Month: May 2026

I walked through a modern art exhibit recently and kept waiting for something to come together. Canvas after canvas—scattered strokes, fragments that didn’t resolve, shapes that looked like they belonged somewhere else. I read the descriptions beside them, hoping they would help. They didn’t. If anything, they made the confusion feel… intentional. Like I was supposed to see something that just wasn’t there.

Then I turned into another section. Same textures. Same randomness. Same sense that I was missing the point. I looked for the description. Instead, there was a sign:

This is not an artistic piece but an area under construction.

I stopped. Because I couldn’t tell the difference!

My front yard right now… looks like that. I cut down hundreds of weeds and left them where they fell. Dry stalks, tangled branches, no pattern, no design—just what happens when something is started and not finished. When people see it, they don’t hesitate. “You’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

And sometimes I answer like this: “What are you talking about? Do you know how long it took to arrange each branch to achieve this pattern? I spent BIG money to have this design implemented. Post modern art, at its best!”

They laugh. Because it’s obvious. I didn’t design it. I just stopped working on it. That’s the part that stays with me. Not the mess. The explanation. Because there’s a moment—subtle, easy to miss—when something unfinished stops bothering me. Not because it’s been completed. But because I’ve learned how to talk about it. I don’t say, this still needs work. I say something that sounds better. Something that makes it feel intentional. Something that removes the pressure to go back and finish what I started. And after a while… I believe it.

Scripture doesn’t describe this as confusion. It calls it something else.

The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?
Jeremiah 17:9 (ESV)

Not mistaken. Deceitful. There’s a part of me that would rather explain something than change it. And over time, that explanation starts to feel true.

I call what’s unfinished… complete enough.
I call what’s neglected… on hold.
I call what I’ve avoided… not the right time.

Until God says something that cuts through all of it.

Is it a time for you yourselves to dwell in your paneled houses, while this house lies in ruins?
Haggai 1:4 (ESV)

They hadn’t rejected God. They hadn’t abandoned the work completely. They just… didn’t finish it. Life filled in around it. Comfort came back. Other priorities took over. And the thing that mattered most slowly became something they learned how to live without addressing. Not rebellion. Neglect. And neglect is quiet. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t feel urgent. It just waits… while you get used to it being there. Until one day, you’re not working on it anymore. You’re explaining it.

“What are you talking about? Do you know how long it took to arrange each branch…”

It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud about my yard. But not when I say it about my life. That’s the danger. Not the mess. Not the delay. The story I build around it. And God doesn’t argue with the story. He interrupts it.

“Is it a time…?”

Not: Can you explain this?
Not: Can you justify it?
Just: Why did you stop?

I don’t need a better explanation. I need honesty. Because this isn’t art.

It’s still under construction.

Love and trust in the Lord; seek His will in your life.

#faith #trustinggod #christianity #jesuschrist #bible #seekinggodswill #truth #sanctification #godisincontrol #godhearsourprayers #salvation #providenceofGod #modernart

https://youtube.com/shorts/b4sxJYXvpsk

I thought I was being efficient. Going to the gym felt right. Structured. Disciplined. Easy to measure. But somewhere along the way, a question kept coming back. Do I actually need all of this? So I tried something different. Stayed home. Stripped it down. A few basic movements that covered what I was trying to do anyway. It wasn’t impressive. But it worked.

That’s when I thought about Ockham’s Razor. It’s the idea that when you’re trying to explain something, you shouldn’t add more than you need. If two explanations lead to the same result, the better one is the one with fewer assumptions. Fewer moving parts. Less added on.

It doesn’t mean the simplest explanation is always right. It means don’t build complexity where it isn’t necessary. At first, that’s all this felt like. Simplifying. Then my mind went to a moment in Scripture.
A scribe asked Jesus Christ:

Which commandment is the most important of all?
Mark 12:28 (ESV)

That question mattered. Because the Law wasn’t small. Traditionally, it’s counted at 613 commands. They covered worship, daily life, relationships, purity, sacrifice. Devout Jews studied them, debated them, tried to live them faithfully. But holding all of it together wasn’t simple. What mattered most?

