent (John 1:14). R. C. Sproul describes Christ as a pilgrim who “left His heavenly home to enter into our pilgrimage on our behalf.”

Jesus went camping. He was exhausted, hungry, and thirsty. His body was wounded. He shared our flesh and blood so that he could do what Job could not. By his death, he broke the devil’s power and freed us from slavery to the fear of death. Jesus carried our sin in his tent to the cross (Hebrews 2:14–18; 1 Peter 2:24).

When Christ died, the temple curtain tore in two. Through his death, the way into God’s presence opened to us. And Jesus rose bodily. In a crazy turn of events, now his Spirit makes his home in us. Paul describes the gospel’s treasure carried in jars of clay. God lives in brittle bodies that still get sick and need prayer. His power is made perfect in weakness (1 Corinthians 6:19; 2 Corinthians 4:7; 12:9).

Our groaning belongs beside God’s promise. We can ask God to help us through today and trust him with the day this tent comes down.

Even when this tent is destroyed, Paul says, God has “an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands.” God has given us his Spirit as the guarantee of resurrection, when “what is mortal may be swallowed up by life” (2 Corinthians 5:1–5). As D. A. Carson explains, “The ultimate hope of the Christian is not simply to be with Christ in some immaterial existence, but to have resurrection bodies in a renewed heaven and a renewed earth.”

So, like it or not, I guess we’re camping. We’re in tents till eternity greets us. But we do not wait alone. We have each other, and even now, God has made his home in us. So don’t delay in asking him for healing and the strength to help one another through the night. He knows what it’s like to sleep on dirt.

I might not like camping, but I can live in this tent knowing who’s bringing me home.

In C.S. Lewis’ The Silver Chair (link to chapter), the Lady of the Green Kirtle is trying to convince Prince Rilian, Jill, Eustace, and Puddleglum, the marsh-wiggle, that Narnia does not exist. Neither does the Overworld. Neither does the sun. Eventually, neither does Aslan, the Christ figure.

All four are struggling against this snake in the shape of the Green Lady as she attempts to enchant them.

Early in the conversation, Jill is angry because “she could feel enchantment getting hold of her every moment.” But the longer the Witch talks, the harder it becomes to resist. Lewis writes, “the more enchanted you get, the more certain you feel that you are not enchanted at all.”

Soon the Witch has them denying things they have actually seen.

“There is no sun,” she tells them.

Finally, after struggling against her, all four answer, “You are right. There is no sun.” Lewis adds, “It was such a relief to give in and say it.”

How is the Green Lady at work today? You can know someone is telling you what you want to hear and still want to hear it. The truth is, we like to be enchanted. Truth can be hard to swallow, and hard things are often required of those who love it. Being honest about ourselves can mean repentance, discipline, sacrifice, patience, and change.

You’ve heard it before: “If it’s too good to be true, it probably is.” The Witch offers them relief from the struggle, and they are tired enough to welcome it:

“Put away these childish tricks.… And let us begin a wiser life to-morrow. But first, to bed; to sleep; deep sleep, soft pillows, sleep without foolish dreams.”

Falsehoods don’t have to be more convincing than the truth. For a lie to work, sometimes you have to want it to be true.

I’ll raise my hand if you do.

I like a simple life. And I like things explained in simple ways. Half the time I’m talking to ChatGPT, I’m quoting Michael Scott and asking it to explain a subject to me like I’m five. Other times I’ll spend 10 minutes on YouTube looking for the right 1-minute video to show me how to fix something.

I’m. not. patient. Are you? … I don’t see you raising your hand.

And yes, I’m already tired of this subject.

Which reminds me of countless trips where Linds and I are driving home from the distant land of Jackson, Mississippi. On one particular trip, I knew there was no way I could drive home. Friends… it was five o’clock in the afternoon! How was I ready for bed at 5:00 p.m.? You tell me. I don’t understand how sitting still while holding a steering wheel can be so exhausting.

I think it has something to do with maintaining concentration. It’s keeping a close watch while waiting.

When you’re driving, you’re fully engaged in a boring yet potentially dangerous task. You can’t go to sleep. You can’t completely relax. You have to keep watching the road, looking for the next turn, the next familiar landmark, the first sign that you’re almost home.

Maybe that is why the Witch’s offer is so appealing: “to bed; to sleep; deep sleep, soft pillows.” It would feel so good to give up the watch, to stop fighting and waiting. To give in and go to sleep.

Psalm 130:5–6 gives us strength:

“I wait for the LORD, my soul waits;
and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
more than watchmen for the morning,
more than watchmen for the morning.”

A watchman is a guard on the city wall whose job is kind of boring. Like a meerkat, they stand and watch. Or to spice it up, they might walk a little and watch. It’s an easy job; all you have to do is have constant vigilance. Sounds exhausting, right?!? Most of the time, there may be nothing to report. Still, he cannot slumber or sleep while he’s on watch. His job is to stay awake in the darkness and wait.

There is a lot of that in the Christian life.

And there is longing in this psalm. The watchman wants morning to come. He wants to see what he has been waiting for, to make it through the night and finally go home. “More than watchmen for the morning.” That is how the psalmist waits for the Lord.

Fighting sin is tiresome. Debating theological truth is exhausting. Even Ecclesiastes 12:12 says, “Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”

You’ve been reading for a while now. I can’t help but think you’re as tired of reading as I am of writing. We’re tired of waiting, tired of fighting sin, and tired of needing to repent of the same old same old. Are you tired of waiting… even for Jesus to return? When we feel exhausted, falsehoods begin to seem attractive. We might choose to abandon the struggle, assign blame elsewhere, rationalize our mistakes, or even describe God’s grace as a burden.

Deep sleep. Soft pillows. Close your eyes.

But here is the good news: you are not the only one keeping watch.

Psalm 127:1 says:

“Unless the LORD watches over the city,
the watchman stays awake in vain.”

We never watch alone!

Psalm 121:3–4 says:

“He who keeps you will not slumber.
Behold, he who keeps Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.”

God never grows tired! In keeping us, he sustains us.

And when we wait, we do so hoping in his word:

“I wait for the LORD, my soul waits,
and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
more than watchmen for the morning,
more than watchmen for the morning.”

One of Lewis’ greatest characters is that comically gloomy marsh-wiggle. He expects bad weather, bad food, bad luck, and generally the worst possible outcome. He is his name: Puddleglum.

But pessimism does not make Puddleglum a coward. When everyone else is lulled into the Witch’s pleasant prison, Puddleglum is the one stubborn enough to resist. He would rather face the worst truth than be comforted by something false.

Puddleglum walks over to the Witch’s enchanted fire and stamps on it with his bare foot. The sweet smell gives way to the smell of burnt marsh-wiggle, and everyone’s head begins to clear.

Lewis writes that “the pain itself made Puddleglum’s head for a moment perfectly clear and he knew exactly what he really thought.” Then: “There is nothing like a good shock of pain for dissolving certain kinds of magic.”

Suddenly Puddleglum remembers.

He remembers Narnia, the sun, and Aslan. While standing underground, with no sunlight in sight, he decides he would rather spend the rest of his life searching for Overland than surrender to the Witch’s dark little world.

He says:

“I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia.”

With her pleasant enchantment broken, the Witch becomes a serpent. Rilian, Eustace, and Puddleglum respond by fighting and killing the serpent, ending her magic. Soon after, the four begin the journey in search of Narnia.

God’s truth can be hard to hear, and it will sometimes hurt before it heals. But Puddleglum doesn’t put much stock in comfort. That might be the kind of character we need, too: willing to accept hard truths, even when it hurts, and to never lose faith in the morning. The sun will rise. Jesus will return.

I’ll see you in Overland.

Robin Hood and Little John, running through the forest
Jumping fences, dodging trees and trying to get away
Contemplating nothing but escape and finally making it
Oo-de-lally, oo-de-lally, golly, what a day

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Robin Hood!!! I love tapping into those good ole childhood memories. One highlight is Disney’s Robin Hood. The hero, Robin, was a clever fox, Friar Tuck was a portly badger, and Little John was the slap-happy bear. They did what was right, not necessarily by the law, but by the law written on our hearts. They outsmarted the corrupt powers: the Sheriff of Nottingham, a cutthroat wolf, and Prince John, the greedy lion. Oh, and not to mention, Robin fell in love with the foxy Maid Marian.

Robin Hood, I found, is a story told over and over again. Seriously, take a guess. Over the last 35 years, there have been at least 14 notable film and television retellings. That’s an average of about one new Robin Hood every 2.5 years. So, with all those productions, we now have to ask: who is the real Robin Hood?

• Kevin Costner — Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991)

• Cary Elwes — Robin Hood: Men in Tights (1993)

• Russell Crowe — Robin Hood (2010)

• Taron Egerton — Robin Hood (2018)

GOT to be Kevin Costner! RIGHT! Some of you are already mad that I didn’t include Sean Connery from the 1976 romantic drama Robin and Marian. It’s not my fault; I wasn’t born yet.

And apparently we still aren’t tired of the story. This year, Hugh Jackman is starring in The Death of Robin Hood. Andrew Garfield’s The Uprising takes a very strange road through the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381 before eventually landing in Robin Hood territory. And MGM+ renewed its own Robin Hood television series for another 10 episodes.

All that to say… we love Robin Hood!

But I’m still curious: who was the real Robin Hood? Let’s take two minutes and unpack some history.

First thing: forget what you think you know. The earliest Robin Hood stories were ballads passed down by word of mouth as early as 1377. But that Robin wasn’t a nobleman returning home from the Crusades or Robin of Loxley, fighting for King Richard. And he wasn’t even in Sherwood Forest. He was a yeoman—a common, low-born freeman—and his original crew was basically Little John, Will Scarlet, and Much the Miller’s son.

Turns out the real Robin Hood was a little rougher around the edges. Think the Brothers Grimm version.

We know he robbed people. But that famous line about “robbing from the rich and giving to the poor”? Well, kind of. In one of the oldest stories, Robin helps an honest knight who is about to lose everything to a wealthy abbey. Later, he robs a dishonest monk from that same abbey. There is justice—but Robin and his men are still, technically speaking, highway robbers.

One candidate for the real Robin is Robert Hood of Wakefield. Records place him in Yorkshire during the reign of Edward II with links to the 1322 rebellion. He disappears from the record while Edward is dealing with rebels and outlaws in the north. Then a “Robyn Hood” appears on Edward’s payroll in 1323 and disappears again about a year later. Sound familiar? In the old story, Robin is pardoned by the king, enters his service, and eventually leaves.

But the truth is messier than fiction. Historians have found other Robin Hoods and earlier outlaws. They even found people being called “Robin Hood” because the name itself had become shorthand for “outlaw.” So the freedom-fighter persona we know today was more of an evolution. Generation after generation took these stories and turned Robin into the man we wanted—or needed—him to be. We created a hero who stood up to the corrupt establishment to rescue the poor and outcast.

Unlike Robin Hood, whoever he really was, Jesus does not disappear into centuries of folklore. He walks through the pages of the Gospels as a real person in real places among real people. And unlike Robin Hood, Jesus overthrows corruption not with a bow and arrow but through God’s transformative power of love and sacrifice.

Jesus is the hero we are longing for.

Robin Hood had his Merry Men, and Jesus gathered his own band of outcasts—his disciples. But Jesus didn’t hide out in Sherwood Forest. In Mark 2, we see him very publicly saying, “Follow me,” to a sinful tax collector named Levi.

If Levi was a character in our movies, then he would have been the Sheriff of Nottingham! He was the wolf! The greedy, you know what. This man openly rejected his own people to side with Rome. He was a scumbag who pilfered his own people. And miracle of miracles, this didn’t offend Jesus one bit. In fact, if you read the Bible, offensive people seemed to be attracted to Jesus.

But try to answer this question: Why would lawbreakers love a lawkeeper?

Remember, Jesus was PER-fect. He could put that tattletale goodie-two-shoes who told on you in elementary to shame. So, to the outside world, it was strange for Jesus even to be near Levi, much less speak to him. And the words he does say break every social norm in the book: “Follow me.”

This is far beyond friendship. Jesus is inviting Levi into discipleship—to learn from him, follow him, and eventually represent him. So, what did Levi say?

Nothing. “Levi got up, left everything and followed him.” (Luke 5)

Here is where the Robin Hood story really turns toward Jesus.

Levi left his booth full of Rome’s dirty money and soon invited Jesus to his home for a party with all his friends. There, reclining at Levi’s table, Jesus finds himself perfectly at peace among a group of corrupt IRS officials. But then the law shows up. These self-proclaimed religious law-keepers, the Pharisees, stand outside wagging their fingers like the sheriff swinging his cudgel, whispering, “Why does Jesus eat with traitors and sinners?”

