There is a quiet lesson in the way engineers trace a signal.
Signal tracing is not complicated. You find the source. You follow the line. You locate every place the signal was lost, degraded, or redirected. And then you ask: what was the original transmission? What was it always trying to say?
Life with God is often very much like that.
Over time the signal of our life can become noisy. Wounds, disappointments, fear, and the voices of others can introduce distortion. The message that once felt clear begins to sound faint. We begin to wonder if the signal was ever there at all.
But the signal did not begin with the noise.
Scripture reminds us that our lives began with a transmission from God Himself. Before the world grew loud, the message was simple: you are loved, you are called, and you belong to Him.
Just as an engineer traces a circuit back to the source, the soul can trace its life back to the heart of God. When we do, we begin to recognize where the signal was weakened — where fear spoke louder than faith, where the world redirected what God originally spoke.
The good news is that the Source has never changed.
God’s message toward us has never degraded. His voice is still transmitting the same truth it always has. Through Jesus Christ the line is restored, the signal strengthened, and the message becomes clear again.
You are not lost. You are not forgotten. The signal is still there.
Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is simply trace our way back to the Source and listen again.
“Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.” — James 4:8
Today, take a moment to quiet the noise. Follow the line of your life back to where it began. Listen carefully.
One of the first echoes always takes me back to the Neches River.
Early morning fog would hang over the water so thick that the far bank disappeared. The river would be quiet in that particular East Texas way — a stillness broken only by the slow movement of water and the occasional sound of a bird somewhere in the trees.
Eggs in a skillet. Bacon frying. Biscuits warming. Coffee on the stove. The smell of breakfast filling that small room while the fog still drifted across the river outside.
I can still see my dad’s hands working over that stove.
At the time it just felt normal. Breakfast. A river morning. A father and a son starting the day.
I didn’t know then that those moments were planting something in me that would stay for the rest of my life.
That is one of the echoes.
Another one lives in a Hobby Lobby aisle.
It was 1999. Joshua was fifteen.
Leisa had wandered off to the yarn section, looking at colors and textures the way she always does when she’s planning something creative. Meanwhile Joshua and I drifted toward the model section where the airplanes and boats were.
We started looking at the kits.
Then something shifted the way it sometimes does between a father and a teenage son.
Mock kung fu.
Light punches to the arm. Ridiculous stances. Both of us pretending to be serious fighters while clearly not being serious at all. We were laughing and half wrestling right there between the shelves.
Just being silly.
When Leisa finally came looking for us, she found us still fooling around in the aisle and just shook her head.
I remember Joshua laughing.
At the time it felt like nothing special. Just a small family moment in the middle of a normal day.
But memory has a way of holding onto things like that.
That moment became an echo.
Recently another echo came while I was scrolling through old photographs.
Leisa and I had just marked forty-six years of marriage. I posted something about it — how we started going steady in the 1970s, married in 1980 while we were still in college, living in married student housing at Lamar in Beaumont and barely making it in those early years.
After posting, I started scrolling back through the years.
Photos from the early 1980s began appearing.
Young parents. A tiny Joshua. Family gatherings. Aunts and uncles who have been gone for years now.
Scrolling through old photographs does something strange to time.
You are sitting in the present, but suddenly you are also standing in a living room forty years ago. The people are alive again for a moment. Their voices almost feel close enough to hear.
Time folds in on itself.
Then there is Joshua’s poem.
Part of it is on his headstone now.
He wrote about echoes in eternity.
When he wrote those words he was just a young man thinking deeply about life and meaning. None of us could have imagined how those words would come to rest in stone.
But they did.
And they echo now.
Some echoes are quieter than all the others.
Late 1984.
Three in the morning.
Our house was dark except for the blue light of the television. I had put a VHS tape of Star Wars: A New Hope into the player.
Joshua was just a baby then — maybe six or seven months old.
He had settled against my chest on the couch, the way babies do when they finally relax into sleep. His small body rose and fell slowly with each breath.
Every father knows that moment.