Jesus answered:

The most important is, “Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.” The second is this: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” There is no other commandment greater than these.
Mark 12:29–31 (ESV)

It sounds like simplification. Everything brought down to two. But it isn’t. He didn’t reduce the Law. He revealed what it was always pointing to. Before that, there were ways to manage it. You could focus on parts of it. Be careful in certain areas. Measure how you were doing. There was structure. After that, everything is measured differently.

Love God with all your heart.
Love your neighbor as yourself.

That doesn’t shrink the Law. It concentrates it.

I can simplify a workout. I can remove what isn’t necessary. I can make a system more efficient. But this doesn’t get easier. It gets clearer. It looked like He was making it simpler to follow. He wasn’t. He was taking away every place to hide. Almost like a different kind of razor. Not one that cuts complexity…but one that cuts through me.

Jesus’ Razor.

Ockham’s Razor makes things easier to explain.

Jesus’ Razor makes things honest.

Love and trust in the Lord; seek His will in your life.

#faith #trustinggod #christianity #jesuschrist #bible #seekinggodswill #truth #sanctification #godisincontrol #godhearsourprayers #salvation #providenceofGod #Ockham’srazor #Mark12:28-31

https://youtube.com/shorts/lSw4Sa7Coaw

In severe cases of epilepsy—when seizures can’t be controlled—surgeons have sometimes cut the connection between the two halves of the brain, the corpus callosum, a procedure sometimes referred to in simpler terms as creating a “split-brain.”

It’s not common. Usually a last resort. But it reveals something about how we process what we see. The brain doesn’t divide neatly, but the two hemispheres tend to specialize. The left side leans analytical. Language. Logic. Step-by-step reasoning. It builds explanations. The right side leans perceptual. Spatial awareness. Pattern recognition. Emotion. It takes things in, often without putting them into words.

Normally, they work together. What one sees, the other helps interpret. But when that connection is disrupted, something unusual can happen. Because visual information crosses over: The right visual field goes to the left hemisphere and the left visual field goes to the right hemisphere. So if an object is shown only to the left visual field, a patient may reach out and pick up the correct object with their left hand… but when asked what they saw, they might say, “I didn’t see anything.”

They’re not lying. Part of them perceived it. Another part is explaining the moment… without access to what was actually seen. That stays with me. Because it means a person can respond to something real and still explain it wrong.

There’s a man in John 9 who had never seen anything in his life. Born blind. No reference point. No framework. And then Jesus gives him sight. He doesn’t try to interpret it. Doesn’t construct a theory. When people question him, all he says is, “I was blind, now I see.”

The people questioning him are the Pharisees—religious leaders, experts in Scripture, men trained to interpret truth and guard it carefully. They are not careless thinkers. They are disciplined. Precise. Certain in what they understand about God. And they don’t miss what happened. They see the man. They question him. They bring in his parents. They review the details. They know something real has taken place. But they cannot accept what it means. Not because there isn’t enough evidence. Because it doesn’t fit.

Jesus healed on the Sabbath. That alone creates a problem. So they begin to work around it. They question the method. They question the man. They question the timing. They don’t deny the miracle. They reinterpret it. They already know how God should act. So when He doesn’t follow their expectations, they don’t change their understanding. They reshape what they’re seeing. And in doing that, they remain certain. Certain—and wrong.

Jesus says, “For judgment I came into this world, that those who do not see may see, and those who see may become blind.” And later, “If you were blind, you would have no guilt; but now that you say, ‘We see,’ your guilt remains.”

The problem isn’t lack of sight. It’s confidence in what we think we see. The blind man had nothing to defend. No system to preserve. No explanation to protect. And over time, his understanding grows. “The man called Jesus…” “He is a prophet…” “Lord, I believe.”