Jesus hears them and reveals God’s purpose: It is the sick who need a doctor. I have come to call sinners, not the self-proclaimed righteous.

Words like arrows find their mark not just in the Pharisees, but in us too.

What’s ominous is the moment you realize your own heart can look like the Pharisees’. By default, I’m self-righteous. But if I’m now one of Jesus’ Merry Men, I’m called to love sinners like me and to call them to the same repentance I’ve entered into. Like Levi, I’m called to invite the poor and outcast to follow Jesus as I follow him.

And maybe this is where Jesus becomes the hero Robin Hood never could.

Robin Hood defeats the Sheriff. Jesus calls him to follow. Robin Hood overthrows corrupt men. Jesus transforms them. The Robin Hood we know is the hero we invented. Jesus is real—and he invites you to truly follow him.

Levi, the tax collector, is traditionally identified with another name: Matthew—the disciple whose name now sits atop the first Gospel in our Bibles. The corrupt man became a follower of Christ; the follower became a messenger of the good news, and the good news still carries the same invitation: “Follow me.”

Oo-de-lally, oo-de-lally, golly, what a day…

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Kids love playing in the dirt, and I was one of those kids with the freedom to get truly filthy. I would come home caked in muck, layered from head to toe in sweat and dirt. It’s kids like me that moms make rules about taking your shoes off before you come into the house. As seen above, I raised a few girls who didn’t mind getting messy too.

So what happens between leaving the house clean and tidy and coming home looking like you got in a bar fight with a mud puddle? We enter into God’s messy world. What can you expect?! We live on dirt roads. We play in barns and sandboxes and jump in piles of leaves. We know dogs roll in their own filth and cats lick their rear ends, but we let them live inside our houses anyway. I hear some will even sleep in your beds. As much as you might deny it, we enjoy being dirty.

We love playing dirty games! When I was in my early 30s, living in St. Louis, I played a lot of church league softball. I was on a great team and batted leadoff. Since I couldn’t hit for power, my job was simple: make contact and get on base. To me, the best thing in all of baseball was sliding into a bag. There’s an exhilaration in a sport that lets you act like a kid again—to run as fast as you can and slide feet first in the dirt. And just like childhood, I got to leave that playground covered head to toe in dirt.

In Mississippi, we have special red dirt—soil formed from clays, sands, and sediments laid down millions of years ago by ancient seas and rivers. The ground here is ancient. And biblically speaking, so is our family story. We are people of the dirt, and we have a story all our own.

One thing I love about the Bible is the ancient window it gives us into the world as it once was. In those days, men and women covered themselves with dust and ashes as an outward sign of grief, humility, and confession. We see it in the story of Job. When his friends saw him crushed by loss, they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads toward heaven. And after God revealed himself to Job at the end of the book, Job himself said, “I repent in dust and ashes.” Throughout Scripture, God returns to this kind of dust.

When people covered themselves in dust and ashes, they were literally wearing grief. You tore your clothing. You stopped eating. You cried publicly. You sat on the earth. Then you covered yourself with the earth itself. But in my little Mississippi world, you will not find anyone covered in red dirt at a funeral. Like most of America, we dress in black.

If I’m honest, I think we’re often too clean about our grief—especially in the white Southern culture I know best. Many African American funeral traditions have preserved a kind of public sorrow that feels much closer to the Old Testament. I don’t think I’ve ever wailed. Have you? I envy that freedom to let grief cover you. In the culture I know, sorrow is often expected to behave itself.

That can be dangerous. We slip into something that can only be described as hibernation. Someone asks how we’re doing after a loss, and the automatic response is a brave face. I’ve even learned how to suk our own tears back into our eyes. We mourn, but we don’t want to be seen mourning. You can cry at the funeral, but after that the invisible clock starts ticking. At some point, everyone expects you to be done being sad.

Hibernation is dangerous. Isolation + Pain + Anger + Loneliness + (let’s be honest) Alcohol can become a terrible equation. Grief isn’t clinical depression, but sorrow carried alone can become a very heavy thing. The Bible, if you let it, will teach you another way—not just to grieve in community, in dust and ashes, but to see God transform the dirt at your feet.

Let’s circle around Psalm 119:25’s dusty prayer: “My soul clings to the dust; give me life according to your word.”

The dust in this verse is the same dust we find at the beginning of the Bible. Genesis says God formed Adam from the dust of the ground. Adam’s name is closely related to the Hebrew word for ground, adamah. From the beginning, we learn that we were once dirt. And when God breathed into that dirt, we became living human beings. Then God gave us our name, Dirt. We are mud, shaped into His image, and alive by His breath.

Of course, our story goes sideways quickly. The first Adam and his wife, our covenant representatives, broke their allegiance by sinning against our holy God. And God answered them, “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” In judgment, He reminds us what we have always been: fragile creatures. From the ground we came, and to the ground we return.

The Bible keeps taking us back there. “He remembers that we are dust,” the psalmist says. Daniel speaks of those who “sleep in the dust of the earth.” Dust is where we begin and where we will end. So when the psalmist says, “My soul clings to the dust,” he is saying, I am as low as I can go. I’m reduced to my essence.

Then comes the prayer: “Give me life according to your word.” In Genesis, when God breathes, dust lives. Here, a man whose soul is stuck to the dust asks God to bring him back to life. How? Through His word/breath/voice/Spirit.

Keep reading the stanza, and something wonderful happens. Six verses later, the psalmist uses the same Hebrew verb for “cling” again. At first, he was clinging to dust. Now he says, “I cling to your testimonies.” And the next verse says, “I will run in the way of your commandments.” He begins stuck, covered in dust and ashes, but by the end he is running.

In one way or another, we all know what it is to cling to the dust—stuck in grief, stuck in our frailty, stuck as sons and daughters of Adam: from Adam, like Adam, and in Adam. But by God’s word, we rise to life and run. The difference between dirt and life has always been God’s breath—God’s Word and the Spirit.

This is the Christian story. Paul picks up the language of Genesis in 1 Corinthians 15 and calls Adam “the man of dust,” the ancestor and representative of all of us. We are mud men who bear his image, children of dirt from start to finish. But Paul says there is another man—the risen Christ—and “just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the man of heaven.” The God who first bent down and breathed life into dust has done it again through Christ.

And as it was in the beginning, the hope of all dust is still God’s breath. So of course our Savior came this way—not from dust, but by the Spirit, born by the breath of God. John calls Christ the Word made flesh. Do you see it? Jesus is the breath of life from God to us, his beloved, dusty images.

Like a little boy, God is still playing in the dirt. So maybe our kids have it right when they come home covered, caked in mud: we are dust, after all. But we are no ordinary dust. We are dust God has breathed on, spoken to, and promised to raise. If only you believe and receive the breath of life, Jesus.

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Let’s talk flavors—and a few of my can’t-miss recipes.

It’s Tuesday, which means it’s my day to cook while Lindsay is at work. My strategy is simple: make the same meal over and over until everyone in the house is sick of it. In this way, I am illustrating God’s people in Exodus, who eventually grew tired of God feeding them manna and quail—and rebelled in the wilderness.

After the spaghetti rebellion of 2024, I’ve moved on to grilling hamburgers. I go big on toppings: half a slice of cheese, half a strip of bacon, and either a scrambled or fried egg. Lindsay and I add caramelized onions and bell peppers on the side.

There is only one seasoning I use on my burgers: McCormick Montreal Steak Seasoning. And I use it generously on both sides. What sets it apart, I think, is the garlic, onion, coriander, and dill seed. I love those coarse-ground chunks of flavor.

Now I’m trying a new meal before my family attempts to perform the rapture: chicken fajitas. Listen carefully—there is only one seasoning you’re allowed to use: Siete Chicken Fajita Seasoning. Trust me. They’ve nailed the blend, especially that hint of lime that keeps you coming back.

I use one packet per pound of chicken tenders. For our family of four, I cook two pounds, which gives us dinner plus leftovers that can go over just about anything.

Seasoning is everything, people. And the one seasoning common to almost everything is salt.

For the people of first-century Galilee and Judea, salt was plentiful. Their most obvious source was the region around the Dead Sea—the “Salt Sea” of the Bible. There were also massive rock-salt deposits near Mount Sodom, and archaeologists have found evidence of salt production along the Mediterranean coast.

Why so much salt?

Because salt is awesome!!! Just ask anyone whose doctor has told them to go on a low-sodium diet.

Salt is a natural flavor enhancer. Have you ever tried a pinch of salt on watermelon? Does salted caramel sound good to you? Have you noticed that fancy chocolate is often sprinkled with coarse salt? Or watched somebody cut a thick slice of tomato, salt it, and eat it like a cookie?

Also, it is illegal to eat popcorn without salt in Mississippi. Look it up.

But the salt familiar to Jesus’ world was not necessarily the fine, uniform Morton’s table salt sitting in your kitchen. Natural salt can be coarse and crystalline, gathered from evaporation pools or rock salt deposits. Those deposits could be cloudy white or gray, mixed with or layered over other minerals and sediment—magnesium and calcium compounds, gypsum, clay, and other materials. It could look less like the perfectly white grains pouring from our saltshakers and more like a dirty rock.

Which leads us to what Jesus said about salt.

In Matthew 5:13, Jesus said:

“You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.”

What makes this passage so compelling is its context.

One important observation is that the phrase translated “if the salt loses its saltiness”. It uses the Greek verb mōrainō. When applied to salt, it means to become tasteless or insipid. But the word can also mean to become foolish. Literally, “What if the salt becomes foolish?”

Later in the same sermon, in the same context, Jesus returns to that language of foolishness again. At the end of his Sermon on the Mount, he describes the person who hears his words but does not live them out as a mōrainō, a foolish man, who built his house on sand.

Jesus is a sage, and he speaks of some who are wise and follow him or others who are mōrainō with no sense at all.

Now let’s look at our next bit of context: those whom Jesus calls blessed. This is just before our passage in Matthew 5:3–12; Jesus repeats a phrase I hope you remember:

Blessed are…

Blessed are the poor in spirit. Blessed are those who mourn. Blessed are the meek. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. Blessed are the merciful. Blessed are the pure in heart. Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness.

Those who are blessed by God are those who have his favor and belong to his kingdom. After Jesus describes the character of his kingdom people, he shifts to their relationship with those around them.

You are…

“You are the salt of the earth.”

“You are the light of the world.”

What does this mean?

The meek, merciful, pure, and peacemakers are all like a perfectly seasoned steak. Their lives carry the distinctive flavor of God’s kingdom into the world around them.

A few years ago, I heard this passage preached by Rev. Dr. Neddie Winters, who was then president of Mission Mississippi. Neddie gave a passionate 7:00 a.m. talk on reconciliation. Actually, “talk” is too small a word. It was a sermon.

His point has stayed with me: Reconciliation tastes salty.

Mississippi knows good seasoning, and we know our need for reconciliation.

Here in Meridian, we are keenly aware of our racial history. And we are proud of the many people, like Dr. Neddie, who keep doing the slow, difficult work of bridging gaps. Among our own, Let’s Talk Meridian brings Black and White pastors and churches together across racial and denominational lines. And each year, the Miller family promotes Reconciliation Week as we remember the tragedy of the 2003 Lockheed Martin shooting while deliberately turning remembrance toward healing, relationships, and racial unity.

That is salty work.

Reconciliation that leads to love is the spice of a godly life. And these are the people who make a real difference in the world around them.

God isn’t simply asking us to become nicer, kinder, more forgiving people. Anyone who has ever tried knows we cannot, in and of ourselves, sustain perfect goodness in the face of persecution. The Beatitudes are not something we can sprinkle into our lives.

Before we can become any earthly good, we ourselves need to be reconciled.

That is what Jesus is preaching: Through Christ, God reconciles the fool to himself. Jesus converts the proud, bitter, selfish, divided, and mōrainō man. And by his grace, he forms in them a godly character that reflects his kingdom.

He makes you salty. You taste good because Jesus tastes good.

Here is a question to consider: When people encounter you, do you leave them with a good taste in their mouths? Do you live with more pride or meekness? Do you cause more division than you bridge? Are you self-righteous or covered by God’s grace?

Tonight, I know what I want on my hamburgers: Montreal Steak Seasoning. Cheese. Bacon. Egg. Caramelized everything. And all with the perfect amount of salt.

And I know what I need to bring something else to the dinner table too: a character seasoned with the grace and love of God.

