Scars and Sovereignty

Tag: Proverbs

  • 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.

  • When Sin Becomes Known

    When Sin Becomes Known

    Day 47

    Leviticus 4-5 | Romans 9:30-10:21 | Proverbs 4

    There’s a phrase in Leviticus 4:14 that I can’t let go:

    “When the sin which they committed becomes known…”

    How terrifying is that?

    Sin isn’t always intentional. Sometimes, we do wrong without even realizing it. And yet, ignorance doesn’t erase guilt.

    That’s exactly what Leviticus 4-5 describes:

    • “If a person sins unintentionally… and does any of them…” (Lev 4:2)
    • “If the whole congregation of Israel sins unintentionally and the thing is hidden from their eyes…” (Lev 4:13)
    • “When a ruler has sinned, and done something unintentionally against any of the commandments of the Lord his God…” (Lev 4:22)
    • “Though he does not know it, yet he is guilty and shall bear his iniquity.” (Lev 5:17)

    We don’t mean to. But we do.

    That’s unsettling. How many times have I spoken too quickly, made a careless judgment, or let my heart drift in ways I wasn’t even fully aware of?

    Like when I let frustration creep into my tone with Sophia over something trivial, then realize later she was just trying to connect with me.

    Or when I scroll past a brother’s prayer request without a second thought, only to remember later that I promised I’d pray for them.

    Or when I mentally criticize a colleague during a meeting, unaware of the weight they’re carrying that day.

    Or when I let a subtle pride settle in my heart—because I’d never do that—until I realize, much later, that I already have.

    It’s not just the sins we deliberately commit—it’s the ones we don’t even notice. The ones that, at the time, felt harmless.

    Leviticus lays out an entire system of sacrifices to deal with this reality. The people needed to atone for even the sins they didn’t intend. A blood sacrifice had to be made every time.

    And then we turn to Romans.

    Romans 10:9 gives us something so simple, it almost feels too simple:

    “If you confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you will be saved.”

    That’s it? No elaborate system of offerings? No endless cycles of guilt and sacrifice? Just confess and believe?

    It feels too easy—until you realize why.

    The entire structure of Leviticus pointed to a greater sacrifice. Every lamb, every bull, every drop of blood spilled for the sins of the people was just a shadow of what was to come.

    The final Lamb would be sacrificed once for all.

    Tonight, Talacey, Sophia, and I watched The Case for Christ. Toward the end of the film, after months of research and intellectual wrestling, Lee Strobel sits across from his mentor, who says something simple:

    “At some point, you have to stop running and just make a decision.”

    That’s the moment.

    He had pored over historical evidence. He had tried to disprove the resurrection. He had exhausted every avenue of reason. But in the end, the answer was so simple it was offensive to his pride.

    Just believe.

    Romans 10:9 is that moment for all of us.

    We don’t have to keep striving. We don’t have to clean ourselves up first. We don’t have to figure everything out. The work is already done.

    Confess. Believe. Be saved.

    And while Leviticus reminds me of the weight of my sin, Romans reminds me of the freedom Christ has given me from it.

    Lord, open my eyes to the sin I don’t even see. Convict me, cleanse me, and remind me that Christ has paid it all. Let me rest in that grace today. Amen.

  • Laws That Lead to Life

    Laws That Lead to Life

    Day 35

    Exodus 19–20 | Romans 1:1–15 | Proverbs 3

    “For whom the Lord loves He corrects, just as a father the son in whom he delights.” (Proverbs 3:12)

    I owned that table saw for ten years. And I remember the day, about six years ago, when I was building a birdhouse for my then six-year-old daughter to paint. The safety guards kept binding up, making it harder to slide the cedar planks across the saw. Frustrated, I took them off. Tossed them aside.

    I figured I knew what I was doing—after all, I’d used that saw a hundred times before.

    Fast forward to November 2, 2024. my buddy J and I were standing at that same saw, ripping a six-foot board to build a mantel for his fireplace. He fed the board through while I held the right edge down with my right fist—because, without the guards, it had a tendency to lift.

    Over the screaming motor, J kept yelling:

    “Move your hand! You’re gonna cut it!”

    And over the screaming motor, I kept yelling back:

    “I’ve done this a thousand times! It’s fine!”

    Then, in an instant, it happened.

    The board kicked forward. And as the blade sucked it back in, my fist went with it.

    The pain was immediate. So was the realization.

    The guards had been there to protect me. And I had ignored them—just like I ignored J’s warnings.

    I should have known better. I should have listened. But I didn’t. And it cost me.

    How much more costly is it when we ignore the commands of God?

    That’s how I think about the Ten Commandments.

    So many people treat them like a prison—a set of rules meant to restrict and confine us. But God never meant for His law to take away life. He meant for His law to protect it. To lead us into it.

    And yet, just like I tossed aside those safety guards, we toss aside His commands.

    The people of Israel did the same. When they stood at Mount Sinai and saw the fire and smoke, they were terrified. Instead of drawing near, they told Moses, “You speak to us… but do not let God speak to us, or we will die.” (Exodus 20:19)

    They misunderstood the heart of God. His laws weren’t given to destroy them but to preserve them. They weren’t prison bars—they were traffic laws, designed to keep them from wrecking their lives.

    And yet, just like I ignored the warnings from J—just like Israel resisted God’s voice—we all have broken His law. Every single one of us.

    But this is where the gospel floods in with hope.

    Because when Jesus came, He didn’t just teach the law. He fulfilled it. Every commandment we’ve broken, He kept. Every righteous requirement we failed to meet, He met. Not one law was disregarded. Not one standard was lowered. And yet, He was the One who suffered as if He had broken them all.

    We ignored the warnings. He paid the price.

    We tossed aside the safety guards. He took the injury.

    And on the cross, the One who had never sinned bore the punishment for every sin we’ve ever committed.

    That’s grace.

    I look at my still-healing scars now, and they remind me—not just of my failure, but of God’s mercy. Because I should have lost more that day. But God, in His kindness, preserved my life.

    And in an even greater way, Jesus preserves ours.

    His commands aren’t there to steal our joy. They’re there to protect it.

    His grace isn’t an excuse to break the law. It’s the reason we run to Him when we do.

    Lord, thank You for Your law and for Your grace. Help me to see Your commands not as burdens, but as gifts. And when I fail—because I will—remind me that Jesus has already fulfilled the law in my place because there’s no way I could myself. Amen.