Scars and Sovereignty

Tag: Numbers

  • 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.