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When’s the last time you used a public toilet? When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. As you speed-walk to the door, you prepare yourself for the inevitable disappointment. Trying to distract myself, I wonder what the odds are that the toilet will be clean? ChatGPT says:

13-to-7 against … Clean: +185 to not clean: -185

(Where did you get that number, Chat??? Reply: “back-of-the-envelope estimate.” Good enough for me.)

You remember Seinfeld?

JERRY: Anywhere in the city?
GEORGE: Anywhere in the city. I’ll tell you the best public toilet.
JERRY: Okay. 54th and Sixth?
GEORGE: Sperry Rand Building. 14th floor, Morgan Apparel. Mention my name—she’ll give you the key.
JERRY: All right. 65th and 10th?
GEORGE: Are you kidding? Lincoln Center. Alice Tully Hall, the Met. Magnificent facilities.

What about Meridian?

Chick-fil-A, right? Sure, they’re clean, but don’t you think that’s a little too busy? How about our public library? That one has a door so heavy you've got to put your shoulder into it. And it’s cold. And any bathroom in the Kress building is good. Magnificent facilities.

If you can’t remember a good bathroom, you’ll remember a bad one. The worst for me was a gas station in Kentwood, LA, off I-55. Better known as Britney Spears’ hometown. And this is just a theory, but that Circle K bathroom either inspired “Oops!... I Did It Again” or “Toxic.” Not sure which.

This is a back-of-the-envelope guess, but if you had to make a not-top-ten list of worst pots of all time, I’m betting you would have a public park water closet right up there with a concert/game day/Renaissance festival porta-potty experience.

So, why in the world were my team and I scraping paint off a public park toilet? This went through my mind in 2019 when my face was only inches away from the men’s commode at what was once Planet Playground. Or as it used to be called, Tetanus Tower or Slip-and-Splinter-Slide.

During its major renovation, a group from FPC was sent to help by cleaning and painting the public restrooms behind the large pavilion. After we shared all the toilet jokes we remembered from elementary school, I’d stop to catch (and hold) my breath and think, “Isn’t this the city’s job?” Why are we doing this? Aren’t public restrooms required to be gross? Who is going to care?! People are supposed to be disgusted here. Why do we need to do all this work?

The whys of life are pretty easy in the end. Because it needed to be done and the project team leaders asked us to do it right. But the real reason any Christian does a great job is that we feel God’s pleasure when dirty things were made beautiful and new.

As I look back on that memory, there’s a much more profound reason why I love remembering that bathroom. It has to do with who was on my team: Rebecca York. Rebecca was 22 at the time, living with her grandmother and brother, and we were all on bathroom duty. Rebecca carried a lot. Significant family challenges sat on top of relentless health issues, yet she carried them with strength and grace.

My favorite memory of Rebecca was going to her grandmother’s house to see the family and finding Rebecca sitting on the couch with a massive textbook on her lap. When I asked what she was studying, she said she was studying nursing. My eyes widened. Didn’t Rebecca get the memo? She’s not healthy enough to support other people’s health. Yet there she sat, book in hand, pushing her mind while her body kept pushing back.

Rebecca completed MCC’s Health Care Assistant program in 2020 and later was accepted into the nursing program.

Rebecca would die of her health complications on November 20, 2021. She was 25. But that didn’t stop her from cleaning bathrooms alongside her family and me in February 2019, pursuing her dreams at MCC. And she visited worship services at FPC until she could no longer attend in person.

Rebecca was an amazing girl who had dreams that stretched well past the time she was given. When we talked in the hospital during the final days of her life, she had hopes she was beginning to realize would never come to fruition this side of heaven. But through it all, she had a sweet confidence in the Lord that he would be faithful to the end.

There’s a public bathroom behind a pavilion near a somewhat newly renovated playground I’ll never forget. I’m sure it now has a time-worn coat of paint. It’s hot in there, and the ventilation isn’t great. But it holds a special place in my heart because it reminds me of a girl who loved the Lord and gave her last years to a place where she finally felt at home.

Rebecca never became the nurse she hoped to be. Still, she cared for us in ways she probably never knew. She taught her spiritual family something about dreaming, working, serving, and refusing to let weakness write the whole story. She serves me today. Caring for my heart.

We all do battle with a judgmental voice: “You can’t.” “You’re weak.” “Give up.”

God’s voice is different.

When sin entered the world, God didn’t turn away. Jesus had strength. He entered the mess, carried our sin, and gave his life for sinners.

Rebecca and the team showed strength and helped clean a public toilet everyone expected to stay dirty. We scraped it, painted it, and made something ugly beautiful again. Jesus came into this sinful world to do something far greater.

God saves us! Rebecca’s fought, studied, served, and dreamed. And, eventually, her body could fight no longer. Yet Paul says the God who raised Jesus “will also give life to your mortal bodies” (Romans 8:11). The Lord completes the work we could never finish. The hope of restoration is now true for Rebecca, who is with Christ. And her story has not ended with death. But it begins again in resurrection.

When Jesus returns, he’ll say, “Behold, I am making all things new” (Revelation 21:5). I think that applies to everywhere as much as to everyone. So, maybe I’ll meet you there. On a playground with a dear friend.

What’s your favorite subject in school? No, mine wasn’t theology. That was a hard pass until I was 23ish. But I love that question: favorite subject, especially when I’m hearing answers from the kids in my church. It’s one of those questions where you get to know the heart and personality of our youth. But you do have to preface the question: “You can’t say PE!”

I did a little digging, and here’s what kids say their favorite subject is. I’m curious where you land:

I’m the science guy! But is anyone else surprised by how many of you like math? Really?! Science is like math in full color. Plus, science has volcanoes! What does math have? Line graphs? Come on.

I had some great science teachers (and math teachers…). At Welsh High, I had two fantastic educators, the tag team of Ms. Thevis and Ms. Tonna. They played good cop, bad cop with us. Ms. Thevis drew you in with a relaxed atmosphere and a funny personality, while Ms. Tonna brought the business and made you work. Both teachers expanded my mind, included lots of fun experiments, and reminded me daily of the beauty of God’s complex world. Their classrooms equipped me to succeed first as an Animal Science major at LSU and now as a still-curious science dad.

But I did have an awkward relationship with science. In the 80s and 90s, it seemed like the subject was weaponized against religion—as if the two were polar opposites. After accepting Jesus, I felt like I had to reject mainstream science. And I wasn’t just imagining that tension. Ben Stein’s documentary Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed highlighted the silencing of scientists and academics who challenged the dominant assumptions about the origins of life. Many Christians got the memo, loud and clear: faith and science were on opposite teams.

It seemed to me that the most famous atheist voices often came across as scientists, while Christian apologetics was often presented as some kind of philosophy, archaeology, or ancient history.

The irony is that some of the greatest scientists in history were people of faith. I love hearing about Francis Collins, the geneticist who led the Human Genome Project. After studying the incredible complexity of DNA, Collins did not see science pushing him away from God. Instead, he saw it as another window into God’s creation. As he wrote, “The God of the Bible is also the God of the genome. He can be worshiped in the cathedral or in the laboratory. His creation is majestic, awesome, intricate, and beautiful—and it cannot be at war with itself. Only we imperfect humans can start such battles. And only we can end them.” (The Language of God, 2006)

Or Johannes Kepler, one of history’s greatest astronomers. As he studied the movements of the planets, he believed he was uncovering the mathematical beauty of God’s creation. Kepler wrote to a patron and peer that God created us “so that we could share in his own thoughts.” For Kepler, science was not a threat to faith—it was an opportunity to better understand the wisdom of the Creator.

In my little world in Meridian, I’d recommend anyone talk to Ashton Zeller. These days, I just like science, but Ashton and several of his colleagues LOVE—no cap—Jesus and science. Ashton can dive into theories of relativity and quantum physics as easily as he can talk about the Old and New Testaments. People like him have done wonders to calm the turmoil in my mind. They remind me that the God I worship is not threatened by discovery. God whose fingerprints are found beyond the ends of the earth can also be found in between the strands of our double helix.

To my delight, I know that God is part scientist.

Years ago, NOVA released a documentary called Prediction by the Numbers. It begins: “The future unfolds before our eyes. But is it always beyond our grasp? What was once the province of the gods has now come more clearly into view, through mathematics and data...”

It is amazing that humanity can predict weather patterns, calculate probabilities, map galaxies, and study the smallest pieces of matter. But there is a subtle temptation: as our ability to predict grows, our sense of dependence shrinks. The more we explain, the easier it becomes to forget the Creator behind every explanation.

Brennan Manning writes in The Ragamuffin Gospel, “There once was a time when a thunderstorm caused grown men to shudder and feel small. But God is being edged out of his world by science. The more we know about meteorology, the less we are inclined to pray during a thunderstorm.”

So, do you pray for good weather? I’ve noticed I pray more when the forecast is uncertain than when it seems predictable. Why? Because I slowly begin treating the forecast as final. It feels more practical to plan around a prediction than to pray to the Provider.

James warns against making plans as if tomorrow belongs to us: “You do not know what tomorrow will bring.” Instead, we should say, “If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that” (James 4:13–15). Proverbs says, “Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring” (Proverbs 27:1).

The word “boast” comes from the Hebrew root halal, the same root family behind hallelujah. What receives our praise? Don’t we often give our hallelujahs to our predictions? We boast in a country's promise to our children, the American dream. We boast in 10% returns and retirement plans. And hallelujah, WTOK says the Mississippi heat wave should be over in ten days. (Kidding… I have no idea. The weather doesn’t work right in Mississippi.)

Scripture reminds us that every tomorrow is a gift from God. So we boast in the Giver, not the gift. So, go ahead, make plans your plans- but with an open hand. Science majors seek understanding, but remember from whom all knowledge flows. I’m willing to bet the more you discover, the more mysteries you’ll find. In my experience, creation is just as unsearchable as the Creator.

After Job sought answers, God asked, “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?” (Job 38:4). Job finally admitted, “I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me” (Job 42:3).

Maybe this life is another classroom where God teaches us to hold the mystery between biblical faith and scientific facts. Math can measure, science can study, and forecasts can predict—but God still holds tomorrow. So when tomorrow comes, may we continue to pray and boast not in what we predicted, but in Him.

Cold sweat! That sudden rush of fear, panic, and danger response is common to all of us. Your brain senses a threat; the sympathetic nervous system fires up, adrenaline starts flowing, and your body prepares to act. Daniel Goleman famously called an extreme version of this an “amygdala hijack.”

You’re sitting in a quiet room when a friend sneaks up behind you, shouts “BOO!” and playfully pokes you in the ribs. What’s the natural response? Well… beware, practical joker. It’s not always the same.

Sure… some will give you that desired response: the fleeing jump-scare followed by a yelp of surprise. Others, mainly men, turn toward aggression and throw a wild punch in your general direction. I find that I often stiffen, making no response while I assess the situation. And still other people do their best fainting-goat impression.

Fight. Flight. Freeze. Our nervous systems have several ways of dealing with danger.

I’m very curious about how we react to danger. For instance, I have a fantastic memory that I like to replay in my mind: a real-life Spider-Man moment.

I was outside with my brother Bart catching up on the patio while our kids were playing. His little girl happened to be climbing a small crape myrtle a few feet to his right. I can still visualize this split-second scene. In mid-sentence and seemingly without warning, he shot out of his chair like a bullet out of a gun.

My eyes shifted toward the tree he was darting toward. As he sprang from the chair, twisting to his right, I began to see his daughter slip and fall from the low limb. He took three quick steps and, I kid you not, caught her in mid-air.

My brother is SPIDER-MAN!!!

You can break down that moment into three very different responses.

Spider-Bart had seen his little daughter playing on the limb and had apparently already prepared himself to move in the event she fell. The instant something went wrong, he acted. There was no standing around trying to figure out what to do. His brain had already recognized the danger and prepared a response. That’s called goal-directed action: fear and adrenaline immediately channeled into something useful. He saved her from what probably would have been a bad bruise or, at worst, a broken bone.

My response was considerably less impressive. My eyes did two things: they rapidly shifted toward the danger and widened. My mouth simultaneously opened into the shape of an O. 😮

Basically, I froze for a split second. In that situation, my brain stopped everything else and asked, “What is happening?”

Bart’s nervous system had a plan, while mine was left processing.

And his daughter responded in the most unexpected way of all.

After her Super-Father saved her by literally catching her in mid-air, what came out of her mouth baffled me:

She squirmed out of his arms and, while running away, cried, “Stop saving me, Daddy!”

And there we have another ancient response to fear:

Flight.