When a baby falls asleep on your chest you stop moving. Completely. You barely breathe. You don’t shift positions. You don’t adjust anything.
You stay still because the sleeping matters more than the comfortable.
So I stayed there.
The movie played quietly while John Williams’ music filled the room and stars drifted across the screen.
Joshua didn’t know what the movie was.
But he knew that heartbeat under his ear.
He knew he was safe.
Eventually he settled deeper into sleep while the night passed around us.
That moment never left me.
It became another echo.
Over the years I have started to understand something about echoes.
They aren’t just memories.
They are reminders of what mattered.
My father’s camp on the Neches River.
Breakfast inside that little building while fog hung over the water.
A ridiculous kung fu match with my fifteen-year-old son in a Hobby Lobby aisle.
Forty-six years of marriage with Leisa.
A poem about eternity written by a young man who didn’t know how those words would live on.
A baby asleep on my chest at three in the morning while stars moved across a television screen.
None of those moments felt extraordinary when they were happening.
But echoes rarely come from extraordinary moments.
They come from love lived in ordinary places.
And sometimes, when the evening grows quiet, I find myself thinking about a photograph.
Joshua as a baby.
Sitting in a chair.
His arms stretched wide open toward the world.
And there is still something I wish I could say to him again.
Text: John 5:1–9, 17–24, 39–40 Preaching aim: To move the congregation from curiosity about Jesus to reckoning with Jesus — and to show that the voice that healed a man at a pool is the same voice that will raise the dead, and that hearing it now is the only thing that matters.
INTRODUCTION — The Congregation Already Knows This Story
Open by acknowledging that a group in this church has been living inside John 5 all week. They have been thinking about it, preparing for it, bringing their questions. But the sermon is not a repeat of the Deeper Dive — it is the next layer underneath it.
Ask a single orienting question to the whole room, said slowly and without pressure:
“When/as Jesus walks toward you, what do you hope He is going to say — and are you prepared for the possibility that He might say something different?”
That question is the door into the whole sermon.
I. A Man Who Stopped Asking — John 5:1–9
The scene: Jerusalem. A pool surrounded by sick people. Jesus singles out one man who has been disabled for 38 years.
The pivot from Feb 22: The class spent significant time on the man’s answer to Jesus’ question — he explains his system rather than expressing his desire. That observation was right and important. But the sermon goes one layer deeper: the man’s problem is not that he lacks faith. It is that he has stopped expecting anything from a person. He is waiting for a mechanism.
The sermon’s move here: Most of us in this room are not in crisis. We are in maintenance. We have found a way to manage our condition — a routine, a tradition, a church attendance habit, a theological framework — that allows us to remain exactly where we are while technically being present at the place of healing.
Jesus asks the question not because He doesn’t know the answer. He asks it because the man needs to hear himself.
What do you actually want from Jesus? Not from church. Not from the Bible study. Not from the feeling you get when the worship is good. From Jesus himself.
Key text anchor: Verse 6 — “When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had already been there a long time, he said to him, ‘Do you want to be healed?'”
Whole-Bible thread: Ezekiel 37 — God asks the prophet standing in a valley of dead bones: “Can these bones live?” The right answer is not a system. It is: “O Lord God, you know.” Helplessness directed toward the right Person is the beginning of resurrection.
II. A Claim That Cannot Be Managed — John 5:17–24
The scene: The conflict with the leaders exposes who Jesus actually is. He does not de-escalate. He escalates.
The pivot from Feb 22: The class traced the four witnesses Jesus appeals to — John the Baptist, the works, the Father, the Scriptures. But the sermon focuses on the center of the argument: why Jesus makes these claims at all, and why they are not safe to accept halfway.
The sermon’s move here: Verse 23 is the hinge of the entire chapter and possibly of the entire first half of John’s Gospel. “Whoever does not honor the Son does not honor the Father who sent him.” This verse does not permit a comfortable middle position. You cannot respect Jesus as a teacher while withholding from Him the honor due to God.
