Category: The Bereans

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

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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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Mushrooms, Chocolate, and Butterflies.

At one point, I seriously considered building a side business around them. That still feels a little strange to say. This was back in 2011. My tissue processing lab had only been open for about a year. Things were moving, but not the way I had hoped—at least not financially. So I started thinking about ways to make better use of what I already had.

Extra space. Specialized equipment. Controlled environments. It felt wrong to let it sit there. The ideas came quickly. Mushrooms made the most sense. Controlled growth. Temperature. Humidity. It felt close enough to the lab work I understood. Chocolate was more creative. Still structured, but different. Butterflies… that one never fully made sense. But I kept circling back to it anyway. Only the mushrooms moved forward.

I set up a small system. Ran the conditions. Grew my first batch. And for a moment, it felt like something might actually work. Then I did what I always do. I ran the numbers. Nothing collapsed. That’s what made it difficult. There was no obvious failure. No clear reason to stop. Just a growing awareness that scaling this into something sustainable would take more than I had anticipated—different costs, different systems, a different kind of business altogether.

I could have pushed through that. Learned it. Adjusted. Made it work. That’s usually what I do. So the question wasn’t really: Can I do this? But: Should I keep going? That’s harder. Because there wasn’t a clear reason to stop. Just a quiet sense that something wasn’t lining up, even though everything looked reasonable on paper.

I sat with that longer than I expected. Not panicked. Not discouraged. Just… unsettled. And eventually, I stepped back. I didn’t force it. I let it go. At the time, it didn’t feel like anything significant. Just one idea that didn’t work out. But years later, I see it differently. That wasn’t just a financial decision. It was restraint. 

I used to think God mainly intervened when something was obviously wrong. When there was failure. Or risk. Or something needed correcting. But Scripture doesn’t always read that way. There’s a moment in David’s life, after he had established his kingdom and was finally at peace, where he looks around and realizes he’s living in a palace while the ark of God is still in a tent. So he decides to build a temple. It makes sense. It’s good. It even sounds right to the people around him. But then God stops him.

2 Samuel 7:5

Not because it was a bad idea. Not because David misunderstood. But because it wasn’t his to build.

And then there’s Paul. He’s traveling, doing the work he’s been called to do, trying to move into regions where the message hasn’t gone yet. Strategic. Logical. Aligned. But twice, in ways that aren’t even explained, he’s prevented from going where he planned.

Acts 16:6–7

No failure. No crisis. Just… not allowed.

Both of them were moving in directions that made sense. Neither was doing anything wrong. And still, they were redirected.

Looking back, that’s what that season feels like now. Not a missed opportunity. Not even a mistake. Just something that wasn’t mine to build. I never expanded that idea. No mushrooms. No chocolate. No butterflies. And I’m grateful. Not because it would have failed. But because it would have taken me somewhere I wasn’t meant to go.

That’s the part I’m still learning. God’s will isn’t just about avoiding wrong decisions. Sometimes it’s about letting go of the right ones.

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)

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

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

https://youtube.com/shorts/tBSJ0motpbQ

I remember standing in a lab early in my career, watching someone sign out cases with a kind of quiet confidence I didn’t have yet. Everything about medicine was structured. Measured. Verified. You didn’t just feel ready—you were examined, trained, reviewed, corrected. Over and over. There was a path. And you stayed on it. No one would tolerate a physician saying, “I didn’t really train, but I think I can do this.” And they shouldn’t. Lives depend on it.

That same night, I picked up my guitar. No board exam. No credentialing committee. No one asking where I trained. Just… playing. Some of the best musicians I’ve known didn’t come through formal systems. Same with chefs. Artists. People who create something real—you don’t always ask for credentials. You just know. It either resonates… or it doesn’t.