One of the most traumatic moments in our country’s history was the terrorist attacks of 9/11. You no doubt have your own vivid memories of that day. The National Institute of Standards and Technology later studied how people responded. They interviewed more than 1,000 survivors and examined hundreds of previously published accounts and 911 calls. Here’s some of what they discovered.

Helpful Responses

Freeze / Assess: Before acting, many talked with coworkers and looked for information. They took time to understand what was happening before evacuating. Their brains wanted to answer: What is happening? Where is the danger? What should I do?

Flight: Roughly 15,000 people escaped the Twin Towers that morning, including about 99% of those below the impact zones who were able to evacuate. Flight was exactly the right response. Get away from the danger.

Fight / Move Toward the Danger: Flight 93 fought back. After passengers learned that other hijacked planes had been used as weapons, they made a collective decision to attack the hijackers. At the Trade Center, Welles Crowther, the “Man in the Red Bandana,” joined hundreds of firefighters helping injured and confused people find their way out of the towers. And while thousands were running down the stairs, these rescuers were running up them.

343 firefighters responded to fear by moving toward the danger and gave their lives saving others.

Confused or Unhelpful Responses

Freeze / Misread: Assessing danger is helpful until it’s past time to move. It became analysis paralysis. Some people took time to gather their belongings and find their phones. Some even backed up computer files.

Flight / Follow: Fear is blinding. People naturally moved toward familiar exits and followed others, even when faster routes were available.

Fight / Panic: When fear overwhelms judgment, the instinct to fight can turn into aggression as we push and battle the very people who are trying to escape beside us.

The same alarm system that can save us can also confuse us.

So, how can we know how we will react? It depends on our preparation and protocol.

In 1999, authors Joshua Piven and David Borgenicht released The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook. Their timing was perfect. Remember the anxiety around Y2K??? The book became an instant bestseller, selling 1.3 million copies by early 2001. Today, the expanded 26-book franchise has sold more than 10 million copies worldwide.

Why? Because we want to know what to do. We want a plan. We want a protocol for the moment when everything suddenly goes wrong. Apparently, we really do want to know how to wrestle an alligator, escape quicksand, and extract our tie when it gets caught in a photocopier. MetLife gave this instinct a slogan, “Guarantees for the if in life.”

The Christian life has its own preparation and protocol. God has given us his own book full of people facing fear, danger, suffering, chaos, and death. Scripture does not prepare us to control every “if” in life. It prepares our response when the “if” comes. David says simply: “When I am afraid, I put my trust in you” (Psalm 56:3). He expects fear to come. His response has already been rehearsed: I trust.

My house sits near a major road, and today I heard yet another distant siren screaming past. An emergency. Today I pray for that person. Tomorrow you might be praying for me. We cannot prepare for every emergency, but we can prepare our response. I pray and listen. I remember the Story, God’s character, and my weakness. I prepare to be Spider-Bart, taking goal-directed action while depending on God for the wisdom to face fear with courage.

To close, my father has a tight group of friends who meet once a week for coffee. I’m proud to know these men, and one in particular has had a big influence on my life. One day their conversation turned to death. When it circled around to Mr. Paul, he simply said, “When that day comes, I hope I’m brave.”

That day comes; we know it does. Christian bravery is a response prepared long before the cold sweat or an amygdala hijack. We practice it now: “When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”

Thoughts are appreciated.

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I’ve always enjoyed learning the names for groups of things. Here are some interesting collective nouns:

A superfluity of nuns. Don’t tell the nuns, but superfluity means having more than you really need.

A sleuth is a group of bears. It’s hard not to imagine a bear detective, right?

Before you rush to accuse me of anything, there’s also a group called an impatience of wives. How medieval of Juliana Berners, 1486.

There are so many names for a group of people. These days, tribe is a popular word. Crew is more 80s, and it originally meant a group of sailors, not your posse, which was early 90s. Troupe is not the same as troop as in Stormtroopers, though both are actors. My nephew plays in an orchestra, which is different from a choir, and much fancier than a band. We all want to be a part of an assembly, whether it’s the in-crowd or even an angry mob. No matter what group you’re in, there’s a word for it. I’m part of a staff, I’m in a class, and I’ve been asked to serve on a board, and I often cheer for a team that wears purple and gold. But above all those, my family comes first.

We’ve come up with hundreds of words to describe one feeling: belonging.

Now that I think about it, there’s a new group I’m proud to join. Over these last two years, thanks to Substack, I’ve joined a worship of writers.

Here’s a bit of nostalgia. While I was writing this, my mom sent me a photo of my brothers’ and my old toys, which are on their way to find a new home, just like in Toy Story. In one picture, I saw a boy doll that reminded me of the popular ’80s toy, My Buddy. I can still hear the commercial’s song: “My Buddy, My Buddy, wherever I go, he goes.” Even as kids, we want to belong. We want a buddy. But not just any buddy, My Buddy.

You can often tell which groups you belong to by noticing how you use the word my. My school. My work. My friends. My man! Even my doctor, my vet, or my therapist. We use “my” to show we belong. Having a “my” is connection. And we desperately need these connections. That sense of belonging is one of the most important and powerful experiences humans can have.

While studying belonging, I found several studies on the topic. In short, belonging means feeling accepted, valued, and included in a lasting relationship or community where you can participate without constantly wondering whether you fit in.

But how do we know if we belong? The group needs to welcome us, and we need to feel that welcome and respond to it. Belonging is more than just hospitality, friendliness, showing up, being similar, or having good feelings. It’s about feeling that our identity, values, abilities, or personality match with the group. That’s when we stop thinking of them as they and start calling them my.

So, do you feel like you belong at church?

What’s the difference between being a member of a country club, Sam’s Club, a social club, and the Church? Don’t get me wrong, they’re all important in their own way. I used to enjoy playing golf until I realized I’d never be as good as the guys I played with, so… I QUIT! Agreed, not my most mature moment, but it was fun while it lasted. And Sam’s Club is amazing. I belong to a place where I can sample snacks, buy pizza by the slice, and purchase fifty rolls of toilet paper at once? And, when I think of social clubs, I think of Meridian’s Junior Auxiliary, Optimist Club, and Rotary Club. Each has done amazing work throughout our city.

But none of those clubs really compare to the Church, even though we often make the comparison. Are we tithing or just paying dues? Wearing a uniform or church clothes? Taking part in routines or worship? Following social rules or God’s law? So, do you belong to a church club or a church family? Our theology informs our belonging.

The Church is itself a collective noun created by God to describe a group of people who belong to him. Peter writes, “Once you were not a people, but now you are God’s people” (1 Peter 2:10). To belong, God first calls you. Our inclusion is only by his grace. We can’t earn or buy our way in. But we are adopted. Paul says we have received “the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, ‘Abba! Father!’” (Romans 8:15). This adoption changes even our allegiance. “We are citizens of heaven, where the Lord Jesus Christ lives.” (Philippians 3:20)

If you’re a Christian, you belong to God’s Church, no matter what your worries tell you. You belong even if you have nothing to give. In the church, appearances shouldn’t matter, and neither should your nationality. Even death and time can’t separate you from this community, because nothing can separate you from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:38–39).

Think about this for a moment longer. There’s nothing you can do to belong more than you already do, and your mistakes can’t leave you with less belonging either. You belong. So, if you want to become a pastor, elder, deacon, Bible study leader, or Wemona in Ministry president, that’s great! We need you. But don’t, for a second, think church leadership will help you feel more belonging or raise your social standing with God.

You… as you are right now… really do belong.

There’s no Christian valedictorian. There’s no first-place Christian trophy or last-place papal consolation prize. We’ve all received the same special gift of belonging. We share the same high status in Christ. “There is one body and one Spirit,” Paul writes, “one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all” (Ephesians 4:4–6). You belong to him, His Church.

One of God’s favorite metaphors for God is also one of the simplest. God and Jesus both call themselves our Shepherd. So if we belong to him, then we are all sheep together. We are a flock. “Know that the Lord, he is God!” Psalm 100 says. “It is he who made us, and we are his; we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture” (Psalm 100:3).

Alone, a sheep is vulnerable. It can wander, get hurt, and easily lose its way. Sheep are God’s chosen metaphor for us, and being alone is risky for us too. Studies found that those with stronger social relationships had a 50 percent greater likelihood of survival. While another study found that loneliness, social isolation, and living alone were each associated with an increased risk of premature death. God made people in such a way that our emotional, spiritual, and even physical well-being are tied to belonging.

A superfluity of nuns. A sleuth of bears. An impatience of wives. A worship of writers. We have a way of becoming our groups. May you hear a greater call from the Good Shepherd—and even to me, your brother, one among many of his sheep. Stop trying so hard to earn your place. Hear his call of grace: you belong.

Want more?

One of my favorite parts of our house is the large living room window. Under it sits our couch, which is the best seat in the house. Lindsay and I plop down there every day to read, study, and, when we’re able to sit still for 30 minutes, talk about our day.

While we’re enjoying a moment of peace, we’ll often hear a loud BANG or THUMP or DUNK. We barely react anymore. It’s the sound of a bird hitting our big, beautiful glass bird trap. The birds almost always survive the collision with the invisible, immovable object. They do, however, leave behind a—sorry for saying this—comical imprint of their bodies, wings splayed across the clear glass.

The bird’s problem is called perceptual mismatch. Its vision interprets the glass according to cues that worked in the natural world. A window may reflect trees or sky, or reveal the room beyond the pane. The bird has little reason to recognize an invisible barrier. What the bird critically lacks is our learned knowledge of windows.

Moths and flames present a similar problem. Recent research suggests that, once near a bright point of light, many flying insects tilt their backs toward it, as though it were the bright sky above them. That reflex normally helps them stay level. A flame or bulb beside or beneath them can cause them to bank, circle, climb, stall, or even flip. Once confused, the insects can’t help but become trapped around the light.

Again, this is an example of perceptual mismatch. These animals are following instincts shaped by a world where certain cues reliably signaled safety and direction. In a human-made environment, those same cues that once guided their flight become traps that can harm them.

We all have our not-so-unique strategies for self-destruction and patterns of sin. We always seem to fall into the same traps. How often have you thought, “Why do I keep doing that?” I’ve said some version of that to myself nearly every day for my entire life. What in the world is happening to us? I know I’m not perfect, but, man, am I really that stupid? The same situations crop up time and again, and yet we fall into the same pit of shame and guilt. Why are we stuck in the same loop?

We’re like moths to a flame. Our perception is mismatched. A cue that once helped us find direction can turn us toward a spiraling death trap the moment someone decides to have a bonfire. Or we are flying along our merry way until, in an instant, we’re lying flat on our faces because we didn’t see what was plain to everyone else: a window. Despite being smart human beings, we’ve never learned the nature of glass.

To use modern terminology, we get triggered. We become dysregulated. Fear, anger, shame, or insecurity takes over, and we fall back on old strategies built for protection, even as they exacerbate our problems. What does a desire for intimacy turn into? What comes after your anger? When you’re tired and hungry, what are you capable of? What’s below the surface of a friendly bet, another drink, or a word of gossip?

To me, life can feel like I’m trapped in a fun-house mirror maze. A few years ago, while we were in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, Linds took us to the Castle of Chaos. One of the attractions was Hannah’s Maze of Mirrors. I’m used to the mirror mazes you find at pop-up carnivals. Their mirrors come pre-smashed with children’s faces. In that castle, Hannah and I were trapped for real. The only saving grace was the arrows lining the floor for those who, like me, needed to cheat or else start paying rent.

Like those poor birds and moths, our perception fails us, and we become hopelessly lost. Our sin has a way of drawing us into the flame. We follow a false light. We become trapped in a fun-house mirror maze. If only we could look down, follow the arrows, and find the way out.

In his book In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts, Gabor Maté writes about addiction. After more than 20 years of working as a doctor among people with severe drug addictions, he writes, “For many of Vancouver’s chronic, hard-core addicts, it’s as if an invisible barbed-wire barrier surrounds [their neighborhood]. There is a world beyond, but to them it’s largely inaccessible. [That world] fears and rejects them; in turn, they do not understand its rules and cannot survive in it.”

Maté compares them to a prisoner who escaped from a Soviet gulag. The man had made it outside the camp, but once there, he began to starve. Unable to survive in the free world, he voluntarily returned to the camp he had escaped. “Freedom isn’t for us,” he told his fellow prisoners. “We’re chained to this place for the rest of our lives, even though we aren’t wearing chains. We can escape, we can wander about, but in the end, we’ll come back.”

