Scars and Sovereignty

Category: Daily Devotionals

  • The Poison of Hiding. The Power of Light.

    The Poison of Hiding. The Power of Light.

    Day 61

    Numbers 5-6 | John 4:1-30 | Psalm 26

    There’s a line in today’s reading that’s unsettling:

    ”…and if she has defiled herself and has been unfaithful to her husband, that the water that brings a curse will enter her and become bitter…”

    (Numbers 5:27)

    A woman accused of adultery—whether guilty or not—was brought before the priest. If she had hidden her sin, the bitter water would reveal it, consuming her from the inside out.

    It’s an image of judgment, but also of something more familiar:

    The slow, corrosive poison of hiding.

    Because sin, when buried, doesn’t disappear. It festers. It eats away at the soul. And what remains is shame, fear, and a growing chasm between us and God.

    And then, in John 4, we meet a woman who knew that poison all too well.

    The Woman Who Hid in Plain Sight

    She came to the well at noon.

    Not in the morning, when the other women drew water. Not in the evening, when the air was cool.

    She came alone.

    Because she had a past. A reputation. Five husbands, and she wasn’t married to the man she was with now.

    And she had learned that the safest way to deal with shame was to hide.

    Until Jesus met her there.

    “Give Me a drink.” (John 4:7)

    A seemingly simple request. But one she knew wasn’t so simple.

    Because Jewish men didn’t speak to Samaritan women. Because rabbis didn’t engage in conversations with the immoral.

    But Jesus wasn’t like the others.

    And He didn’t let her keep hiding.

    “Go, call your husband, and come here.” (John 4:16)

    She had a choice: keep concealing or step into the light.

    And in that moment, she told the truth.

    And Jesus met her in it.

    Light Heals. Hiding Kills.

    Hiding from God is as old as the garden.

    Adam and Eve took their sin and covered themselves with fig leaves. They ran when they heard His voice.

    And we do the same thing.

    We minimize.

    We justify.

    We deflect.

    We bury our sin in the hopes that if no one sees it, maybe it won’t hurt as much.

    But hidden sin doesn’t stay hidden.

    It grows. It poisons. It destroys.

    And the only cure is the light.

    “For You have tested my heart; You have visited me in the night; You have tried me and have found nothing…”

    (Psalm 26:2)

    That’s the kind of life I want. One that is tested, seen, and exposed before the Lord—because only then can it be healed.

    Come See the Man Who Knew Everything

    The Samaritan woman left her water jar behind.

    She ran to the very people she had avoided, the ones who whispered behind her back, and she told them:

    “Come, see a man who told me all that I ever did.” (John 4:29)

    She didn’t say: Come see the One who ignored my past.

    She didn’t say: Come see the One who told me I was fine the way I was.

    She said, Come see the One who told me the truth about myself—and loved me anyway.

    Because the power of light isn’t just that it exposes. It heals.

    And that’s the gospel.

    That Jesus knows every failure, every stain, every regret.

    And He calls us out of the shadows anyway.

    Am I Hiding? Or Am I Running to the Light?

    Numbers 5 shows us the poison of hiding.

    John 4 shows us the power of light.

    And I have a choice.

    To keep my sin buried, pretending I’m fine while it festers inside me.

    Or to step into the light, where grace and truth meet—and where Jesus says, “I see you. And I love you anyway.”

    Lord, search me and know me. Pull every hidden thing into the light. Heal what is broken. Cleanse what is unclean. And let my life be a testimony that You know everything I ever did—and You still call me Your own. Amen.

  • To Lead Is to Lower

    To Lead Is to Lower

    Day 60

    Numbers 3-4 | John 3:22-36

    John’s disciples came to him with a concern.

    “Rabbi, He who was with you across the Jordan, to whom you bore witness—look, He is baptizing, and all are going to Him.” (John 3:26)

    The crowds were shifting. The ministry John had built was shrinking while Jesus’ following exploded.

    And John’s response?

    “He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30)

    No resentment. No insecurity. No grasping for influence.

    Because John understood something that many leaders forget—true leadership isn’t about rising higher. It’s about stepping lower.

    No Task Too Small

    Years ago, I joined a church mission trip to a small village near Ensenada, Mexico.

    The people there had nothing—no luxuries, no conveniences, just a daily fight to survive.

    And our project for the week?

    To pour a concrete floor for a widow and her four young children.

    For years, they had lived with nothing but dirt beneath their feet. And she had no way to change that—until a group of volunteers showed up with shovels, a cement mixer, and a willingness to serve.

    I still remember pulling that heavy cement mixer up a steep hill by hand with a rope because there was no other way to get it where we needed to start the project. It was exhausting, backbreaking labor.

    But while we spent the day serving her, she spent the day serving us.

    She had been cooking all day, filling the air with the rich aroma of the meal she was preparing.

    And at the end of the day, when the work was done, we sat with her children while she served us the meal she had made.

    Two acts of service.

    One was loud, sweaty, exhausting—pulling cement mixers up hills, mixing concrete, pouring, smoothing.

    The other was quiet, simple, unseen—standing over a stove, stirring, seasoning, preparing.

    But both mattered.