I didn’t connect those two worlds for a long time. Medicine demanded proof. Music didn’t. Both felt right in their own way. Somewhere along the way, without really noticing it, I brought that same medical mindset into my faith. Structure. Accuracy. Saying the right things. Understanding doctrine. Getting it right. And again—that’s not wrong. Truth matters. Discernment matters.

Scripture even warns:
Not many of you should become teachers… for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness.
James 3:1 (ESV)

There’s weight to speaking about God. There should be. But then there are moments in Scripture that don’t fit that framework cleanly. This is one of them.

Now when they saw the boldness of Peter and John, and perceived that they were uneducated, common men, they were astonished. And they recognized that they had been with Jesus.
Acts 4:13 (ESV)

That phrase doesn’t resolve neatly.
Uneducated… common men.

And yet—no one could dismiss them. Not because they were polished. Not because they were certified. Because it was obvious they had been with Him.

That lands a little differently if you’ve spent your life being trained to not get things wrong. I know how to sound careful. I know how to stay within boundaries. I know how to communicate in ways that feel credible. But that verse doesn’t mention any of that. It doesn’t say they were precise. It says they had been with Jesus. And I don’t always know what to do with that. Because there’s a version of faith that looks very convincing from the outside. It has language. Structure. Confidence. It can quote the right things at the right time. And still… feel a little distant.

Jesus doesn’t leave much room for comfort there.
And then will I declare to them, “I never knew you; depart from me…”
Matthew 7:23 (ESV)

Not “you misunderstood.”
Not “you weren’t trained enough.”

“I never knew you.”

That’s not about competence. That’s about relationship.

So now I find myself asking a different question than I used to.
Not: “Am I getting this right?”
But: “Am I actually walking with Him?”

I still believe in learning. In studying. In handling Scripture carefully. That hasn’t changed. But I’m less impressed than I used to be by how something sounds. And more aware of where it comes from.

Some people speak beautifully about God. Clear. Structured. Persuasive. But there’s something different—hard to define—when someone has actually been with Him. It’s not always polished. Sometimes it pauses in the middle of a sentence. Sometimes it doesn’t resolve cleanly. But there’s weight to it. Not because of how it sounds. Because of where it comes from.

I spent years learning how to speak correctly.

I’m still learning how to walk with Him.

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

#faith #trustinggod #christianity #jesuschrist #bible #seekinggodswill #truth #sanctification #godisincontrol #godhearsourprayers #salvation #providenceofGod #noformaltraining #Acts4:13

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I didn’t realize how tightly I was holding on until it was already over. It wasn’t dramatic. No argument. No final speech. Just… a quiet ending. A routine I had gotten used to—one of those rhythms that doesn’t feel important while you’re in it, but somehow becomes everything once it’s gone.

For me, it was the lab. Not the work itself. I had already started to step away from that. It was everything around it. The people. The in-between conversations. The way the day just… unfolded without effort.

I told myself I was ready. I had said it enough times that it started to sound convincing. But the last day didn’t feel like closure. It felt like something slipping. I remember lingering longer than I needed to. Walking slower. Stopping in places that didn’t require stopping. As if moving carefully could somehow keep everything from ending.

It’s strange what you try to hold onto when you know something is changing. Not the big things. The small ones. The ordinary ones. The ones you didn’t even notice until they started to disappear.

There’s a moment in Scripture that has always felt a little uncomfortable to me for this exact reason. Right after everything falls apart… it suddenly doesn’t. Jesus is alive. Standing right in front of her. And Mary does the most human thing imaginable. She holds on.

In the Gospel of John, it says:
Jesus said to her, “Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father…”
John 20:17 (ESV)

That line has always bothered me. Because if there was ever a moment someone deserved to hold on…This was it. She had watched Him die. Watched everything collapse. And now—just when it’s restored—He tells her not to cling to Him?

At first, it almost sounds cold. But it’s not. It’s something else. Something deeper… and honestly, harder. Mary isn’t just touching Him. She’s holding on like someone who has lost something once and is terrified of losing it again. And Jesus knows that. Which is why He doesn’t say, “You’re wrong.”