Name this directly for the congregation. There are people in this room — and in every room — who have constructed a version of Jesus they can manage. He is wise. He is kind. He is a good example. He is even supernatural in some general sense. But He is not the one in front of whom all of history will stand.
John 5 dismantles the manageable Jesus. The Jesus of this chapter raises the dead. He judges the living and the dead. He shares the nature of the Father so completely that to insult one is to insult the other.
Relatable bridge: This is the same issue that runs underneath your questions about Scripture, about apocryphal texts, about which sources to trust. At root, the question is always: Is Jesus enough? Is the testimony that has been handed to us reliable enough to stake everything on? John 5 says yes — because the one the testimony points to has authority over death itself.
Key text anchor: Verse 24 — “Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life. He does not come into judgment, but has passed from death to life.”
Whole-Bible thread: Isaiah 55:10–11 — “My word shall not return to me empty.” The voice of God does not make suggestions. It accomplishes what it is sent to do. The same creative word that called light out of darkness, that spoke through the prophets, that became flesh in John 1 — that voice speaks in John 5 and commands a man who has not walked in 38 years to stand up.
III. A Warning for the Bible-Literate — John 5:39–40
The scene: Jesus closes His defense with the most searching indictment in the chapter — directed not at pagans but at the most scripturally educated people in the room.
The pivot from Feb 22: This is where the Feb 22 class was heading but where the sermon needs to land with more weight than a study discussion can carry. The Deeper Dive addressed the apocryphal text question pastorally and carefully. The sermon addresses the deeper spiritual dynamic underneath it.
The sermon’s move here: The leaders were not casual about Scripture. They were devoted to it. And Jesus says to their faces: You search the Scriptures — and you refuse to come to me.
The problem is not that they read too much. The problem is what they were using their reading for. Scripture was functioning as a way to confirm what they already believed, to protect the position they already held, to manage the version of God they had already constructed.
This is the most relevant word for a congregation that is hungry for information. Hunger for information is not the same as hunger for Christ. You can feed one while starving the other. You can know more about 1 Enoch, about pre-trib eschatology, about textual transmission, about the Ethiopian canon — and move further from Jesus with every article you read, if your reading is not submitted to the question: does this bring me to Him?
Pastoral tone here: This is not condemnation. It is a diagnosis, and it is offered with care. Jesus is not angry at the searching — He is grieved at the refusing. “You refuse to come to me that you may have life.” The door is open. The voice is speaking. The question is whether we will hear it.
Key text anchor: Verses 39–40 — “You search the Scriptures because you think that in them you have eternal life; and it is they that bear witness about me, yet you refuse to come to me that you may have life.”
Whole-Bible thread: Deuteronomy 30:11–14 — Moses tells Israel that the word of God is not hidden, not in heaven, not across the sea. It is very near you. The problem was never distance. The problem was always will. John 5 is Moses’ warning fulfilled in person.
CONCLUSION — The Same Voice
Bring the three movements together in a single image.
The voice that said “Rise, take up your bed and walk” to a man who had been lying down for 38 years is the same voice that said “I am the resurrection and the life.” It is the same voice that will one day say “Come forth” to every person who has ever been placed in a grave.
That voice is not asking for your opinion of it. It is not asking to be evaluated alongside other options. It is speaking — and the only question John 5 leaves the reader with is the same question it left the man at the pool, the leaders in the temple, and the disciples who were watching:
Will you honor the Son?
Not admire Him. Not research Him. Not debate the merits of what He claimed. Honor Him. Bow to what He says about Himself. Receive the verdict He has already issued over those who believe.
Close with John 5:24 read slowly, as a gift rather than a proof text:
“Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life. He does not come into judgment, but has passed from death to life.”
The verdict is already in. The question is whether you will live like it.
In an age of microphones, hot takes, and viral outrage, it is worth asking a quiet question: If Jesus listened to one of our political podcasts — full of frustration, mockery, policy arguments, and sharp humor — how would He respond?