    Because no task is too small when it is done in love.

    No act of service is insignificant when it is done for the glory of God.

    The Smell of True Leadership

    That night, the pastor of the village church invited a few of us to dinner.

    As we sat around the table, speaking through a translator, he said something so simple and so profound that I will never forget:

    “A leader should smell like his sheep.”

    He didn’t mean it figuratively. He meant it literally.

    A shepherd walks where his flock walks. He labors where they labor. He eats where they eat. By the end of the day, he carries their scent.

    And that’s what true leadership looks like.

    Not lording over others. Not issuing orders from a distance. But stepping into the dust, serving shoulder to shoulder, bearing the weight together.

    John the Baptist Knew His Place

    John didn’t cling to his position.

    He didn’t try to compete with Jesus.

    He knew his role was to serve, not to be seen.

    “The friend of the bridegroom… rejoices greatly at the bridegroom’s voice. Therefore, this joy of mine is now complete. He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:29-30)

    John wasn’t trying to build his own kingdom.

    He was pointing to Christ.

    And that’s the heart I want.

    Not striving for recognition.

    Not worrying about credit.

    Not clinging to control.

    But lowering myself—so that Christ is the only One left to be seen.

    The Levites and the Work No One Sees

    Numbers 3-4 lays out the duties of the Levites.

    Some carried the tent curtains.

    Some transported the holy furniture.

    Some packed up the sacred vessels.

    None of it was glamorous. None of it was about personal recognition. But all of it was for the Lord.

    And I can’t help but think of that widow.

    Serving while we served her.

    Giving while we gave.

    Pouring herself out while we poured concrete.

    She wasn’t leading a movement. She wasn’t seeking recognition.

    She was simply serving where she was, with everything she had.

    And that’s the call of every believer.

    Whether we are called to preach to thousands or make a meal for a few.

    Whether we carry the Ark of the Covenant or simply carry a cement mixer up a hill.

    Whether our work is noticed by many or seen only by God.

    It all matters—when it’s done for Him.

    What Kind of Leader Will I Be?

    I think about that trip often.

    I think about the cement mixer, the dirt floors, the hands covered in concrete dust.

    I think about that widow, giving all she had to serve others.

    I think about the pastor’s words—that a leader should smell like his sheep.

    And I think about John, standing by the Jordan, watching his ministry shrink, his disciples worry, and responding with the only words that truly matter:

    “He must increase, but I must decrease.”

    That’s the kind of leader I want to be.

    One who serves. One who lowers himself.

    One who disappears so that Christ is the only One left to be seen.

    Lord, strip away my pride. Teach me to lead by lowering myself. Let me be willing to do the unseen, unglamorous work. And let my life be about one thing—not my name, but making much of Yours. Amen.

  • A Lineage That Lasts

    A Lineage That Lasts

    Day 59

    Numbers 1-2 | John 3:1-21 | Proverbs 5

    I read through Numbers today, and at first glance, it’s just a long census.

    A roll call of names. A record of numbers.

    But then I noticed a phrase that kept repeating:

    “By their fathers’ houses.”

    Each tribe. Each man. Each household.

    This was more than a headcount. It was a declaration of identity.

    Each leader represented his father’s house. Each tribe stood as a testimony to the faithfulness of God—not just in their own lifetime, but in the generations before them.

    And it struck a chord in me.

    Because tomorrow, I’ll be standing in front of nearly 100 people as I emcee my dad’s retirement party. And as I do, I’ll be representing my father’s house.

    Representing My Father’s House

    For 37 years, my dad has worked as a journeyman lineman. His job was hard, his hands calloused, his uniform marked by the wear and tear of long days in the blazing Arizona sun spent keeping the lights on—literally.

    But for many of those years, he was also a pastor. A preacher of the Word, like the many pastors in our family who came before him. And still today, those gruff, crusty, foul-mouthed linemen he worked alongside refer to him as “Rev.” Many of whom will be at the party tomorrow night.

    It’s a privilege to stand up in front of them.

    Two great families—my mom’s side and my dad’s side—will be there, together in one place. His four children, his five grandchildren—all of us, a living testament to the life he has built. Gathered not just to celebrate his career, but to honor the man who has faithfully worked, provided, and led.

    And when I stand at the microphone, I won’t just be representing my father’s name.

    I’ll be representing something even greater.

    A Family Tree of Faith

    My dad’s faith didn’t start with him.

    It goes back further—to his parents, to my mom’s parents, to the generations before them. To ancestors who worshiped the same God I do, the same God who met with Moses, the same God who wrestled with Jacob, the same God who called Abraham and promised him a legacy.

    And I am part of that legacy.

    One day, when I step into eternity, I will be greeted by great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents whose faces I’ve never seen but whose faith paved the way for mine.

    And that’s what I want to pass on.

    A lineage that isn’t just about names or numbers. But about faith.

    A family tree with roots that run deep in the soil of God’s promises.

    One that will continue long after me—impacting my daughter, her children, their children, for generations to come.

    And it already is.

    A Cupcake and a Prayer

    The other day, I was talking to my brother, Michael.