This is what slavery to sin feels like. Many of us, myself included, still act as though we can escape sin’s prison on our own. We look to the self-help industry for the arrows that will lead us out of the maze. Even when we do escape for a while, we can feel the invisible barbed-wire fence entrapping us and, yes, even protecting us. Sin makes life feel oddly bearable. They are comfort blankets that help us manage our feelings of pain, fear, anger, shame, and insecurity. So, like the prisoner, we wander around for a while and eventually experience the inescapable pull toward our prison home.

Christians must honestly acknowledge our darkness. Scripture shows we cannot save ourselves; we were prisoners of our own making, and only Jesus can save us. On the cross, Jesus died for our guilt and was raised for our joy. In Christ, we are freed from sin and raised to walk in new life.

Jesus said, “If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed” (John 8:36). Paul states that “our old self was crucified with him” so we are no longer enslaved to sin (Romans 6:6). He adds, “Sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace” (Romans 6:14). The prison door is open, chains broken, and Jesus leads us to freedom.

We need to be honest about our natural condition. We resemble the sightless bird and the confused moth. We are travelers in a fun-house maze. Sin distorts our perception; we mistake danger for safety, comfort for life, and familiarity for freedom.

Christ grants truer sight, light, and a path. Paul prays for our hearts to be enlightened (Ephesians 1:18). Jesus says, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness but have the light of life” (John 8:12). He also declares, “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). Jesus reveals reality and is the arrow that leads us to freedom.

When tempted, I remember, “I am not my own but bought with a price.” Keep your eyes open; follow Jesus, seek His glory, and rest in Him.

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Thanks for reading! Feel free to reach out to me if I can help with your walk with the Lord.

Rev. Bo Kyle

Introduction: God’s Word and the Heart’s Condition — Matthew 13:1–3

August 23 will mark the beginning of my twelfth year as a pastor here at FPC, and I can still remember some of the lessons I needed to learn on day one. During my first week, Rhett called me into his office, told me to bring a pen and paper, and walked me line by line through the worship service. I remember thinking, This is oddly specific wording. He explained the offertory phrase, “His tithes and our offerings.” That wording teaches our theology of giving: the tithe belongs to God, while our offerings are gifts above and beyond the tithe.

When he came to the phrase, “Let us prepare our hearts for worship,” he took me to the Westminster Larger Catechism, part of the constitutional standards of the EPC. Question 117 says, “We are to prepare our hearts... so that we may be more free and fit for the duties of the Lord’s Day.” At first, I repeated those words because Rhett told me to. Over the years, I’ve learned why they matter.

“Let us prepare our hearts for worship” is more than a liturgical slogan. It is an invitation to come before God ready to hear His Word. And according to this passage, the condition of your heart as you hear God’s Word is no small matter. Your response to the Word reveals something about the condition of your soul.

So, would you stand with me for the reading of God’s Word from Matthew 13? I’ll read verses 1–9, knowing we’ll study Jesus’ explanation in verses 19–23.

Hear now the words of Jesus: “Whoever has ears, let them hear.”

“That same day Jesus went out of the house and sat by the lake. Such large crowds gathered around him that he got into a boat and sat in it, while all the people stood on the shore. Then he told them many things in parables, saying: ‘A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants. Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown. Whoever has ears, let them hear.’”

Now, let’s pray for the preaching of God’s Word.

With your Bible open, let’s get our bearings. Matthew begins, “That same day.” I missed worship last week because I was at our family rice farm in Welsh, Louisiana, so like me, you may need a reminder of what happened earlier “that day”. What we find is that Jesus had faced growing opposition. The religious leaders accused Him of casting out demons by Satan’s power and demanded more signs while resisting the evidence before them. Then Jesus is visited by this family, but he speaks to His disciples and says, “Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.” By the end of Matthew 12, the lines are drawn. Some hear Jesus and receive Him. Others hear the same words and harden their hearts.

That context explains the parable. For the first time in Matthew, Jesus begins teaching publicly through stories that reveal the kingdom to those with ears to hear while concealing it from those whose hearts have grown hard.

Verse 1 says, “Jesus went out of the house,” and verse 3 begins, “A farmer went out to sow his seed.” As Jesus went out, so the farmer went out. Jesus and the farmer are doing the same thing. Sitting in the boat, Jesus is performing the parable he’s telling. He’s scattering the seed of God’s Word to all the people, who are literally on the shore.

Now notice verse 2: “Such large crowds gathered around him.” Matthew does not simply say a crowd. He says crowds. His disciples were there. Curious listeners were there. Those seeking healing were there. Skeptics and opponents were there. They all stood on the same shore and heard the same Teacher and the same Word, but they did not hear Him in the same way. This was not one crowd but many crowds.

That is the question this parable answers. The sower is the same. The seed is the same. What differs is the condition of the soil. Why does the same Word produce such different responses?

1. The Hardened Heart Hears the Word, but It Never Gets Beneath the Surface — Matthew 13:4, 19

Cora is learning to drive, and she’s doing a great job. She is attentive and cautious, and she is beginning to understand both the danger of the road and the thrill of driving. When you first learn to drive, everything is new. You listen to every instruction and think about every decision. But as driving becomes familiar, it is easy to drift.

My dad had a phrase whenever he noticed that happening: “Bo, you’re riding, not driving.” I was behind the wheel, but my mind had become a passenger. I may have been holding the steering wheel, but I wasn’t truly engaged.

How often do we do that with God’s Word?

I am thankful I get to hear the sermon twice every Sunday because there are plenty of Sundays when I need to hear it twice. I know for a fact that I hear every Word, yet my mind has wandered. I heard the sermon, but I wasn’t really listening. The Word never got beneath the surface.

Jesus describes that danger in the first soil. Verse 4 says, “Some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up.” Then Jesus explains in verse 19, “When anyone hears the message about the kingdom and does not understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away what was sown in their heart.”

Jesus isn’t blaming the sower or the seed. The problem is the soil. A field road becomes hard because trucks and tractors travel over it season after season. Eventually the ground becomes so compacted that the seed lies on the surface. It never enters the soil, and before long the birds take it away.

Jesus says the same thing happens spiritually. These people hear the message. They go to church. They may own a Bible. They are present on the shore. But they do not understand it. That does not mean they could not pass a Bible quiz or explain the facts of the gospel. The Word means more than grasping information. It carries the idea of taking the truth in, connecting it to your life, and embracing it by faith. The Word reaches the ears of those in this crowd, but it never takes hold of their hearts.

Notice the order. First comes hearing. Then comes failing to understand. Then comes Satan. He snatches the Word away because it never took root. The problem is not that God’s Word lacks power. A hardened heart leaves the Word exposed.

How does a heart become like that? What if I spent the rest of this sermon explaining why LSU is going 11–1 this season? I can almost hear some of your hearts hardening. Years of repeated exposure have trained you to tune out LSU success. Hearts harden spiritually the same way: repeated exposure without response. We hear God’s Word, ignore conviction, delay repentance, and neglect its application. Little by little, the heart becomes calloused.

Can I be honest for a moment? If your only spiritual act all month is attending church, I would be concerned. Jesus never intended His Word simply to be heard. He intends it to take root. Hearing the gospel ought to change you. Your thinking, desires, and priorities should be continually conformed to Christ. If month after month God’s Word makes no difference in your life, Jesus says it is not the farmer’s fault or the seed’s fault. The problem is the soil. Examine your heart.

And remember, the first need of a hardened heart is not better listening skills. It is the mercy of Christ. The Savior who exposes hard hearts is the One who can soften them. So pray, “Lord, give me ears to hear. Lord, transform my heart.”

2. The Shallow Heart Receives the Word, but It Never Takes Root — Matthew 13:5–6, 20–21

“The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.” I have always found that phrase unsettling. It is inspiring until you realize what it asks of us. How far am I willing to go for Christ?

Those words come from Tertullian, an early church father in North Africa who lived while Christians were being tortured and executed by Rome. In his day, following Jesus could cost you your livelihood, your freedom, or your life.

One such martyr was Polycarp, the elderly bishop of Smyrna and a disciple of the Apostle John. When Roman officials arrested him at eighty-six, they offered him a way out. All he had to do was curse Christ and swear allegiance to Caesar. Polycarp replied, “Eighty-six years I have served Him, and He has done me no wrong. How can I blaspheme my King who saved me?” Shortly afterward, he was burned at the stake. Polycarp was deeply rooted in Christ, and nothing—not even death—could shake his faith. Persecution did not create his faith; it revealed it.

Verses 5–6 say, “Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly... But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root.” Jesus explains, “The seed falling on rocky ground refers to someone who hears the Word and at once receives it with joy. But since they have no root, they last only a short time. When trouble or persecution comes because of the Word, they quickly fall away.”

This may be the hardest soil to recognize because everything initially looks right. This person receives the Word with joy. By every outward measure, they appear genuine. Do you want salvation in Christ alone? Yes. Do you want to go to heaven? Yes. They gladly receive the message. The problem is not joy. The problem is that the joy never develops deep roots. When tested, they do not endure.

I cannot say in good conscience that I want you to have more trials. Most of our prayer requests are for trials to end. Before our High School RYM trip, I prayed the standard prayer: “Lord, give these kids safe travels.” I certainly did not pray, “Lord, overheat the boys’ van on the way home and make them drive three hours with the heater on full blast in ninety-degree heat.” But that is exactly what happened.

When the boys realized the ride home would be miserable, they called their parents to report the situation. Reece Stump reached out to his dad, Chris. The lieutenant colonel said, “That’s normal in the military. We did that all the time while on duty.” Whether he knew it or not, Chris turned the situation into a test of manhood. They were no longer riding in a hot van; these boys were testing their resolve. And I’m proud to say they passed; they made it home despite a miserable drive. That small trial became a picture of what trials do: they reveal whether we will keep going when the path becomes difficult.

Jesus is clear that following Him will sometimes be difficult. We must deny ourselves, take up our cross, and follow Him. The Word says that through many tribulations we enter the kingdom of God. Trials test our faith and deepen our dependence on Christ. We rightly pray for healing, restored marriages, and God’s blessing, but every prayer is submitted to a greater prayer: “Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

I have seen this firsthand. People say all the right things and make a covenant commitment to Christ and this church, yet when following Christ becomes costly—when it is difficult to serve, forgive, sacrifice, or endure hardship—they begin to drift away. There is something in every one of us that says, “I’ll follow Christ as long as it doesn’t cost too much.”

Do you see the line Jesus is drawing? Trouble and persecution are not the enemy. They do not create shallow faith; they expose it. The thing about trials is that they are memorable. Ten years from now, those boys may forget the RYM dance party, the speaker, and even the beach, but they will not forget the test of that miserable ride home. When Christ carries us through trials, our roots grow deeper. I wonder whether, at the end of our lives, we too will say, “Eighty-six years I have served Him, and He has done me no wrong. How can I blaspheme my King who saved me?”

3. The Divided Heart Receives the Word, but Rival Loves Crowd It Out — Matthew 13:7, 22

I’ve always wondered if our society is busier than previous generations?

For years, technology promised to give us more time. Buy a microwave, a dishwasher, a faster computer, a smarter phone, a better car—and you will have more time.

So, did it work?

Polls show that people in this generation report feeling busier than those in previous generations. But researchers who study how people actually spend their time say the answer is not obvious. We’re actually not working more total hours than previous generations, and, as we know, our grandparents often worked harder physically with fewer conveniences. So why do we feel busier?

The biggest change is the fragmentation of our lives. Our phones interrupt us. Emails and texts never stop. We are expected to be available almost all the time, and our minds are constantly switching from one thing to another.

According to our text, we have become experts at growing thorns. Listen to verses 7 and 22: “Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants... The seed falling among the thorns refers to someone who hears the Word, but the worries of this life and the deceitfulness of wealth choke the Word, making it unfruitful.”

Notice that the seed does grow. The tragedy is that something else grows with it. The competing loves were already in the soil, and they kept growing alongside the Word.

Jesus names two of them: the worries of this life and the deceitfulness of wealth. Worry crowds our hearts with what might happen. Wealth lies by promising security, control, and satisfaction it cannot give. Together they choke the Word. That word “choke” carries the idea of crowding, compressing, and slowly squeezing the life out of something. God’s Word is not openly rejected. The rival loves of our lives keep growing; it chokes out God’s Word completely, and it becomes unfruitful.

God is not saying hobbies, responsibilities, or money offend him. The problem comes when good things become ultimate things.

You will all agree I cannot be married to two women. Love triangles may capture our attention in books and television, but in real life they never end well. If I am married to Lindsay, I am devoted to her. When Lindsay and I are in conflict, it often goes back to something competing for that devotion. It may be work, sports, hobbies, or even our children. When she senses something competing for my devotion, conflict follows.