Not how would He vote. Not which side would He take. But how would He interact?
This is not about scoring political points. It is about discipleship in a noisy age.
1. He Would Listen Before He Spoke
One of the most striking patterns in the Gospels is how often Jesus lets people talk.
The Pharisees speak. The disciples misunderstand. Pilate questions. The Samaritan woman explains her life.
He listens.
James writes, “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry” (James 1:19). Jesus embodied that.
If He sat in a studio chair, He would not begin by correcting tone or policy. He would listen long enough to understand what was driving the words.
Because beneath every rant is a fear. Beneath every mockery is a wound. Beneath every certainty is a longing to be right.
2. He Would Separate Concern from Contempt
In political commentary, real concerns are often wrapped in ridicule.
Concern: Cities feel chaotic. Concern: Language games can obscure truth. Concern: Policy without enforcement fails.
Those are legitimate public questions.
But when concern turns into contempt — when people are reduced to “junkies,” “idiots,” “demons,” or caricatures — something in the spirit shifts.
Jesus confronted hypocrisy fiercely (Matthew 23), but He did not mock the vulnerable. He rebuked sin, but He did not dehumanize sinners.
He warned:
“Whoever says to his brother, ‘You fool,’ will be liable to the fire of hell.” (Matthew 5:22)
The danger is not disagreement. The danger is contempt.
Contempt reshapes the heart long before it reshapes policy.
3. He Would Challenge Overgeneralization
“It’s all drug addicts.” “They don’t want to fix it.” “They’re just voting for free stuff.”
Sweeping statements feel powerful. They simplify complexity and energize crowds.
But Jesus worked in specifics.
Zacchaeus was not “a corrupt tax collector.” He was Zacchaeus. The woman caught in adultery was not “moral decay.” She was a person. The rich young ruler was not “elite greed.” He was a soul in conflict.
When crowds tried to flatten people into categories, Jesus restored names and faces.
He might gently ask:
“Is every person you describe truly the same?” “Do you know their story?”
Truth without nuance becomes cruelty.
4. He Would Press for Personal Responsibility
One recurring theme in political outrage is this: “If they really cared, they would…”
Jesus often turned that logic inward.
When the disciples said the crowd should be sent away to find food, He replied:
“You give them something to eat.” (Mark 6:37)
When a rich man asked about eternal life, Jesus told him to sell what he had and give to the poor (Matthew 19:21).
If a podcaster said, “Elites should give up their extra houses,” Jesus might ask:
“What about you?”
The Kingdom of God does not begin with “they.” It begins with “you.”
5. He Would Refuse Tribal Identity
Modern discourse often forces binary alignment: You are either with this side or that side.
But Jesus did not fit neatly into political categories of His time.
He was not a Zealot revolutionary. He was not a Roman collaborator. He was not a Pharisaical legalist.
When asked about taxes — a political trap — He responded, “Render to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s” (Matthew 22:21).
He refused to be captured by tribal framing.
If drawn into partisan narratives, He might say:
“You see enemies. I see neighbors.”
That is not naive. It is radical.
6. He Would Address Fear Beneath Anger
Many political rants are fueled by fear:
Fear of disorder. Fear of national decline. Fear of losing cultural ground. Fear of corruption.
Anger is often fear with armor on.
When the disciples panicked in the storm, Jesus asked:
“Why are you afraid?” (Matthew 8:26)
He addressed the fear before the waves.
If He sat in a studio where frustration boiled over, He might ask:
“What are you protecting?” “What are you afraid will be lost?”
And that question would quiet the room more effectively than an argument.
7. He Would Lift the Conversation Above Policy
Jesus did not ignore earthly matters — He spoke of taxes, justice, leadership, stewardship.
But He consistently traced public disorder back to the human heart.
“Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.” (Matthew 12:34)
He might not start with, “Here is the correct immigration policy.” He might start with, “What kind of people are you becoming while you debate it?”
Because a nation can enforce laws and still lose its soul. A movement can win elections and still lose mercy.