    He told me Erica (his wife, my sister-in-law) was looking for their youngest daughter, Cassidy, who’s four years old.

    She checked the usual places—the backyard, the living room—until she finally found her in her bedroom. On her knees. Praying.

    Erica knelt down beside her and asked, “Cassidy, what are you doing?”

    Cassidy said, “I’m talking to God.”

    Erica smiled. “That’s awesome. What are you talking to God about?”

    Cassidy looked up and said, “I was telling Him I want a cupcake.”

    And honestly?

    That’s exactly the kind of faith I want to have.

    Simple. Unshaken. Certain that the God of the universe is listening—even when my request is small.

    And though she was just asking for a treat, her faith is proof that the line of believers—including my dad and me—continues. Down to the youngest in the Cox family. Dad’s youngest granddaughter, already on her knees before her heavenly Father.

    What Will I Pass On?

    Numbers 1-2 reminds me that we don’t live in isolation.

    We are part of something bigger—part of a line of faith that stretches back before us and, by the grace of God, will stretch forward far beyond us.

    And then I read John 3.

    Nicodemus comes to Jesus, asking questions. Searching for truth. And Jesus gives him an answer that doesn’t just apply to Nicodemus—it applies to every generation before and after him:

    “Unless one is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” (John 3:3)

    This is the truth that matters.

    It’s not about how long my family has believed in God.

    It’s not about the legacy of faith that’s been passed down to me.

    It’s about what I do with it.

    Because being born into a Christian family doesn’t save me.

    Being part of a long line of believers doesn’t make me one.

    Faith isn’t inherited—it’s personal.

    And the only lineage that truly lasts is the one that is born again in Christ.

    A Name That Will Never Fade

    My dad is retiring. His name is etched into the history book of his company.

    But that’s not the name that matters most.

    And if your family tree doesn’t boast generations of believers, take heart—God doesn’t require ancestral pedigree. Maybe, for you, the lineage of faith begins now, with your first, life-changing encounter with Christ.

    Because what matters isn’t where you come from, but where you’re going—into an eternal inheritance written in the Lamb’s Book of Life.

    The name that matters most is the one Jesus gives to those who believe:

    “Child of God.” (John 1:12)

    That’s what I want for my daughter. That’s what I want for my grandchildren, for every generation after me—not just a family legacy, but an eternal one.

    Because one day, long after my name is forgotten, I want them to know the only Name that will never fade.

    Lord, thank You for the generations before me who followed You. Let me be faithful with what they’ve passed down. And let me pass on more than a family name, but a faith that lasts forever. Amen.

  • Not in Vain

    Not in Vain

    Day 58

    Leviticus 26-27 | John 2

    Only 20 verses into today’s reading and the conviction hits me right between the eyes:

    “And your strength shall be spent in vain.”

    I don’t want that.

    I don’t want to spend my life in vain.

    I don’t want this blog to be written in vain.

    I don’t want my scars to be in vain.

    I want it all to be for something.

    I want it all to be for Christ.

    A Conversation in the Barber’s Chair

    I spent an hour in my barber’s chair today.

    His name is Anthony. He’s a fellow believer. And our conversations always turn into more than small talk—they feel more like accountability meetings or theology debates. We wrestle with each other, with Scripture, with how to live this Christian life.

    And today, the topic was ego.

    I always tell him he should record his conversations—mic himself up while he cuts hair and trims beards, then turn it into a podcast and call it Biblical Barbering or something like that. Because so much of what he says is simple but profound and always memorable. I can’t help it. It’s the marketer in me.

    And every time, his answer is the same.

    “No, no way, man. I have a huge ego, and it’s something I have to constantly ask God to rid me of.”

    Today was no different.

    But this time, it hit home—because I see the same struggle in myself.

    I told him that every day, when I open my Bible, I feel a pull in my heart.

    Am I reading to hear from God?

    Or am I reading for what will sound good in my next blog post?

    Am I listening to Him?

    Or am I thinking about how others will listen to me?

    And when I ask those questions, I don’t always like the answer.

    Because the line between for Christ and for me is thinner than I’d like to admit.

    My Table in the Temple

    John 2 tells the story of Jesus cleansing the temple.

    He walks into the courts and sees men who have turned a place of worship into a marketplace. They’re selling oxen, sheep, and doves—making a profit off of what was meant to be an offering.

    So He flips the tables.

    “Take these things away! Do not make My Father’s house a house of merchandise!” (John 2:16)

    And I have to ask myself:

    Is this blog my table outside the temple?

    Is it something I’m offering to God—or something I’m using to bring attention to myself?

    Am I making merchandise of what He intended to be a story about scars of grace?

    Because I don’t want that.

    I don’t want to walk contrary to Him.

    I don’t want to waste my strength on something that doesn’t glorify Him.

    I don’t want to be so consumed with my own platform that I lose sight of the only One who matters.

    I don’t want Him to flip my table.

    I want my words, my wounds, my very life—to be for Christ alone.

    What Am I Building?

    Leviticus 26 lays out the consequences of turning from God:

    “If you walk contrary to Me… I will set My face against you.” (Leviticus 26:23-24)

    It’s a stark warning.