He follows what he’s been given. The Pharisees move in the opposite direction. More information. More analysis. More certainty. But no movement. It’s possible to encounter something real and explain it into something else. That’s not just their story. There are moments that don’t sit right. Conversations that linger longer than they should. Patterns that repeat. Decisions that carry a weight that doesn’t go away. And something in us recognizes it before we can explain it, before we can name it. But we don’t stay there. We move quickly. We interpret. We justify. We organize it into something that makes sense.

Like the split-brain patients who’ve had the connection between the two halves of their brain—the corpus callosum, part of us sees something clearly. Another part steps in to explain it—without access to what was actually seen. The explanation sounds reasonable. It fits. It holds together. But it isn’t true. That’s the part that’s hard to recognize. Because the explanation feels right.

Walk by faith, not by sight.
2 Corinthians 5:7 (ESV)

Not because sight is useless, but because what we do with what we see can still lead us somewhere else.

“I was blind… now I see.”

That’s where it starts.

Love and trust in the Lord; seek His will in your life.

#faith #trustinggod #christianity #jesuschrist #bible #seekinggodswill #truth #sanctification #godisincontrol #godhearsourprayers #salvation #providenceofGod #split-brain #2Corinthians5:7

https://youtube.com/shorts/x0H8VRtL6oc

I remember the first time I actually stopped and looked at it. Not memorizing it for a test. Not just recognizing it as something famous. Just… looking at it.

Why does this make sense?

We all hear the same thing growing up—nothing can go faster than the speed of light. It’s a limit. A boundary. One of those rules that just sits there in the background of reality.

And then you see it:
E = mc²

And if you’re like me, you don’t say it out loud, but the thought is there: Wait… doesn’t that mean something is going faster than light? Or at least… something close to it?

I used to think that “c²” meant twice the speed of light. Which already didn’t make sense. That shouldn’t be possible. But even after I realized that wasn’t right, the equation still felt… off. Like I was missing something obvious. It took a while before I saw it.

The equation isn’t talking about speed. Not really. That little “²” means multiplied by itself. The speed of light… times the speed of light. And something shifts when you see it that way. It’s no longer a velocity. t’s just a number.

A very large number.

The equation isn’t saying anything is moving that fast. It’s not breaking the rule at all. It’s doing something else entirely. It’s telling you how much energy is sitting there… inside something that isn’t moving at all. That was the part I didn’t see.

I was reading it like it was describing motion—how fast something was going. But it wasn’t. It was describing what something is. Mass… is energy. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Actually. The equation wasn’t wrong. I was just reading it through the wrong lens.

I’ve done that in other places. Not with physics. With things that matter more. I come in with an assumption—how something should work. What makes sense to me. What feels consistent. And when it doesn’t line up, I don’t always question my understanding. Sometimes I question the truth itself. Or at least… I quietly set it aside. Because it doesn’t fit.

There’s a verse I’ve read many times. Familiar enough that it can lose its edge if I’m not careful:

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths.
Proverbs 3:5–6 (ESV)

I used to hear that as a general encouragement. Now it feels more precise than that.

Do not lean on your own understanding.

Not because understanding is bad. But because it’s limited. Because I can look straight at something true… and still read it wrong. Maybe the tension I feel sometimes isn’t because something is broken. Maybe it’s because I’m trying to force it into a framework that doesn’t hold. Trying to make it fit what I already think I know.

That equation didn’t violate the laws of physics. It exposed the limits of how I was interpreting them. And I wonder how often that’s happening in other parts of my life. Not everything that feels confusing is unclear. Sometimes it’s just… unfamiliar. Or deeper than I expected. Or asking me to let go of the way I’ve been reading things. 

Maybe the problem isn’t the truth. 

Maybe it’s the way I’m trying to make it make sense.

Love and trust in the Lord; seek His will in your life.

#faith #trustinggod #christianity #jesuschrist #bible #seekinggodswill #truth #sanctification #godisincontrol #godhearsourprayers #salvation #providenceofGod #E=mc2 #Proverbs3:5-6

https://youtube.com/shorts/satjIvGMVAM

When I was a kid, we used to play gods. Not in any serious way—just imagination. Someone would be Zeus. Someone else would be the god of war—Mars, usually. There were battles. Alliances. Dramatic endings that didn’t always make sense. I remember insisting on being Zeus once. King of the gods. Lightning bolts. Authority. Control. I don’t remember winning. But I remember the feeling. It was fun. Because underneath all of it—we knew it wasn’t real. You can’t all be gods. Right? But something about that idea doesn’t stay in childhood. It just… changes shape. It loses the mythology. Finds better language. Becomes harder to notice.