8. He Would Call for Truth Without Malice
Jesus is both:
Full of grace. Full of truth. (John 1:14)
Grace without truth becomes sentimentality. Truth without grace becomes brutality.
In our media culture, we often see:
Truth claims weaponized without love. Or love language detached from reality.
Christ refuses both distortions.
If He spoke into a heated conversation, He would not lower the bar of truth — but He would cleanse it of cruelty.
9. What This Means for Us
The deeper question is not: “How would Jesus correct them?”
It is: “How would He correct me?”
When I consume political content:
• Do I enjoy contempt? • Do I feel morally superior? • Do I hunger more for outrage than understanding? • Do I pray for those I criticize?
If Christ’s Spirit dwells in us, then our speech should begin to resemble His.
Not timid. Not silent. But measured, merciful, and courageous.
Closing Reflection
If Jesus walked into the studio, I do not believe He would flip the table over the microphones.
He would listen. He would ask piercing questions. He would confront pride. He would dignify the unseen. He would call everyone — hosts and critics alike — to repentance.
And He would remind us that no political reform can substitute for a transformed heart.
Because the Kingdom He brings is not built by ridicule, nor preserved by rage.
Back home from Comanche after a solid week on towers and microwave alignment. There is something grounding about standing under an 11 GHz path, watching signal levels lock in, knowing that invisible waves are carrying real conversations across miles of Texas pasture.
This morning we went deeper into John 4.
Jesus was tired. Dust on His feet. Thirst in His body. And still He chose to engage. He crossed ethnic lines, moral lines, religious lines, and personal pain lines. Not to win an argument. Not to prove a point. But to restore a person.
That matters right now.
We are living in a time where outrage travels faster than microwave backhaul. Blame is currency. Headlines are engineered for reaction. Facts are contested. Narratives are crafted. And too many people are exhausted.
But truth is not loud. It is steady.
At the well, Jesus did not shout the Samaritan woman down. He did not cancel her history. He named it honestly and then offered living water. Grace and truth, together. Not one without the other.
This week I worked on infrastructure — power, bandwidth, line of sight, reliability. I also wrote about AI, data centers, water supply, grid stability. All of it points to the same reality: the future will demand clarity, discipline, and stewardship. Power must be generated. Water must be sourced. Data must be moved. Systems must be resilient.
So must people.
As I step into a senior pastor role at Source of Old Faith, the call is not to build noise. It is to build a foundation. Order. Accountability. Spiritual maturity. A house built on the cornerstone, not on emotion or personality.
In a world of accusation, we need conviction without cruelty. In a world of spin, we need truth without arrogance. In a world of uncertainty, we need hope anchored in something older and stronger than the news cycle.
Jesus is still crossing barriers.
The Spirit is still building living stones. The Church must still be salt and light.
Lately my writing has slowed down, but my thinking has deepened.
I’ve found myself less interested in quick answers and more committed to careful formation. Less drawn to certainty that flatters the ego, and more willing to sit with mystery that reshapes the soul. Scripture has stopped being something to “use” and has returned to being something that uses me.
I keep coming back to this conviction: the Christian life is not a moment to be secured, but a life to be received, surrendered, and patiently lived. Faith is not proved by how confidently we speak, but by how faithfully we endure. Salvation is not managed by presumption, but entrusted daily to the mercy of God.
In recent weeks, I’ve been studying more slowly—whole passages, whole books, whole conversations across centuries of the Church. I’m listening more carefully to Scripture, to the early witnesses, and to the quiet corrections of the Holy Spirit. What I’m learning is not new, but it is clarifying: humility precedes understanding; obedience precedes assurance; love precedes everything.
I am increasingly convinced that much of our modern anxiety comes from trying to finish a work God intends to complete over a lifetime. We rush toward conclusions when Christ calls us to follow. We want guarantees where He offers relationship. We want arrival when He offers formation.
So for now, my focus is simple: To read attentively. To pray honestly. To live repentantly. To trust God with outcomes I cannot control. To walk forward without pretending I have already arrived.