    Because when we put ourselves at the center—when our work becomes about our own name and not His—God will not let it stand.

    He will topple it.

    He will tear it down.

    He will flip the table.

    But then there’s this:

    “If they confess their iniquity… then I will remember My covenant with Jacob, and My covenant with Isaac, and My covenant with Abraham.” (Leviticus 26:40, 42)

    The moment we lay down our pride, the moment we surrender our ego, the moment we let go of our need to be seen—He is faithful to restore.

    And that’s where I want to live.

    Not in vain ambition.

    Not in self-glorification.

    But in surrender.

    For Christ Alone

    This blog isn’t mine.

    This story isn’t mine.

    My fistful of scars? They’re not mine either.

    It all belongs to Him.

    And if it ever becomes about anything else, may He flip my table—before I waste one more ounce of energy on something that pulls my attention away from Him.

    Lord, search my heart. Strip away my pride. Let every word I speak, every scar I bear, and every breath I take be for You and You alone. Amen.

  • The Land Is His. So Is My Future.

    The Land Is His. So Is My Future.

    Day 57

    Leviticus 24-25 | John 1:35-51 | Psalm 25

    On Super Bowl Sunday last year, I boarded a plane.

    No wings. No commercials. No BBQ. No football.

    Just a cramped economy seat, an hour-long flight, and the weight of uncertainty pressing into my chest.

    While millions gathered with friends and family, I sat there—knees jammed against the seatback in front of me—staring at the reality ahead.

    I was on my way to manage the corporate communications cascade that would announce my firm—the one I’d worked at for over a decade—would soon be acquired by the largest firm in our industry.

    And since then?

    For twelve months, I’ve been in corporate purgatory. My job has been a question mark. My future, a blank page.

    And today?

    Today might be the day that page gets filled with words I don’t want to read.

    But I am not afraid. I feel a peace that makes no sense at all.

    Because I know who holds my future.

    When the Lions Roar

    My Bible study brothers and I are walking through Daniel right now.

    Just yesterday, I read about King Darius issuing his decree:

    For thirty days, no one may pray to any god but the king. Anyone who disobeys will be thrown into the den of lions.

    Daniel’s response?

    He didn’t panic. He didn’t comply.

    He went straight home, opened his windows, and prayed.

    And I thought about that today as I learned this new information about my job.

    Because when the decree was signed, Daniel didn’t know what would happen next.

    Would God rescue him? Would he be torn apart? The Bible doesn’t say he had those answers.

    But he knew his faith wouldn’t change.

    And that’s exactly where I am today.

    I don’t know what will happen. But I know what I believe.

    The Land Is His. And So Am I.

    Then I open today’s reading, and these words shine through:

    “Then I will command My blessing on you…” (Leviticus 25:21)

    “The land is Mine, for you are strangers and sojourners with Me.” (Leviticus 25:23)

    Israel lived in a land that wasn’t theirs. Their crops, their fields, their future—it all belonged to God. They were merely sojourners, dwelling in a land owned by Someone else.

    And that’s exactly what I am too.

    Just a sojourner.

    A stranger in a foreign land.

    Waiting for a city whose builder and maker is God. (Hebrews 11:10)

    So why should I fear? Why should I worry?

    If the land is His, then so is my future.

    The God Who Commands the Blessing

    This morning, before anything else, I prayed.

    It wasn’t eloquent. It wasn’t structured. But it was real:

    Lord, when Daniel was thrown to the lions, You shut their mouths. When Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were thrown into the fire, You didn’t let even a hint of smoke touch them. When the Israelites were pinned against the Red Sea, You split it. When Lazarus was dead, You told him to get up. And when the saw blade took my fingers, You put them right back where they belonged.

    So if I lose my job today, tomorrow, or the next day, I know You will come through again.

    And then I read Leviticus:

    “Then I will command My blessing on you in the sixth year, so that it will produce a crop sufficient for three years.” (Leviticus 25:21)

    God wasn’t just asking Israel to trust Him. He was promising provision beyond what they could see.

    And Psalm 25 confirms it:

    “Indeed, none who wait for You shall be put to shame.” (Psalm 25:3)

    God has never abandoned His people.

    Not once.

    And He’s not about to start now.

    When Jesus Says, “Come and See”

    In John 1, Jesus calls His disciples.

    Andrew finds his brother Simon and says:

    “We have found the Messiah.” (John 1:41)

    Philip finds Nathanael and says:

    “We have found Him of whom Moses in the Law and also the prophets wrote.” (John 1:45)

    But Nathanael is skeptical.

    And Philip doesn’t argue. He doesn’t debate.

    He just says:

    “Come and see.” (John 1:46)

    I love that.

    Not a defense. Not a theological discourse.

    Just an invitation.

    And when Nathanael meets Jesus, everything changes.

    “Before Philip called you, when you were under the fig tree, I saw you.” (John 1:48)

    Jesus had seen Nathanael before Nathanael even knew Jesus was there.

    And that’s exactly what I needed to be reminded of today.

    I don’t know what’s coming. I don’t know what’s next.

    But I know He sees me.

    And I hear His invitation again:

    “Come and see.”