I sat in a teaching years ago where that same idea showed up again. Not as a game. As something people actually believed. It wasn’t loud. No one was arguing. Just… confident. The idea was simple: That we don’t just belong to God—we become like Him. Eventually, even becoming gods ourselves.

Before anything else was said, a verse was quoted. No setup. No explanation. Just placed there.

I said, “You are gods, sons of the Most High, all of you.”
Psalm 82:6 (ESV)

And then… nothing. I didn’t agree. But I didn’t dismiss it either. There was a moment—short, but real—where something in me leaned toward it. Not because I believed it. Just because it sounded… possible.

The response that followed was careful. Thoughtful. Probably right. But it was long. And somewhere in the middle of it, I realized something I didn’t expect: I was working harder to follow the explanation than I had to work to accept the statement. That stayed with me. Because the answer wasn’t complicated. It was just… incomplete.

The very next line.

Nevertheless, you shall die like men, and fall like any prince.
Psalm 82:7 (ESV)

That’s it. That’s what was missing. Whatever “you are gods” means—it can’t mean what it sounds like at first. Because God doesn’t lift them higher. He brings them back down. You will die like men. And the tone shifts. Not celebration. Something else.

Psalm 82 isn’t telling us what we can become. It’s exposing what happens when we forget what we are. God is speaking to people who carried authority—who, in some way, represented Him. And instead of reflecting Him, they replaced Him. Not in an obvious way. Just gradually.

That’s the part that unsettles me now. Not the belief itself. But how close it sits to something I recognize in me. Because I don’t walk around thinking I’m a god. But I do notice how often I want control. How quickly I trust my own judgment when it feels right. How easy it is to assume I’m seeing clearly… just because something makes sense to me. It doesn’t feel extreme. It feels reasonable. That’s probably why it’s hard to see. This pattern isn’t new. It shows up early.

You will be like God…
Genesis 3:5 (ESV)

Not completely wrong. Just… pointed in the wrong direction. Later, even Scripture is used this way. Not rejected. Used.

If you are the Son of God… throw yourself down…
Matthew 4:6 (ESV)

A real promise is quoted. Nothing made up. But the intent shifts. What was meant to build trust becomes something else—a reason to push, to prove, to force something. Jesus doesn’t argue the wording. He answers what’s underneath it.

You shall not put the Lord your God to the test.
Matthew 4:7 (ESV)

The words weren’t the issue. It was what was being done with them. That’s what I missed in that room years ago. I thought it was about interpretation. It wasn’t. It was posture. Something in me wanting to move closer to the center. To understand on my terms. To define things without having to fully submit to them.

That’s what makes partial truth so convincing. It doesn’t feel like rebellion. It feels like clarity. But Psalm 82 doesn’t leave much room for that. It ends somewhere I don’t naturally go. Dependence. Limits. Being brought back down.

You will die like men.

There’s something about that line that’s hard to sit with. Not because it’s harsh. Because it’s clear. You are not ultimate. You are not holding everything together. You are not becoming something more. And strangely… that’s where the relief is. Because if I’m not meant to become God—then I don’t have to carry that weight. I don’t have to get everything right. I don’t have to trust every instinct that feels convincing in the moment. I can stop trying to climb. And start learning how to trust. Not my interpretation. Not my instincts. But Him.

What are you holding onto…that sounds right…but hasn’t been fully seen?

Love and trust in the Lord; seek His will in your life.

#faith #trustinggod #christianity #jesuschrist #bible #seekinggodswill #truth #sanctification #godisincontrol #godhearsourprayers #salvation #providenceofGod #Psalms82:6-7 #youwillbelikegods #playinggod

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