This is not resignation. It is reverence. Not doubt. It is discipline. Not fear. It is faith learning to mature.
“Lord, teach me to live truthfully before You, and leave the keeping of my soul in Your hands.”
A liturgy is a repeated set of practices that train your desires and form your identity.
The church has always understood this. That’s why we have:
Gathered worship
Scripture reading
Prayer
The Lord’s Supper
Baptism
Confession and absolution
These are formative practices. They train us to see the world a certain way. They shape our desires. They form us into people who resemble Jesus.
But here’s the problem: the culture also has liturgies. And they are far more consistent, far more pervasive, and far more powerful than we want to admit.
The liturgy of the smartphone:
Wake up → check the news → feel anxious
Scroll social media → see outrage → feel angry
Read about “the enemy” → feel contempt
Repeat every hour
The liturgy of political tribalism:
Consume media from “our side” → feel affirmed
See the other side’s hypocrisy → feel superior
Share content that demonizes them → feel righteous
Repeat daily
The liturgy of consumerism:
See an ad → feel inadequate
Buy something → feel temporary satisfaction
Need more → repeat
These liturgies are discipling us. They are forming us into specific kinds of people:
Anxious people
Angry people
Tribal people
Contemptuous people
Greedy people
And we are often more faithful to these liturgies than we are to the liturgies of the church.
choose and learn how to:
Root your identity in Christ rather than in your tribe
Be formed by Scripture rather than by outrage
Love your enemies when everything in you wants to hate them
Speak truth without returning evil for evil
Build kingdom communities that transcend human divisions
Engage the world without being captured by it
Suffer well when faithfulness costs you something
Maintain hope when the culture feels like it’s collapsing
You Are Not What They Call You
The first battle is always the battle for identity.
Who are you?
Before you do anything, before you take any action, before you make any decision, who are you?
This question matters because identity determines behavior. What you believe about who you are will shape everything you do.
And right now, there is a war being waged over your identity.
The culture wants to tell you who you are:
You are your political affiliation
You are your race
You are your sexuality
You are your economic class
You are your consumer preferences
You are your ideology
The culture needs you to believe this because if your identity is rooted in these categories, you can be controlled, manipulated, and sold to.
Your tribe wants to tell you who you are:
You are one of us
You are against them
You are defined by who you oppose
You are part of the movement
Your tribe needs you to believe this because if your identity is rooted in tribal belonging, you will defend the tribe at all costs—even when the tribe is wrong.
Even the church sometimes gets this wrong:
You are what you do (your ministry, your role, your service)
You are what you believe (your theology, your doctrinal precision)
You are your moral performance (how well you obey)
These are all lies.
Or at least, they are secondary truths being elevated to primary status.
Who You Actually Are
Scripture is relentlessly clear about Christian identity:
You are in Christ.
That’s it. That’s the foundation. Everything else is commentary.
Galatians 3:26-28:
“For in Christ Jesus you are all sons of God, through faith. For as many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.“
This is revolutionary.
Paul is writing to a world obsessed with identity categories:
Jew or Greek (ethnicity/religion)
Slave or free (economic/social class)
Male or female (gender)
And he says: In Christ, these categories do not define you.
They still exist. They still matter in certain contexts. But they are not your primary identity.
Your primary identity is: You are in Christ.
What “In Christ” Means
“In Christ” is not a metaphor. It’s not a nice religious phrase. It’s a relational reality.
To be “in Christ” means:
1. You are united to Jesus.
2 Corinthians 5:17:
“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.”
You are not the same person you were before. Your old identity—defined by sin, shame, tribalism, and death—has been crucified with Christ. You have been raised to new life.
2. You share in His status.
Romans 8:16-17:
“The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ.”
You are not an employee of God. You are not a servant trying to earn approval. You are a child. You are an heir.
3. You are secure.
Romans 8:38-39:
“For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Your identity is not fragile. It does not depend on your performance, your tribe, or your political victories. It is secured by God’s love, demonstrated in Christ’s death and resurrection.