Jesus says, “Anyone who loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me,” and, “No one can serve two masters.” Christ will not share first place in our hearts. Our hearts are to be wholly devoted to Him.

That is why divided hearts are such a danger in our culture and in our church. Technology may have made life easier, but it has also made us infinitely more distracted. And a distracted heart is fertile soil for thorns.

Jesus names the remedy in the Sermon on the Mount. Do not be anxious about what you will eat, drink, or wear. “Your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”

When our hearts feel divided, God says to put His kingdom first. As Christ becomes our deepest joy, competing loves lose their hold.

4. The Good Heart Receives the Word and Bears Fruit — Matthew 13:8, 23

We all agree it is wise to see your primary doctor at least once a year. Now that Dr. Nanny has retired, I am bugging Dr. Chris Swift with all my complaints. A checkup usually begins the same way. He asks, “How are you feeling?” I say, “Good.” Then, looking at my history, he asks better questions. “How is the medication we have you on?” “Good.” “And what about your shoulder?” “That is actually not too good.” A good doctor asks good questions because appearances are not always enough.

That is what this text has been doing. Jesus has been examining our hearts. Verse 23 says, “The seed falling on good soil refers to someone who hears the Word and understands it. This is the one who produces a crop, yielding a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown.”

The Word good does not mean morally superior. It means healthy, sound, and functioning as intended. Our hearts are meant to hear and understand Jesus’ words, apply them, and bear fruit.

Here is where I think we might be getting confused about something simple. What use is fruit to a fruit tree? The fruit is not primarily for the tree itself; the fruit’s purpose is to feed and bless everyone else. The tree is nourished not by its own fruit but by a God-given, good heart. So the fruit of the tree is not for itself, but for others. In the same way, Jesus’ Word is meant to produce fruit in your life that blesses the people around you.

Think about Jesus. He came not to be served but to serve and to give His life as a ransom for many. Then He told His disciples, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” A fruitful Christian becomes a blessing to others.

I think of those of you who have faithfully served in Boys & Girls Club. Thousands of children have been blessed. I think of our missionaries. Through your prayers and support, people around the world have heard the gospel. I think of more than twenty years of JavaRama. Countless cups of coffee and breakfasts have helped create a culture of fellowship that has touched generations of people in this room.

That is what good soil does. It quietly produces fruit that blesses others, and God determines the harvest—thirty, sixty, or a hundredfold.

Conclusion: Christ Gives Ears to Hear and Hearts That Bear Fruit — Matthew 13:9; John 12:24

Luke adds this detail to the interpretation of the good soil: “The seed on good soil stands for those with a noble and good heart, who hear the word, retain it, and by persevering produce a crop.”

Think about everything we have seen: The hardened heart hears the Word, but it never understands. The shallow heart receives it with joy, but has no root and withers in trials. The divided heart allows rival loves to choke out the Word until it becomes unfruitful. The good heart hears the Word, holds fast to it, perseveres, and bears fruit.

That prompts one last question:

How do we become good soil?

If we are honest, none of us can soften our own hard hearts, dig our own roots deeper, or remove every thorn by our own strength. The good news is that Jesus Christ came to do for us what we could never do for ourselves. Through His death and resurrection, He gives new hearts, opens blind eyes, writes His Word upon us, and by His Spirit causes us to bear fruit if only you were willing to call out and receive Him.

Jesus said in John 12, “I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat is planted in the soil and dies, it remains alone. But its death will produce many new kernels—a plentiful harvest of new lives.” Jesus is the ultimate Seed. Through His death and resurrection, He brings life to dead hearts and produces a harvest only He could create.

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Who is your favorite Disney princess? That is a question guaranteed to get every girl in your life talking. In our house, we love Belle from Beauty and the Beast.

Twelve years ago, my daughter Cora was just old enough to sit through a full-length movie and was still playing with her Disney Fisher-Price Little People. So, Lindsay and I decided it was time for her to watch the movie. Though Belle held a special place in Cora’s heart, it was the Beast who stole it. She was captivated by his grumpy, gruff personality and the way he gradually softened through Belle’s patience and kindness.

Cora was glued to the screen during the movie’s climactic ending. Gaston was defeated, but the Beast was dying. As the last rose petal fell, Belle finally confessed her love for him, and in an instant, the Beast was lifted into the air, magically restored to health, and transformed back into Prince Adam.

Cora’s eyes widened with excitement when she realized the Beast would be saved. But her excitement quickly turned to horror. The Beast was gone, replaced by a mere man. Linds and I saw it at once. To her, the Beast was dead.

She began to cry and wail, “Where’s the Beast?”

Momma replied quickly, “He’s saved, baby. He’s alive!”

“NO!” The tears kept flowing.

“Honey, he turned back into the prince.”

Cora, with one arm stretched toward the screen, answered in one long, anguished word:

“BEEEEAST!”

Knowing there was no hope of salvaging the situation, Momma scooped Cora into her arms and carried her upstairs for a bath and bed. I stayed downstairs, cleaned up the popcorn, and folded the blankets, thinking Cora might have understood the story better than the rest of us. She had already fallen in love with the beauty in the Beast. She did not need him to become someone else before she loved him.

This is the Kohl Jar of Sithathoryunet, dating to around 1887–1813 B.C. This small vessel once held kohl, a dark powder typically made from antimony or lead sulfide. Applied around the eyes, it helped create the iconic look we associate with ancient Egypt.

Cultures throughout history have been preoccupied with beauty. Yet most of us are uncomfortable with anything that feels vain, flashy, or overly concerned with appearance. We prefer a more natural beauty. Most Disney princesses fit this mold, while their villain counterparts are their moral opposites. We love the Belles of the world—striking yet ordinary, beautiful without seeming to know it. By contrast, vain but beautiful Gaston is someone we despise.

Right now, our family is playing its summer playlists, and I have heard One Direction’s “What Makes You Beautiful” at least a dozen times. The heart of the song is captured in a single line:

“You don’t know you’re beautiful.”

The same theme appears everywhere. The Summer I Turned Pretty, She’s All That, and My Big Fat Greek Wedding all tell stories about ordinary women who are finally seen and loved for their natural beauty. Whether it is Jane Eyre or The Ugly Duckling, we are captivated by the moment when someone overlooked is finally seen for who they truly are.

Scripture understands this longing. Hagar called the Lord “the God who sees me.” David was overlooked by his own family yet seen by God. Gideon considered himself weak and insignificant, yet the Lord addressed him as a mighty warrior. Again and again, God sees those others overlook. The question beneath all these stories is deeper than “Am I attractive?” It is “Does anyone really see me?”

Years ago, I read a beautiful story about an elderly Irish-American Jesuit priest named Father Larry Gillick. Father Gillick had been invited to speak at a local elementary school. Afterward, a young girl, probably in the third or fourth grade, eagerly approached him and began a conversation. A few minutes later, her face suddenly froze with surprise.

“You’re blind!” she blurted out.

It was true. Father Gillick had been blind since childhood.

He playfully responded, “That’s not news to me.”

But before he could say anything else, the girl’s surprise turned to sadness.

“You don’t know what you look like.”

Her words caught him completely off guard. Again, before he could respond, she softly said:

“You’re beautiful.”

That girl showed him something a mirror could never reveal. This little girl shared her perspective.

Most of us do not truly know what we look like. Our blindness is often not physical but spiritual and emotional. We struggle to see ourselves clearly, so we seek words of affirmation. We crave to hear words that will fill our souls. We want someone who truly knows us to look upon us with love and say, “You are beautiful.”

Within the typical trope, affirmation often comes through romance or outward appearances. Someone is noticed, chosen, and finally seen as beautiful. I, too, wanted affirmation, just in a different form.

I wanted to be discovered.

Ministry was where that ache ran deepest. Whether it was college ministry, seminary, or the church, I often felt pastors, professors, and organizations sized me up quickly and set limits on my abilities. To be fair, they were not necessarily wrong. I was young, dumb, and broke. But there lies the rub. You want someone to notice my potential. We want others to see the beauty in the Beast.

Did I throw pity parties? Absolutely! I partied with the best of them—late-night stewing, unhealthy gossip, and constant attempts to overcompensate for a lack of spiritual maturity left me even more alone. Eventually, I prayed, “Lord, what do you see in me?”

By the time I arrived at FPC Meridian in 2015, I was learning not to put my heart in human hands. I committed to faithfully playing whatever role God gave me, without expecting perfect mentors, elders, or church. My value and acceptance would have to come from someone else.

Put this on repeat: Only God can satisfy my soul.

That sounds simple. It was not. It’s still not. Human approval is a constant desire.

But God sees us. He sees beyond the image we present to others and into an eternal future we cannot yet imagine. He also sees every selfish motive, proud thought, angry impulse, jealous desire, and hidden sin. Our sin is far from beautiful. Yet through Christ, he atones, and by his Spirit, he begins to make us into His image, beautiful.

We are God's creation, made in His image. Christ covers us with His righteousness. The Holy Spirit renews us and restores what sin has damaged. Whatever true beauty is found in us begins with God, is sustained by God, and will one day be completed when He brings us home.

“That’s what makes you beautiful” - One Direction

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Most of us grew up before cable and streaming TV. We actually rented physical movies by walking into buildings and talking to real humans. Crazy right!

In those days when television had, at best, 5 stations. So I can say with 100% confidence that PBS was in your top 5 favorite stations.

I actually liked PBS for two reasons: NOVA and Nature.

But the crown jewel of my week’s end was Sunday night at 7:00 p.m., when Nature came on. By then, dinner was cleaned up, homework was done — at least that’s what I said — and the whole family was relaxing in the living room listening to Sir David Attenborough. My family watched Nature so much that we (I) would race to name the animals as they appeared.

Bald Eagle!

Black Bear!

Humuhumunukunukuapua’a!

Animals have always fascinated me, and farm life put me in near-constant contact with the animal kingdom. I was mesmerized by animal behavior and mannerisms. Whether it was livestock, wildlife, or the pets in our yard, I was constantly observing their lives and patterns, wondering how they communicated and processed the world around them.

One thing we can all agree on is that animals have a wholly unique relationship with the world compared to humans.

First off, they’re nekkid and totally fine with it.

Think about it. Animals may be more in touch with Adam and Eve in the garden than we are. If you live in Mississippi and go full Adam and Eve, you’re likely going to jail. We know because the police finally caught Meridian’s naked runner.

But animals are running around naked all day long! God created them differently.

Except for the occasional mating ritual, animals don’t really care about how they look. We, on the other hand, have closets full of clothes to suit our mood, insecurities, or fashion sense. Animals couldn’t care less.

Sure, animal emotions are complex, but humans take the cake. Unless, of course, your dog ate the cake.

Going back in time, I remember watching the kittens, chickens, horses, and cattle and wondering for hours what they were feeling. I can tell you this: they seemed content. And as I watched them, it dawned on me that I wasn’t.

In fact, I wished I were my ole dog, Odie, who never worried about studying or passing a test. While the farm cats were wholly focused on sleeping and playing, I was wrestling with the meaning of my existence—probably because girls thought I was weird for staring at animals all day.

But even then, at that early age, Jesus caught my attention. He was like me—He paid close attention to animals and their behavior. In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus directs His followers to “consider the birds.”

He said,

“Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you, by worrying, add a single hour to your life?”

“Jesus, I’ve spent a lifetime considering the birds. And, Lord, I, to the day, wish I had their level of contentment. Lord, teach me not to worry.”

Henri Nouwen was a beloved Dutch Catholic priest, professor, theologian, and author. In 1992, at the Crystal Cathedral, Nouwen gave a message called “Being the Beloved,” where he described one of the foundational struggles of human life.

He said our sins are often rooted in three warped views of identity.

I am what I have.

I am what I do.

I am what other people say or think about me.

Right now, the thing to have for school-aged kids is squishies. They talk about these things like they need an organ. I keep telling my girl you don’t need a Jumbo Squeezy Carrot. But does she listen? No.

I’m not one to talk. Right now, I’m feeling the need for a clothing brand called Burlebo. I can’t help it, okay! My middle name is Burleson, my name is Bo, and they’re a really cool, comfortable outdoor brand. It was literally made for me, okay!

So will a sweet athleisure hoodie or glitter NeeDoh squishy bring us the everlasting happiness and contentment our hearts desire? Jesus said it: “Nope.”

Our bodies were not designed to find fulfillment in what we wear. We are more than the sum total of our possessions.