    Come and see how He will provide.

    Come and see how He will make a way.

    Come and see how the God who commands the blessing has already written my future.

    No Fear. No Shame. Only Confidence in Christ.

    So today, I choose peace.

    Today, I choose trust.

    Today, I choose confidence—not in my circumstances, but in Christ.

    Because the land is His.

    And so am I.

    Lord, I don’t know what tomorrow holds. But You do. And that is enough. Keep me from fear, keep me from shame, and help me walk in bold confidence—not in my circumstances, but in the certainty that You are always faithful, even when I am not. Amen.

  • I Have Seen. So I Testify.

    I Have Seen. So I Testify.

    Day 56

    Leviticus 22-23 | John 1:19-34

    There’s a phrase in today’s reading that hits like a hammer:

    “That person shall be cut off from My presence.” (Leviticus 22:3)

    Not just cast out of the camp. Not just exiled from the people.

    Cut off from God Himself.

    And that thought isn’t just unsettling—it’s terrifying.

    Because I live each day in the presence of the Lord. I wake up knowing He is near. I go about my day with the steady assurance that He sees me, knows me, leads me.

    I cannot fathom what it would be like to wake up one morning and find that presence gone. To live in a world where my prayers hit the ceiling. Where my life is left to my own strength.

    Where the steady undercurrent of His grace is completely removed.

    And yet—that is exactly what we all deserve.

    The Law Was Never the Endgame

    The deeper we get into Leviticus, the easier it is to lose sight of what’s happening.

    Another law. Another sacrifice. Another command to be holy.

    But if you really look, you see something deeper:

    God’s relentless pursuit of His people.

    The offerings, the feasts, the priestly rituals—none of it was about rule-following for the sake of rule-following. It was about making a way for sinful people to dwell with a holy God.

    Because sin separates. It defiles. It cuts people off.

    And the law alone could never fix that.

    For centuries, Israel followed these commands—yet the problem remained. Their sacrifices had to be offered again and again. Their sins had to be atoned for, year after year. The law exposed their need for a Savior—but it couldn’t provide one.

    And then, in John 1, John the Baptist appears.

    And everything the law pointed to is standing before him.

    “Behold! The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!” (John 1:29)

    The law had required an unblemished lamb for atonement. But now, the true Lamb had come—the final, once-for-all sacrifice, the fulfillment of everything the Old Testament foreshadowed.

    And John testifies:

    “I have seen and testified that this is the Son of God.” (John 1:34)

    That is John’s testimony.

    Which makes me think about mine.

    The Testimony I Thought Wasn’t Worth Telling

    I had coffee last week with a brother I recently met at church.

    We shared our stories—our testimonies.

    He spent 15 years behind prison bars. His life before Christ was full of regret and brokenness. His redemption was almost impossible to fathom.

    And then there was me.

    I used to think my testimony wasn’t worth telling—because my past looked nothing like that.

    I never did drugs. Never ran from the law. Never woke up in a jail cell, wondering where my life had gone wrong.

    The worst I’ve done was steal $5 from my mom’s purse in fifth grade to buy a New Kids on the Block poster at the book fair for the girl I had a crush on.

    It’s safe to say I’ve never known rock bottom.

    My dad was a pastor. I knew about Jesus from the time I could talk. I can’t remember a day in my life when I didn’t know He died for my sins.

    And because of that, I used to feel ashamed.

    Not ashamed of Christ. Ashamed that my story was… boring.

    I thought testimonies had to be dramatic for God to use them. That He was able to work more powerfully through people who had fallen the hardest before they were saved.

    And then something clicked.

    Every Salvation Story Is a Miracle

    Because here’s the truth:

    I was just as lost.

    I was just as unworthy.

    I was just as much in need of grace.

    Every single one of us was dead in sin before Christ made us alive.

    And there is nothing boring about being brought to life.

    The Saw Blade Didn’t Change My Testimony—It Clarified It

    Then came the saw blade.

    And suddenly, my testimony became a little more interesting.

    Now I have a fistful of scars to go with my story. Gnarly reminders of God’s mercy in sparing my life. Markers of the same grace I have always known—but now carry in a very visible way.

    Here’s the thing:

    God’s love for me didn’t change before or after the accident.

    His grace was always there.

    The only difference? I see it now in ways I never did before.

    And now, like John, I can say with certainty:

    “I have seen. So I testify.”

    Not because of a saw blade.

    Not because of a prison cell.

    Not because of anything I have done.

    But because He saved me.

    And that alone is the only story that matters.

    Lord, You are my testimony. Not my scars. Not my suffering. Not my sin. But You—Your grace, Your presence, Your salvation. Let my life tell of You, again and again. Amen.

  • Again and Again—Until Grace Breaks Through

    Again and Again—Until Grace Breaks Through

    Day 55

    Leviticus 20-21 | John 1:1-18 | Psalm 24

    Twenty-one chapters into Leviticus, and I’ll be honest—I’m growing tired of all the law. The rules. The regulations. The constant and continual reminders.

    But isn’t that the point?

    Leviticus 20 opens with a single word that jumps off the page:

    “Again.”