He says, in effect: Don’t hold on to Me like this. Because what she wants…is for things to go back to the way they were. Walking with Him. Seeing Him. Following Him from place to place. Something she can hold. Something she can keep. Something she can control, at least a little.

But that version of the relationship is over. Not because it was bad. Because it was incomplete.
“I have not yet ascended to the Father…”

That line matters more than it seems. He’s telling her: This isn’t the end of the story. Don’t treat this like the moment you freeze forever. Because something better is coming. Not easier. Better.

Up until this point, Jesus was someone you could stand next to. After this? He would be someone who could live in them. Through the Spirit. Everywhere. Not limited to one place.

Not limited to one moment. Not limited to whether you could physically hold on. But to step into that…She had to let go of this.

And that’s the part that doesn’t get talked about enough. We say we want more of God. But a lot of the time…what we really want is a version of Him we already understand. A season that felt clearer. A time when things made more sense. A way of relating to Him that felt… manageable.

And sometimes, without saying it the way He said it to Mary, God does the same thing with us. Not harshly. Not abruptly. But clearly.

Don’t cling to that. Not because it was wrong. Because I’m doing something you can’t step into if you keep holding on to what’s behind you. Mary came looking for a body to mourn. She found a living Savior. But even then…she almost missed what He was doing next because she was trying to hold on to what had been.

And then He says something that changes everything: “Go to my brothers and say to them…”

He doesn’t just ask her to let go. He gives her something to step into. She becomes the first one to carry the message: “I have seen the Lord.”

From holding…to going. From clinging…to trusting.

And maybe that’s the question sitting underneath all of this. Not just for her. For us. What are you holding onto…that God is asking you to release? Not because He’s taking something away. But because He’s moving you into something you can’t experience…unless you let go.

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

#faith #trustinggod #christianity #jesuschrist #bible #seekinggodswill #truth #sanctification #godisincontrol #godhearsourprayers #salvation #providenceofGod #John20:17 #Mary #timetoletgo

I remember a season when everything looked… right. Work was steady. Decisions were clear. People trusted me. There wasn’t any obvious crisis. No collapse. No headline failure. If anything, it felt like I had finally figured out how to manage things—how to stay ahead, stay disciplined, stay composed.

And for a while, that worked. But there was this quiet awareness I couldn’t shake. Not anxiety.

Not burnout, exactly. Just… something missing. It’s hard to explain without sounding ungrateful. Nothing was broken. But nothing felt alive either. I didn’t have a category for that. So I did what most of us do. I tightened things up. More structure. More control. More effort to “stay on track.”

And oddly… the more I tried to stabilize everything, the more mechanical it all felt. Like I was performing a version of myself I had already approved. Then something small happened. Not dramatic. No lightning. No emotional moment I could point to and say, that was it. Just a shift. Same responsibilities. Same conversations. Same external life. But internally… it wasn’t the same. There was less forcing. Less need to get the outcome exactly right. More clarity. More freedom. Even my responses changed—not because I planned them better, but because they weren’t coming from the same place. That’s when I realized: It’s possible to be doing everything right…and still not be living with power.

That tension is actually sitting in the pages of Scripture. And if you read too quickly, you miss it. In Gospel of John 20, after the resurrection, Jesus appears to His disciples. And then something unusual happens.

He breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit…”
John 20:22 (ESV)

It’s quiet. Almost easy to overlook. No crowd. No spectacle. Just a moment between Him and them. If you stopped there, you would assume: That’s it. They’ve received the Spirit. But then you keep reading. And in Acts of the Apostles 2, everything feels… different. There’s wind. here’s fire. here’s boldness that wasn’t there before. The same group of men who had been cautious, uncertain, even afraid—now they’re speaking openly, publicly, without hesitation.