When you were a kid, how often were you asked,

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Imagine if you replied, “Well, when I grow up, I’m going to be content in all circumstances.”

That’s when we’d think… That’s one weird kid.

Even from childhood, be gets attached to J.O.B. In our most formative years, we are conditioned to think who we are is what we do.

Remember the dreaded report card? When I got an F, I felt like I was a big fat F. On the flip side, when I got a big win, I felt like I was a winner.

Is that all there is to us? Are the content only those whose obituaries read like hall-of-fame résumés?

I’m okay if you say I’m okay.

This is happening LIVE as I’m writing this. This article is good if you say it’s good. If you don’t “like” it or “heart” it, what does that mean? In our online cultural, it means it’s at best irrelevant or at worst bad.

How do I interpret the tens and tens of you not smashing the like button on this article, you ask?

At my worst — don’t ask me how many times — I take it personally.

Insecurity says if my work stinks, then I stink.

Now compare me to my wife, Lindsay, who also posts weekly to Substack. Lindsay has an LSU bachelor’s degree in creative writing. She has won writing competitions, been published, and has actual novel-writer friends.

And for some crazy reason — according to my inner thought life — she really doesn’t care about your likes and hearts.

She doesn’t even check her stats! (FYI, there are stats and, again, she doesn’t check them.)

Lindsay writes because God has made her a writer. If you like her writing, she’s fine. And if you don’t heart her post, she’s fine. Her identity is not wrapped up in what others think.

She writes to feel God’s pleasure. (Eric Liddell: Chariots of Fire)

Let’s end where Nouwen began his sermon:

“To the core of [my] faith belongs my conviction that you, that I, that we are the beloved daughters and sons of God.”

That is who we are.

We are God’s beloved daughters and sons.

Our contentment comes as a gift of the Holy Spirit.

Our confidence comes from what Christ has done.

Our identity rests in what the Father says about us.

Stop. For just a moment and stop. Look in the fields. Watch a bird. He isn’t worried. They receive what they need from the Father’s hand.

Arn’t you more valuable then them? Don’t you know your heavenly Father sees you as having infinite worth?

He is here. Rest in Him.

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There is a heinous evil in this world, and it’s called the Two-Stage Pricing Model. We love going to theme parks, museums, zoos, and ball games. We buy our tickets expecting the time of our lives, only to discover the time of our lives costs extra!

Theme Parks:

Oh, you came here to ride the rides?!? You’ll need a FastPass or risk heat exhaustion standing in our mile-long lines.

Museums/Zoos:

Sorry, kid, that’s our special exhibit. You need to be in S.C.A.M.—our Special Conservation Access Membership.

Ballgames:

“4 hot dogs, 2 candies, 3 drinks, and a beer, please.”

“Absolutely. That’ll be one million dollars.”

On the other hand, if you don’t mind the crowds, an all-inclusive resort is something I always remember fondly. This is a flat-rate pricing model. The difference is that you get absolutely slammed with an upfront cost, but once you’re in, you’re in. Personally, I’d rather get punched in the face at the door than get nicked and dimed all vacation long. Plus, when I send the kids back for more drinks and another trip to the dessert table, I feel like I came out ahead.

And when I’m up all night with a stomachache because no one on earth should eat 20 tacos, I remember I won. I got my money’s worth, gosh darn it.

Guess which pricing model is the entrance to heaven? Is it a two-stage model, or is God giving us a flat-rate deal?

In Jerry Bridges’ book Transforming Grace, he writes, “Jesus paid it all. I mean all. He not only purchased your forgiveness of sins and your ticket to Heaven, but He also purchased every blessing and every answer to prayer you will ever receive. Every one of them—no exceptions.”

Let’s pause there. Again, can you honestly answer the question above? How do we get into heaven?

(I’m now noticing I write a lot about vacations. I can’t help it; I’m a 7 on the Enneagram! Check out my recent article if you don’t know what I’m talking about.)

Vacations are meant to be FUN! And there are few things more exciting than being a kid at summer camp. The only thing our kids have to do is show up. Our moms drop us off in a parking lot; we get on a bus, and a cool young camp counselor is suddenly “responsible” for remembering everything we do. Our job is to have as much fun as possible with our friends all week long.

Sure, kids can come with a little money. Your parents might give you sixty bucks for the week. That was enough for an ice cream after every evening talk or for purchasing 240 Airheads (25¢ each) during free time. But other than that, no one is trying to make an extra buck on a bunch of penniless kids. We’re there to swim in the pool, canoe in the lake, and play GaGa ball until we sprain an ankle, all while being surrounded by Christian leaders and teachers asking us about our walk with Jesus.

Camp is awesome! It’s all included! No kid feels guilty about the cost of camp. They’re not thinking about how they’re going to pay their parents back. It’s guilt-free fun. I’ve run a lot of camps, and never did a kid come to the registration table with a checkbook and say, “Who should I make this out to?” Every one of them has a sponsor.

And so do we. Jesus is our sponsor in this life and the next. God gave us a flat-rate deal, and we didn’t pay the cost!

Bridges continues, “We are afraid to tell even ourselves that we don’t have to work anymore; the work is all done. We are afraid that if we really believe this, we will slack off in our Christian duties. But the deeper core issue is that we don’t really believe we are still bankrupt.” Having accepted Christ, “We’re now trying to pay our own way by our performance.”

I wish we hadn’t lost our childish, guilt-free summer camp fun, but if you’re reading this, it likely means you’re an adult with a retirement plan. You are well past guilt-free. When you receive a gift, you likely feel compelled to write a thank-you card. You even feel the card is somehow a kind of repayment for the gift. And if we’re being honest, you may even resent the fact that you have to write it.

Adulthood has killed our view of grace. We live as though God operates a two-stage business model.

Sure, Jesus paid for our salvation. But many of us still imagine heaven runs on a two-stage pricing model. The ticket got us through the gate. Now it’s time to earn our keep. We don’t want to take advantage of God’s hospitality, so we spend our lives trying to make it up to Him. We do the proverbial dishes, trying to offset our expense. We walk on eggshells, wondering if we’ll ever deserve to feel at home.

Both are two-stage models of the Christian life.

We simply don’t remember how spiritually bankrupt we are. We’re kids at camp! You got nothing, honey. Jesus paid the bill, and the camp has everything you need. Enjoy it!

I accepted Christ years ago, earned a Master’s in Divinity, have been in church ministry for 18 years, and can now be called Rev. Bo Kyle. That does not mean I no longer need God’s grace. If anything, it means I need His grace every bit as much as the day I first believed.

I, more than most, have a temptation to drift toward prideful religious elitism. I can act like my 💩 don’t stink. In camp terms, I’m the kid who thinks he’s a counselor. Annoying.

Maybe your struggle runs the other direction. Maybe you’ve walked into church convinced your mess is too much, your baggage is too heavy. I’ve watched people quietly disappear because they believed they had become too needy.

Both forget the same thing.

We’re campers, not counselors. Jesus, our Sponsor, paid it all. It’s all on Jesus. We are welcomed not by what we have but by grace.

So welcome back to summer camp! Everything you need is provided. Guilt-free fun, y’all. It’s time to thank Jesus, receive His grace, and get back to glorifying God and enjoying Him forever.

Have you ever heard of a store called Dirt Cheap? If overwhelming were a place, it would have been off the Meridian, MS, interstate on Frontage Road, next to the Salvation Army. Rachael G. from Pensacola once posted, “Dirt Cheap has almost everything you need.” What Rachael failed to mention is that you had to dig through bins full of discarded Target display items, open puzzle boxes, and possess the tracking skills of an Aboriginal bushman to find almost everything you needed at dirt cheap prices.

My friends were in various states of dismay when Dirt Cheap filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy in late 2024 and liquidated all of its locations. The closure was caused by severe supply-chain issues, surging debt, and a decline in store quality. I’m proud to say that despite her instincts and good sense, my wife was there at the liquidation sale. She waded through piles of what can only be described nicely as… stuff—and more than a few people—to snag a prized prom dress for $3. Unfortunately, the savings cost her several sleepless nights, as she remains haunted by the “decline in store quality.”

Life is full of overwhelming experiences; some are real, while others are imaginary. Mark Twain famously said, “I have been through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.” When our real or imaginary worries engulf us, we are likely to lash out in shame, contempt, or fear. At times, we’re just as likely to hurt ourselves as we are the people trying to help us.

I can’t stand it when restaurants and bars tune their massive televisions to endless streams of short-form videos. They are so addictive that I often have to sit with my back to the screen. These video can be disturbing. Like the unfilted version of American’s Funniest Home Video’s. One such video has stayed with me.

The security camera showed an overwhelmed older man being harassed by a younger man. The older tried to defend himself, but he was clearly in trouble. To their credit, bystanders quickly intervened, separated the men, and the aggressor fled. Seconds passed, but the older man was so frightened that he didn’t realize the danger had passed. As one good Samaritan stood nearby with his back turned and his arms spread wide to shield him, the older man suddenly cold-cocked the very person trying to protect him. Others rushed in to help, but they received wild swings for their trouble.

When we’re flooded, we can’t be trusted.

“Flooding” is a term coined by marriage researcher Dr. John Gottman. It describes a state of intense physiological arousal in which a person becomes emotionally overwhelmed and their ability to think clearly begins to shut down. Gottman writes that flooding occurs when:

“The partner’s negative emotions are unexpected (‘seem to come out of nowhere’), unprovoked, intense, overwhelming, and disorganizing and that the [recipient] will do anything to terminate the interaction (e.g., run away).”1

Physiologically, the flooded body is altered for defense. Gottman’s research suggests that flooding often begins when the heart rate climbs above 100 beats per minute. Adrenaline and cortisol surge. Breathing becomes shallow. The thinking part of the brain begins to shut down. We develop tunnel vision.

Gottman found that most men respond to flooding by stonewalling. They shut down, go silent, and retreat inward.

That’s me… I’m raising my hand.

As a child, I was in more trouble than I’d like to admit. When my dad was laying down the law, I remember retreating into my own head to protect myself from his appropriate discipline. In my state of mental hibernation, I would focus on one of his eyes. Near the retina was a tiny red speck in a sea of blue. As he spoke, I would star at that speck, distracting myself by wondering how it got there, all the while allowing his words of disapproval to wash around me. I was flooded. Present but distant.

According to Gottman, when we’re flooded, we can either fight or flee. And if fleeing isn’t always done with our feet, then fighting isn’t always done with our fists.

Consider Martha, who is well known for being overwhelmed. But, before you replay the story in your head, consider this: How would you want your house staged if the King of the Universe were coming over for dinner?

Last Sunday, I sat next to Ms. Robbie in Sunday School. If you’ve ever attended an event at our church and thought you’d stepped into the pages of Southern Home, there’s a good chance Robbie and her team had something to do with it.

Robbie and I were looking at Psalm 23, where David says that God “prepares a table before me.”

So I asked Robbie, “How do you think that table was decorated?”

She tilted her head forward, widened her eyes a touch, and answered with one word:

“Big.”

So lemme throw this out there: maybe Martha had a little somethin’ of that Southern Steel Magnolia in her.

If she was, it’s no wonder she was distracted by all the preparations. I’ve seen our ladies prepare for Down Home Sunday. That is no joke! Deacons have been polishing the silver for weeks, flowers were fresh-cut that morning, and the food was all freshly prepared on massive platters. The King of the Universe was coming to Martha’s home. Wouldn’t you want everything to be perfect?

So when Martha looked across the room and saw Sister Mary casually sitting at Jesus’ feet, carrying none of the burden, what was she to do?

This is wild, as Martha marches up to Jesus, she becomes the only person in the New Testament to issue a direct command to the Lord of the universe:

“Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!”

Let’s all say it together:

“Been there. Done that.”

And yet God is remarkably patient.

“Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”

We are pulled in a thousand directions, yet Jesus says only one thing is truly necessary.

Gottman argues that when we are in a flooded state, meaningful conflict resolution becomes nearly impossible. His research recommends stepping away for at least twenty minutes to calm down. You mind and body litterally needs time to recover your sanity.

Julie Gottman recommends reading, watching television, or engaging in another self soothing activity. Those things may help. 2

But Christians can I propose something better?

Pray.

When you feel overwhelmed or flooded, remember that you can rest in God. In your darkest days he promises to neither fight you nor flee from you.

He promises to be our Good Shepherd, our refuge and strength, our Lord and our God.

And in the end, He will prepare the table for us.

And I have it on good authority that it will be “Big”.

It’s unsettling when someone truly knows what you’re thinking—putting a finger on your inner life. Reading your mail. It first happened to me in 2017.