    “Again, you shall say to the children of Israel…” (Leviticus 20:2)

    Because they still don’t get it. Because they keep doing the same thing—over and over and over again.

    And I get that too.

    Because there’s a new child in our home.

    A Cycle That Won’t Stop

    This little Labrador is sweet, and we love her, but she’s a child. And no matter how many times I tell her “Leave it,” she keeps sneaking behind the couch to gnaw on the phone charger cable.

    She doesn’t know what I know. She doesn’t see what I see. That what she’s choosing, over and over, could bring great harm to her.

    So I tell her. Again.

    And the cycle continues.

    Again.

    And again.

    And again.

    But isn’t that so reflective of my own life?

    Forty-three years old. A grown man. And still falling into the same sins, the same weaknesses, the same failures. Still needing the same reminders from God.

    Again.

    Unworthy of the Priesthood—But Welcomed by Grace

    Leviticus 21:17-19 is where the weight of the law hits even harder:

    “Whoever has a defect shall not approach…” and includes in that list is “a man who has a broken hand.” (Leviticus 21:17,19)

    If I lived under the old covenant, I would be disqualified from the priesthood. Cast aside because of my defect. Marked as unworthy because of my broken, mangled hand.

    And here’s the truth: even if my hand were whole, I would still be unworthy.

    Because the law never stops showing me what I lack.

    Even the small things remind me.

    I’m a guy who loves to write in my Bible. I fill the margins with sermon notes, with prayers, with thoughts that strike me as I read. And I underline everything.

    But now? My penmanship is horrible. My underlines end up more like strikethroughs. My notes are barely legible.

    Even in something as small as handwriting, I see it—I am not what I used to be. I feel it every time my pen stumbles across the page.

    So thank God He sent His Son to fulfill the law—because I could never do it on my own.

    The Law Exposes. The Word Redeems.

    John 1:1-18 is the light breaking through the heaviness of Leviticus.

    “For the law was given through Moses, but grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.” (John 1:17)

    Leviticus keeps saying again because the law alone never changes the heart. It exposes. It condemns. It shows me I can never be whole enough, good enough, worthy enough.

    But then comes Christ.

    The One who fulfilled the law I could never keep.

    The One who carried the sin I could never erase.

    And when He says ‘again,’ it’s not to condemn, but to invite—to grace, to mercy, to Himself.

    Again, He forgives.

    Again, He restores.

    Again, He meets me in my weakness and calls me His own.

    Because while I would have been unqualified for the priesthood—Christ, my Great High Priest, has qualified me through His blood.

    And that changes everything.

    A King Worthy of Our Worship

    “Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord? And who shall stand in His holy place? He who has clean hands and a pure heart…” (Psalm 24:3-4)

    I don’t have clean hands.

    I don’t have a pure heart.

    But Christ does.

    And He ascended the hill in my place.

    The law showed me how far I fall short. The cross showed me how far Christ was willing to go.

    And He went there for me.

    Lord, I fall into the same sins again and again. Yet You meet me with grace again and again. Thank You that my worth is not in my ability to obey, but in the finished work of Christ. Keep reminding me. Keep restoring me. Keep making me whole. Amen.

    P.S. As I wrote this post, I couldn’t help but think of Jeremy Camp’s song on the same notion. It’s a powerful reminder that no matter how many times we fall, fail, or need His mercy—His grace and mercy never run out. Click here to listen to it on YouTube.

  • The Criticality of Christian Community

    The Criticality of Christian Community

    Day 54

    Leviticus 18-19 | Romans 16

    For six years after we got married, Talacey and I lived in Sacramento. When we learned Sophia was on the way, we moved back to Fresno to raise her around family. And for the next 11 years, we were ninja Christians.

    Slip into church.

    Sit through the service.

    Slip back out before anyone could notice.

    No connection. No commitment. No real community. And we were fine with that.

    Until we weren’t.

    Because when you’re disconnected from the body of Christ, you don’t really notice what you’re missing—until the day comes when you desperately need it.

    When God Knits You In

    Then J invited me to men’s Bible study at Trinity.

    In the 18 months since then, God has hemmed us into the fabric of that church.

    And we love it.

    The people. The preaching. The laser-sharp focus on Christ. The way my preteen daughter—as soon as we get in the car after Sunday service—is already saying she can’t wait for youth group on Thursday night. And then, on the way home from youth group, she can hardly stand that she has to wait until Sunday to go back again.

    Not because of the building.

    But because of the people.

    Because of the God we praise when we’re together.

    And now, looking back, I can see it so clearly.

    God was already weaving the threads of community around us before we even knew we’d need them.

    Because He knew what was coming.

    He knew that—in a matter of months—I would fight a table saw and lose. He knew Talacey, Sophia and I would need a church family to hold us up. To serve us when we couldn’t serve ourselves.

    The Power of Christian Community

    God is the one who sustains us. He alone is our refuge, our provider, our strength in suffering. But one of the ways He works is through His people—His church, His hands and feet, meeting real needs in real moments.

    Romans 16 is Paul’s closing words in his letter to the church at Rome. And if you read it, it’s not just theological.

    It’s personal.