So what happened? Did they receive the Holy Spirit twice? This is where people try to clean it up too quickly. Some say the first moment was symbolic. Others say the second is a separate “empowerment.” There’s truth in those discussions. But if you step back, something simpler—and more personal—starts to emerge.

In one moment, the Spirit is given. In the other, the Spirit is unleashed. In John, it’s intimate. Like breath. Almost like the beginning of something. In Acts, it’s undeniable. Visible. Audible. Overflowing. Not contained anymore. 

And maybe that’s the part we don’t like to sit with. Because we’re often more comfortable with the first. Quiet faith. Personal belief. Something we can hold without it changing too much. But the second? That kind of power…it doesn’t stay private. It doesn’t stay controlled. Looking back, I think I spent a long time in that first space. Not empty. Not disconnected. Just… contained. Careful. Measured. Everything in its place. And I didn’t realize how much of my life was still being driven by me.

Because when the Spirit moves from given to governing—things shift. Not always outwardly at first. But inwardly, unmistakably. You respond differently. You release outcomes more easily. You’re less interested in managing your life… and more willing to trust it. 

The disciples didn’t become different people in Acts 2. They were already chosen. Already following. Already present. But something changed in what filled them. And what flowed out.

So the question isn’t just theological. It’s personal. If the Spirit has already been given…why does so little seem to change? And maybe even more uncomfortable: Do I want Him to give me life…or actually take control of it? Because those aren’t the same thing. And if we’re honest—we often prefer the version that leaves us in charge. 

But the pattern in Scripture is consistent. God breathes…and then He fills. He begins…and then He overflows. And when He does—it doesn’t just stay inside. It changes what comes out.

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

#faith #trustinggod #christianity #jesuschrist #bible #seekinggodswill #truth #sanctification #godisincontrol #godhearsourprayers #salvation #providenceofGod #john20:22 #whydideverythingchange #Holyspirit

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I said something earlier that didn’t sit right afterward. Nothing sharp. No argument. It was just part of a normal conversation, the kind you don’t think twice about while it’s happening. And I didn’t—at least not then. But later, it came back. Not the whole conversation. Just the line I said. The way it might have sounded from the other side. I was doing something else when I caught myself replaying it. I hadn’t meant to. It just showed up again. The first time, I brushed it off. The second time, I wasn’t so sure. 

It’s strange how that works. You don’t suddenly decide, that was wrong. It’s not that clear. It’s more like a small shift in how it feels. Enough to notice, not enough to act. I could’ve reached out. Clarified what I meant. Or just admitted it didn’t come out the way I intended. It wouldn’t have been a big deal. But I didn’t.

There wasn’t a reason I could point to. I wasn’t defending anything. I wasn’t even sure there was something to fix. I just… let it sit. And that’s the part that bothered me later. Not what I said. But what I didn’t do after. Because it didn’t feel like a decision. It felt like nothing. But it wasn’t nothing.

And somewhere in that realization, a different question surfaced—one that didn’t seem connected at first. If I can move like this without really deciding to… why didn’t angels? Because if Satan and demons were once angels, if there really was a turning, why doesn’t it look anything like this? Why not slow? Why not uncertain? Why not something that builds over time?

Scripture doesn’t describe it that way. It doesn’t read like hesitation.

His tail swept down a third of the stars of heaven…

Revelation 12:4 (ESV)

There’s no gradual shift there. Just a break. And after that, nothing like it again. No second fracture. No suggestion that heaven is still sorting itself out. Whatever happened, it held.

That raises a question I’ve never quite known what to do with. If some angels turned away… why didn’t the rest? Were they made differently? Without the same kind of freedom? Scripture doesn’t point in that direction. The ones who fell aren’t described as confused or misled. There’s no sense that they drifted into it. They chose. Which means the others saw the same thing—and didn’t. So it’s not that one group had freedom and the other didn’t. It’s that whatever that moment was… it didn’t repeat.