In 2017, I read Ian Cron’s memoir, Jesus, My Father, The CIA, and Me1. It sparked my love for memoirs. Simply wanting to hear more from Cron, I bought his latest book without even reading the title: The Road Back to You: An Enneagram Journey to Self-Discovery.2

It turned out not to be a memoir (disappointing), but rather some kind of self-help book—maybe. What’s the Enneagram? How do you even pronounce it? En-E-Ya-Gram? Whatever; if Cron wrote it, I’m reading it. Plow on!

I’ve taken many personality exams over the years—Myers-Briggs, StrengthsFinder, even the Pottermore Sorting Hat quiz. Turns out I’m an ENTP, enthusiastic, Gryffindor.

JK Rowling taps into our love of personality exams in a brilliant way. In her world, there is a Sorting Hat that, when worn, can know your deepest identity. It’s used to sort Hogwarts students into houses. Rowling says it can “look into the wearer’s head” and read their abilities, mood, and thoughts.

The problem with systems like Myers-Briggs and StrengthsFinder, as well as most online quizzes, is that they focus mainly on your outward actions or surface desires. Unlike Rowling’s magical hat, they can’t peer into your mind and soul and truly know who you are and where you belong. At the heart of humanity, we want to know who we are. But, until 2017, I was just scratching the surface.

Ian Corn’s summation of the Enneagram was as close to the Sorting Hat as I’d ever been. It’s not magical, but it’s I kid you now it’s close. It reveals your heart.

Alice Fryling, a Christian author who uses the Enneagram, shared this story about her friend Sheila, who invited her over for lunch to discuss it. After lunch, Alice asks Sheila, “How do you experience the true self and the false self in ordinary life?”

“Sheila spoke up right away, telling us about her frustrations with herself and the meal in front of us. First of all, she said, she was embarrassed about the holes in the wall where a curtain rod had been replaced. (I hadn’t noticed.) The dishes on the table were not her favorite because, in a moment of generosity, she had given away the other ones. (The ones on the table were beautiful.) The fruit salad didn’t have the right dressing. (It was delicious.) The only thing my friend felt good about was the quiche. (Someone else had made it.)”3

Sheila is a good example of a One on the Enneagram who dialogues with their harsh inner critic at nearly every moment of every day. That’s one example of the 9 core types. Each has their own motivation. Sheila’s motivation is primarily anger. At who? Herself. She is far from perfect, and she can’t forgive herself. So, what drives the heart of each and every one of us? Our sin. The 9 Types:

1. Anger (Resentment)

2. Pride

3. Vainglory (Deceit)

4. Envy

5. Avarice/Hoarding

6. Fear

7. Gluttony

8. Lust (Intensity)

9. Sloth

In other words, the 7 deadly sins, +2, all from the early church fathers.

Why Sin?

Jesus says in Mark 7:21–23, “For from within, out of the heart of man, come evil thoughts… All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person.” In the Bible, “heart” means much more than emotions—it’s the center of who you are.

For Jesus, “heart” meant motivation and identity, not simple feelings. It’s the foundation of who you are.

So maybe now you can understand why Jesus says that the “heart” is responsible for producing your “evil thoughts.” The Bible is full of heart. (20 passages) You and I can’t help it, we’re governed by this heart of ours. And within the heart of every man, woman, and child from the beginning of time is the sin Adam and Eve passed down to us, generation by generation.

Before the summer started, I invited friends to read Cron’s Road Back to You and take an Enneagram assessment.

My friends and I have met to talk about books for years, but nothing compared to this go-round. Usually, we’d hang out, chew the fat, and chat before eventually getting around to talking books. But this time, right from the start, everyone was eager to share their numbers and listen to others share their type. We began to pull back the curtain on what makes each of us tick. Much like the Sorting Hat, some of us found common ground, while others finally realized they were the oddballs we had always thought they were. (Half-Joking) But by the end of the night, I felt like we connected. Which isn’t easy for dudes. We all left feeling a little more known and loved.

FPC Meridian supports a large list of World Missionaries, so it’s common for me to receive several updates from around the world each week. One such missionary we’ve supported for years is Jeff and Véronique Kim, who are primarily church planters with EPC World Outreach in St. Paul Trois Chateaux, France.

As I read the update, I was pleasantly surprised, and a little jealous, to see that Jeff had attended a professional Enneagram training seminar called iEQ9. I immediately reached out to Jeff to share my enthusiasm. He followed up with a request to meet with me to fulfill some accreditation hours. That decision is what you call a no-brainer. YES!

So I took yet another assessment, already knowing my type. But I wasn’t expecting a 42-page report full of fresh insight about yours truly. Here’s a doozy:

You project the attitude that you can do anything. This enables you to tackle challenges and take on projects enthusiastically, even when you’ve never been through a similar experience. It also gives you great powers of persuasion.

No lie, I really do think I can “do anything.” A few weeks ago, after seeing Nate Bargatze perform, I thought… Oh yeah, I could do stand-up. I took up painting the same way—I knew I could do that. Years after starting, one of my works was sold to Hobby Lobby. I even told my daughter, a top gymnast in Mississippi, “I bet I can do what you do.” Her answer: “No, you can’t! Dad, you have no clue.”

Blind Spots: You are quick to synthesize and learn new information and skills, but may struggle to judge whether you have truly mastered this knowledge. You may act as an instant expert without depth, leading others to question your capability.

This may lead you to proclaim expertise before having fully developed your skill or knowledge. This over-estimation of your ability may lead you to get in over your head at times. It can also make you somewhat indiscriminate about quality.

Shut up! You don’t know me!

Yikes!!! That is the good kind of sting. And that was just one among a hundred other observations about my unique branch of the Enneagram Type 7, the enthusiast. The sin of my heart that has served me my whole life is gluttony. Left unaddressed, I am a “happy” hungry ghost, always consuming yet never satisfied. (Think Slimer 👻)

Carl Jung said, “Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.” All confession begins with self-reflection. For me, that means facing my ghost. I don’t run away or attempt to hide it away; I can’t run from myself, but I must acknowledge it. See my heart. To even look upon it with appreciation, I was trying to make myself happy. But, after years, I’m still learning happiness isn’t found in more, but in sobriety.

That might not mean anything to you… It’s likely because you’re not a 7. Not everyone is perfect. 😉 But if you choose to try on the Sorting Hat and take your own assessment, you might be surprised at what you find.

1 Samuel 16:7, “But the Lord said to Samuel, ‘Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him. For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.’”

A dear friend and colleague, Daniel Levi, once said something that has never left me: every kid wants two things—to be known and loved. The Lord sees your heart… Will you accept his love?

• Real test with lots of information backed by Cron, but costs $: iEQ9

• A good test that will cost you your email address in the end. I’ve used and approve: Enneagram Coach

• Lindsay and I both listen to Ian Cron’s Podcast: Typeology

Here are my flowers in the field.

When my children were babies, friends and strangers alike felt required to say:

“They grow up in the blink of an eye.” Or, “The days are long, but the years are short; you'd better enjoy it.” And, “They’ll be ________ (driving, out the house, gone) before you know it.”

That was my cue to hand them my baby girl and tell them it’s time for a diaper change, ENJOY it! Kidding, I wouldn’t give my child to Strangers… just everyone else. You have to be careful.

For real, unlike most advice on raising kids, I actually took those cliché sayings to heart. Kids do grow up quickly, and I wanted to cherish every day of my girls’ childhood. Yes, I looked forward to being done with diapers. And I really wanted them to reach the 3+ age requirement so I could finally dominate them at Candyland: Dora the Explorer edition. So as much as I was excited for them to grow up, I regularly thought that being able to hold my baby girls in my arms was pure joy. Those moments were truly once-in-a-lifetime.

Granted, it’s hard to enjoy those precious times when you’re dead tired, and, after doing the math, also dead broke because half your income went to diapers. And yes, it’s difficult to love every moment when you feel like you're being held prisoner to your child’s nap/feeding schedule. And love can quickly be replaced by depression when PBS runs a back-to-back special of the Canadian cartoon Caillou.

Thankfully, those moments did pass. And the everyday joys would come back. For me, my fondest moments were simply going to the park—teaching them to go headfirst down a tube slide, playing tag with park friends, endlessly pushing swings, and seeing if I could still make it across the monkey bars. So I’ll join the chorus of old folks—time is precious, and every ordinary day is a blessing from God. Especially when you get snow cones afterward. Tigers Blood… Lemon Lime… Peaches and Cream… Glory Glory Hallelujah!

It’s easy to say ordinary days are a gift, but what about the weeks, months, or years that feel anything but ordinary? What about the seasons that are unbearably hard? How can someone speak of hard times as a blessing—when life feels overwhelming and nearly impossible to bear?

Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a courageous pastor and theologian during World War II. In 1939, his friends and family had intended that he stay in America for the duration of the war and serve as a visiting lecturer at Union Theological Seminary. Yet, though he could have escaped Nazi rule to teach God’s Word, he chose instead to return to Germany. (You might want to read that last sentence again…) While living in New York City, he famously wrote to his friend Reinhold Niebuhr that he had made a “mistake” in coming to America and that he would have no right to help rebuild Germany after the war if he had not shared in its trials. Instead of choosing safety, he returned home after only 26 days in America.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer was arrested by the Gestapo on April 5, 1943, at his parents’ home in Berlin. He was involved in a plot to smuggle 14 Jews into Switzerland. Bonhoeffer wasn’t hard to find. For years, he was boldly speaking out against the Nazis, who had banned him from public speaking and publishing in 1940. He was imprisoned for exactly two years, and just four weeks before the war’s end, he was executed in a final Nazi purge alongside other key members of the resistance.

While in prison, he wrote about today’s topic, time, and the ten years he lived under Hitler’s rule:

“Ten years is a long stretch in a man’s life. Time is the most precious gift in our possession, for it is the most irrevocable. This is what makes it so disturbing to look back upon the time we have lost. Time lost is time when we have not lived a full human life, time unenriched by experience, creative endeavor, enjoyment, and suffering. Time lost is time we have not filled, time left empty. The past ten years have not been like that. Our losses have been immeasurable, but we have not lost time.”

Bonhoeffer goes on to say that we do not redeem the past by pretending it was painless, nor do we honor the past by being trapped in it. Forgetting can be grace, and remembering can be a responsibility.

“Who stands firm? Only the one whose ultimate standard is not his reason, his principles, conscience, freedom, or virtue; only the one who is prepared to sacrifice all of these when, in faith and in relationship to God alone, he is called to obedient and responsible action.”

We see in Bonhoeffer’s life and death that time isn’t always meant to be enjoyable. We can live full, human lives even in seasons of persecution, suffering, cancer, depression, or anxiety. Pastor Dietrich warns against wasting precious time on an empty life. Our ultimate standard may not align with what seems reasonable—our own principles, conscience, freedom, or virtue. But, Bonhoeffer shows that he was willing to sacrifice what was reasonable to live a full, obedient, dangerous life. So our enjoyment and freedom are not life’s highest aims; the deeper question is whether we are living in faithful response to God.

Talking about wasting time… When I was in middle school, one summer, I was strangely hooked on the soap opera Days of Our Lives. Every episode started with the line, “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.” Little did I know that those words are attributed to Socrates: “Our lives are but specks of dust falling through the fingers of time. Like sands of the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.”

The Bible is full of metaphors about human lifetimes:

My girls, now in their teens and tweens, still love picking the flowers of the field and handing them to their mother. These little purple or white blooms are incredibly delicate. Sometimes Lindsay will put them in a tiny vase above the sink. But even with water, it does their petals no good. Within an hour, they’re doubled over and shriveled up. Scripture says that’s the amount of time humans get to enjoy their earthly glory. We are grass, and our glory is only a brief flowering. But there is one thing that lasts forever: God and His Word.

So, Mommas and Daddies, hold your babies while you can, because the stories are true: life is a mist. It’s here one moment and gone the next. Bonhoeffer knew the preciousness of time, and for him, time was better spent in prison than in safety across the ocean. But in all things, good or bad, easy or hard, rich or poor, only God is eternal. And only in Christ will we live forever.

Ephesians 5 says, “Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, making the most of your time, redeeming it, because these are evil days.” So, before you lose this day, this grain of sand falling right now through your fingers, consider it. Are we celebrating this day God has given us… Maybe with a snow cone? Are we taking a stand? While this mist of a life yet lingers, we can thank God for the little flowers of our field and take time to love a neighbor in need. So, be very careful how you live—not as unwise, but as wise.

Take time and read Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s illegal publishing:

After Ten Years: An Account at the Turn of the Year 1942–1943