    Paul starts listing names—over 30 of them. He didn’t just list these names for the sake of friendship. These people were co-laborers in the gospel. Their love, their service, their sacrifices—all of it was possible because of what Christ had done for them first.

    They were ordinary believers. People who had encouraged him, supported him, risked their lives for him. Some had been like a mother to him. Some were new in faith. Some were longtime companions.

    And by reading what he wrote about them, it’s clear Paul knew something we often forget:

    We are not meant to walk alone.

    I felt that firsthand when I came home from the hospital.

    Before Talacey and I even walked through the front door, Monica had already mobilized an entire army. I wrote about it in The Day Everything Changed—how the body of Christ surrounded us before we even knew what we needed.

    I fully realize you don’t know these names below, and that’s okay. Because I do. And like Paul’s list in Romans 16, these names mean the world to me:

    • J repaired my garage door. And put air in my daughter’s bike tires. And cut each bite of my dinner at church on Wednesday nights. And did the little things—again and again—that I never had to ask for but always needed.
    • Kirsten sent me a balloon with flowers in a smiley face mug.
    • Nate fixed the valve when the pool was overflowing.
    • Richard brought us groceries. Twice.
    • Candace made a tray of homemade enchiladas.
    • Sabrina roasted a whole chicken.
    • Justin’s wife made albondigas soup.
    • Andrei and Samantha delivered the best brisket I’ve ever eaten—and a beautiful prayer to go with it.
    • J and Monica cooked lasagna. And soup. And smash burgers. And pasta with vodka sauce. And so much more.
    • Rob and Sandy invited us into their home for dinner more times than I can count.
    • Kathy, Samantha, and Samuel all live far away, but they sent gift cards for DoorDash and Uber Eats.
    • Kari sent me shoulder slings from Amazon to keep my hand elevated above my heart.
    • Even my dentist brought homemade manicotti and prayed with us when she dropped it off.

    God used this army and these soldiers to fill our freezer and refrigerator—and our hearts—fuller than they ever had been before.

    And then there was Mark, my former boss in Sacramento. We hadn’t talked in years. Hadn’t seen each other in even longer—12 and a half years, to be exact.

    But one day, there was a knock at my front door.

    There stood Mark.

    He had driven 200 miles and three hours that morning, just to surprise me and take me to lunch. And then, after we ate, he got back in his car and drove 200 miles home.

    No agenda. No reason. Just a brother making sure I knew I was seen.

    And these are just a few of the countless examples I could give of God using His people to love on my family and shine light into our darkest season.

    Why It Matters

    Leviticus 19:18 says:

    “You shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.”

    Jesus later called this the second greatest commandment. And Romans 16 shows us what it looks like in action—the body of Christ caring for one another, showing up, lifting burdens, doing life together.

    We weren’t meant to do this alone.

    And we weren’t meant to be ninja Christians—slipping in, slipping out, staying disconnected.

    Jesus laid down His life not only to reconcile us to God—but also to one another. He didn’t just save individuals. He saved a people. A family. A body.

    And that’s why Christian community isn’t optional. It’s critical. Because it’s part of the very gospel itself.

    If I’ve learned anything in this season, it’s this:

    The moment will come when you need the body of Christ.

    As will the moment when the body of Christ needs you.

    Lord, thank You for the people You have placed around me. For the hands that have served, the hearts that have encouraged, and the brothers and sisters who have walked alongside me. Let me never take them for granted. And let me be that kind of friend to others. Amen.

  • The Only Point Is Jesus

    The Only Point Is Jesus

    Day 53

    Leviticus 16-17 | Romans 15:14-33 | Psalm 23

    I was talking with a colleague today as we worked through the details of a big conference our team is hosting next week.

    She’s had a tough time with the planning—unexpected challenges, last-minute changes, all the things that make a large-scale event like this stressful.

    So I told her, “I’m so sorry you have to deal with this.”

    She laughed and said, “It’s no problem because I still have all ten fingers.” She meant it as a joke—because I don’t. I laughed too because self-deprecating humor is right in my wheelhouse.

    So I mentioned my blog—how I’ve been writing about the accident and everything God is teaching me through it.

    And that’s when she said it:

    “I’ve seen it, but I’m not a religious person. But I am spiritual.”

    My heart sank—not because she rejected religion, but because she was settling for something empty.

    Because there’s no purpose in religion. And there’s no point in spirituality.

    The only point is Jesus.

    The Blood That Covers

    Leviticus 16 is all about the Day of Atonement—the one day each year when the high priest would enter the Most Holy Place and make a sacrifice for the sins of the people. It was the holiest day in Israel’s calendar. The weightiest. The most serious.

    And it was all about blood.

    “For the life of the flesh is in the blood, and I have given it for you on the altar to make atonement for your souls, for it is the blood that makes atonement by the life.” (Leviticus 17:11)

    That was the entire system. The priest would offer the blood of a spotless animal as a substitute—because without the shedding of blood, there was no forgiveness of sins.

    But that system was never meant to be the final answer. It was always pointing to something greater.

    To Someone greater.

    To Jesus.