There’s a phrase that’s easy to read past:

I charge you… in the presence of God and of Christ Jesus and of the elect angels…
1 Timothy 5:21 (ESV)

Elect angels. That doesn’t sound like a group still weighing options. It sounds settled.

And then there’s this:

The angels who did not stay within their own position… He has kept in eternal chains…
Jude 1:6 (ESV)

No correction. No second thought. Just an end. Which makes tonight feel different. Because nothing about what I said—or didn’t say—is fixed. I could still go back. I could still clear it up. Or at least try. Nothing is stopping me, except that quiet resistance that doesn’t feel like rebellion.

It just feels… easier to leave it alone. I don’t think this makes me better than angels. If anything, it makes the opposite point. They saw clearly—and chose. I hesitate, second-guess, drift a little… and still get another moment to turn. That’s not strength.

For surely it is not angels that He helps, but He helps the offspring of Abraham.
Hebrews 2:16 (ESV)

I’ve read that verse before without stopping. Tonight it feels different. There’s still space. Which means what felt small earlier isn’t nothing. Not the sentence I said. Not the silence that followed. It has direction. Not final. Not settled. But real.

So maybe the better question isn’t about angels. Maybe it’s this: What am I leaving unresolved… that I could still make right? Because right now, I can still turn. And I don’t want to assume I will later… if I won’t do it now.

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

#faith #trustinggod #christianity #jesuschrist #bible #seekinggodswill #truth #sanctification #godisincontrol #godhearsourprayers #salvation #providenceofGod #angels #fallenangels #Hebrews2:16

Is There Such a Thing as a Just War?

I used to think this was a distant question. Something for historians…or politicians…or people who never actually have to live with the consequences. But it doesn’t feel distant anymore. You turn on the news and it’s just there. Missiles. Retaliation. Explanations that sound convincing—at least at first.

“We had to.”
“They left us no choice.”

And part of me understands that. There’s something in us that doesn’t just want evil managed. We want it stopped. But the question doesn’t stay that simple. It shifts.

Not “Can war ever be justified?”
More like—what do we even mean by just?

Because every side seems certain. We’re right. And they don’t say it carefully. They say it like that settles things. There have been people who tried to slow this down.

Augustine of Hippo…
Thomas Aquinas…

They weren’t trying to glorify war. They were trying to restrain it. To say: even if war happens, it shouldn’t be careless. That matters. But it still doesn’t settle the tension. Because when you open the Bible… it doesn’t give a clean answer either. There are wars in it. Some even commanded by God. And at the same time, you start to see something changing. Not all at once. But clearly. Less confidence in the sword. More emphasis on the heart.

Jesus Christ doesn’t organize armies. He doesn’t call His followers to take control. He says things that don’t fit how we normally think about conflict. Love your enemies. Pray for people who hurt you. And when one of His own reaches for a weapon… He stops him. He basically says—put it away. That path leads somewhere you don’t think it does.

Then Jesus said to him, “Put your sword back into its place. For all who take the sword will perish by the sword.
Matthew 26:52 (ESV)

That’s hard to sit with. Because it doesn’t remove the reality of evil. It just refuses to fight it the way we expect.

So is there such a thing as a just war? Maybe… in a limited, human sense. There are real threats. There are real responsibilities. Protection matters. But Scripture never treats war like something clean. Or something to trust. Because war doesn’t stay where you put it. It doesn’t stay clean. You tell yourself it will. But then it shows up in places it shouldn’t—homes… families…people who never chose any of this.

I see that in myself more than I’d like to admit. It’s in me. I want to be right. I want to defend myself. I want to win—even the quiet arguments no one else hears. Which is why this question doesn’t stay theoretical. It turns personal. Not just: “Is this war justified?” But—What is happening inside me when I feel the need to fight?

Because Scripture keeps pointing somewhere deeper. That the real struggle isn’t just external. It’s not just against other people. Paul writes that our battle isn’t ultimately against flesh and blood.