    The Only Atonement That Matters

    Romans 15 is Paul’s personal reflection on his mission—to take the gospel where it has never been heard. And his words are full of urgency:

    “I make it my ambition to preach the gospel, not where Christ has already been named, lest I build on someone else’s foundation.” (Romans 15:20)

    Paul wasn’t preaching vague spirituality. He wasn’t offering people a new religious system.

    He was preaching Christ.

    Because there is no other way. No other name. No other sacrifice.

    And as I heard my colleague say she was “spiritual but not religious,” I thought about all the people searching for something—peace in the chaos, purpose in their pain, meaning beyond the temporary. But without Christ, all they have is empty religion. Empty spirituality. A hollow shell with no eternal substance.

    It breaks my heart.

    And that’s why I keep writing.

    Because she needs Jesus.

    Because I hope my life and my scars and this blog are the arrows God uses to point her—and the many others like her—to Him.

    A Shepherd Worth Following

    Psalm 23 reminds us of the truth that changes everything:

    “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” (Psalm 23:1)

    Not religion. Not spirituality. The Lord.

    Only Jesus leads us beside still waters. Only Jesus restores our souls. Only Jesus walks with us through the valley of the shadow of death. Only Jesus can transform scars into emblems of His grace.

    And only Jesus laid down His life so that we could be made right with God—not through our own efforts, but through His blood.

    That’s the point.

    That’s everything.

    Lord, break my heart for those who don’t know You. Let my words, my scars, and my life point to the only truth that matters—the holy and matchless and perfect name of Jesus. Amen.

  • The Weight of Isolation

    The Weight of Isolation

    Day 52

    Leviticus 14-15 | Romans 14:13-15:13

    Leviticus 14 lays out the process for a person healed of leprosy to be restored—not just physically, but socially and spiritually. Because lepers weren’t just sick. They were outcasts.

    To be a leper in ancient Israel meant total separation. No contact with family. No place in the community. No ability to worship in the temple. It was a living death—one in which the pain of the disease was matched only by the pain of isolation.

    I don’t have leprosy. But I do know what it’s like to feel cut off from the world.

    And the hardest part? No one really understands it.

    The Loneliest Tuesday

    I think back to the first Tuesday after I got home from the hospital.

    Talacey went to work that morning. She dropped Sophia off at school on her way. And then, suddenly, I was alone.

    And it was terrifying.

    No work emails to check—my company had locked me out while I was on medical leave.

    No breakfast to make—because I only had one functioning hand.

    No coffee to drink—because caffeine constricts blood vessels, and I needed circulation to keep my reattached fingers alive.

    No walking around the block—because I was still too unstable.

    No TV to mindlessly watch—because we don’t have cable by choice, and I quickly grew tired of listening to the news.

    So I sat.

    In a silent house.

    With nothing to do.

    Nowhere to go.

    No one to talk to.

    And for the first time since the accident, the reality of it all closed in.

    I had spent the last week surrounded by doctors and nurses. The hospital was noisy. The days were busy. So were the nights—only in a hospital do they wake a guy up to take a sleeping pill.

    Then, over the weekend, family and friends came to visit.

    But during the week? The silence was deafening. The loneliness, absolute.

    Everyone else was at work. At school. Living life. Moving on with normal.

    Everyone but me.

    And that was the hardest part—because no one really understood what this new reality felt like.

    The walls felt closer. The day felt longer. The isolation was suffocating.

    By the time the girls got home that evening, I was desperate to see people. To move. To do something. So they took me to Costco, and we just walked around for an hour.

    Not because we needed anything.

    But because I was going out of my mind.

    And the tightness in my chest was at an all-time high.

    What Do We Do With the Isolated?

    Leviticus 14 doesn’t just tell us how a leper was healed. It tells us how a leper was welcomed back.

    Sacrifices were made. Rituals were performed. The priest himself went outside the camp to meet the leper where he was.

    And once the process was complete, the man was restored—not just to health, but to the community.

    He was seen again. Touched again. Brought back in.

    And that’s exactly what Romans 15 calls us to do.

    “Therefore welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God.” (Romans 15:7)

    People are isolated for all kinds of reasons. Sin. Suffering. Shame. Sickness. Depression.

    And if we aren’t careful, we keep them there.

    Not intentionally—just by not noticing.

    But Christ noticed us.

    He stepped outside the camp to meet us in our isolation.

    He bore our shame so we could be brought back in.

    He took the judgment we deserved so we could be fully welcomed.

    And now, we get to do the same for others.

    Who Needs You?

    Who do you know that’s living in a kind of isolation right now?

    A widow who eats dinner alone every night.

    A single mom who never has a night off.

    A neighbor who just moved to town and doesn’t know anyone.

    A friend who has drifted from church and doesn’t know how to come back.

    A prisoner who simply needs a letter from a brother or sister on the outside.

    Who is sitting in silence, waiting for someone—for you—to notice?

    Who needs a text? A visit? An invitation?

    The weight of isolation is heavy.

    But the love of Christ makes our burden light.

    Lord, thank You for meeting me in my loneliness. Give me eyes to see those who feel unseen. Make me quick to notice, quick to reach out, and quick to welcome, just as You have welcomed me. Amen.