For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.
Ephesians 6:12 (ESV)

That’s easy to read. Harder to live. So maybe the answer isn’t as clean as we want. Maybe a war can be justified on paper…and still take us somewhere we didn’t expect. And maybe the more important question is this: Even if I can justify the fight…am I becoming someone who reflects Christ in it?

Because in the end—Jesus Christ didn’t win by force. He didn’t defend Himself. He gave Himself. And somehow, that was the greater victory. And maybe that’s where this lands. Not in solving the question perfectly—but in seeing it more honestly. That being right…isn’t the same as being righteous. That winning…isn’t always the same as being faithful.

So the question isn’t just: Is this war justified? It’s—What am I trusting when I choose to fight? And if I’m honest… I don’t always trust Him. But I’m starting to see the difference.

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

#faith #trustinggod #christianity #jesuschrist #bible #seekinggodswill #truth #sanctification #godisincontrol #godhearsourprayers #salvation #providenceofGod #ajustwar #Ephesians6:12 #Matthew26:52

I was sitting there with my wife… listening. At least I think I was. She was talking about something that mattered to her. Nothing dramatic. Just one of those conversations that fill up a normal day—plans, thoughts, something she had been carrying. And I caught myself drifting. Not outwardly. I was still nodding, still responding. If you watched us, it would’ve looked fine. But internally… it wasn’t. Part of me was there. Part of me was already trying to figure things out—where this was going, what needed to be done, how to fix whatever might come next.

And then there was this other part. Just… watching. Not saying anything. Not stepping in. Just aware enough to know I wasn’t really present. That I could be more present. That I should be. I don’t usually stop and think about that kind of thing. But it stayed with me.

How can I be in the same moment… and not really be in it? How can I be listening… and not listening? It’s still me. But it doesn’t feel simple. I don’t even know why I thought of this…but I did. Jesus—standing in the water. Before anything really started. No miracles yet. No crowds. No teaching. Just… there. And then—the Spirit descends. The Father speaks.

When Jesus was baptized, immediately He went up from the water, and behold, the heavens were opened to Him, and He saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and coming to rest on Him; and behold, a voice from heaven said, “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.”
Matthew 3:16-16 (ESV)

I’ve read that before. A lot of times. But I wasn’t trying to study it this time. I was just… sitting with it. If He was fully God…why didn’t He just live like it? I mean—why wait? Why stand there like that? Why receive anything? I don’t think it was because something was missing. That doesn’t make sense. It felt more like…something was beginning. The Spirit comes down. Not for the first time ever—but in a way you can see. The Father speaks. Not quietly—out loud. There’s no confusion in it. But I can’t really explain it either. Three. But not separate. I don’t know…it doesn’t fall into place neatly.

And I started thinking about earlier. Sitting there with my wife. Trying to manage everything in my head. Trying to stay ahead of it. Trying to carry it. I was there. But I wasn’t receiving anything. Not really listening. Not slowing down. Definitely not depending. And that’s what keeps sticking with me. Jesus didn’t start His ministry by taking control. He didn’t prove anything. He didn’t push forward. He stood there…and received.

I don’t do that very well. Even in small things. Especially in small things. A conversation. A moment I could just be present. Instead, I’m already somewhere else—trying to hold it all together. I’ve tried to understand the Trinity before. I still don’t. Not really. But this didn’t feel like something to figure out. It felt like something I was watching. And maybe that’s enough for now.

I think I know what I tend to depend on. And it’s usually… me. Trying to think faster. Do more. Stay ahead. Carry what feels like it’s mine. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe I don’t need to understand everything. Maybe I just need to stop trying to carry it like I do. 

I’m still sitting with that.

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

#faith #trustinggod #christianity #jesuschrist #bible #seekinggodswill #truth #sanctification #godisincontrol #godhearsourprayers #salvation #providenceofGod #trinity #Matthew3:16-17 #whenoneisn’tsimple

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