The Practical Implications
If your primary identity is “in Christ,” then:
1. You are not defined by your politics.
You can hold political convictions (you should!), but your political affiliation is not your identity.
When someone asks, “Are you conservative or progressive?” the answer is: “I’m a Christian. That’s my primary allegiance.”
When the culture demands you choose a tribe, you say: “I belong to Christ. That’s my tribe.”
2. You are not defined by your tribe.
You can appreciate your cultural heritage, your family traditions, your community. But these do not define you.
When your tribe demands loyalty that conflicts with Christ, you say: “My loyalty is to Jesus first.”
3. You are not defined by what you do.
Your job, your ministry, your role—these are important. But they are not your identity.
When you lose your job, your ministry ends, or your role changes, you are still in Christ. Your identity is secure.
4. You are not defined by what others call you.
When the culture labels you (racist, bigot, heretic, snowflake, socialist, fascist), you do not have to accept those labels.
Your identity is not determined by your enemies. It’s determined by God.
5. You are free.
Free from the need to prove yourself. Free from the fear of rejection. Free from the tyranny of performance. Free from tribal captivity.
Because you are in Christ.
The Test: What Do You Defend First?
Here’s a diagnostic question:
When someone attacks your tribe, your politics, or your theology, what is your first impulse?
If your first impulse is defensiveness, anger, or contempt, your identity is rooted in the wrong place.
If your first impulse is to defend Jesus and the gospel, your identity is rightly ordered.
Example:
Someone says: “Christians are hypocrites.”
Tribal response: “How dare you! We’re not hypocrites! You’re the hypocrite!”
Christ-centered response: “You’re right. We often are. I am. That’s why I need Jesus. Would you like to hear about the One who transforms hypocrites?”
See the difference?
When your identity is in Christ, you don’t have to defend yourself. You only have to point to Him.
Exercise 1: The Identity Audit
Take 15 minutes and answer these questions honestly:
When I introduce myself, what do I lead with?
My job? My politics? My affiliations? Or my faith?
What makes me angriest?
Attacks on my tribe/politics? Or dishonoring Jesus?
What do I spend the most time thinking about?
The culture war? Or the kingdom of God?
If I lost my political tribe, would I feel like I’d lost myself?
If I could no longer participate in partisan politics, would my sense of purpose collapse?
Do I have close relationships with Christians who vote differently than me?
If not, why not?
When I read Scripture, am I looking for ammunition for my political views, or am I allowing it to critique me?
If your answers reveal that your identity is more tribal than Christ-centered, confess it. Repent. And commit to the long work of reordering your identity.
Exercise 2: Rewrite Your Identity Statement
Write a one-paragraph statement of who you are in Christ, without reference to politics, tribe, or cultural categories.
Example:
“I am a child of God, loved before I did anything to earn it. I am united to Jesus Christ through faith. My sins are forgiven. My identity is secure. I am being transformed into His image. I belong to the kingdom of God, which transcends all human kingdoms. My calling is to love God, love my neighbor, and make disciples. My hope is not in political victories but in the resurrection. This is who I am.”
Now read this aloud every morning for 30 days.
Let it sink into your bones.
The Danger of Divided Loyalty
Jesus was uncompromising about divided loyalty:
Matthew 6:24:
“No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other.”
You cannot serve Christ and your tribe. You cannot serve the kingdom and the culture war. You cannot have your primary identity in Christ and your functional identity in politics.
You will choose.
And the choice you make will determine everything.
Conclusion: The Freedom of a Settled Identity
When your identity is settled in Christ, you become dangerous to the powers of this world.
Not dangerous because you’re violent or coercive.
Dangerous because you cannot be controlled.
They can’t control you with fear (you belong to the One who defeated death)
They can’t control you with shame (you are forgiven and loved)
They can’t control you with tribalism (your tribe is the church universal)
They can’t control you with power (you serve a crucified King)
You are free.
And free people are the most dangerous people in the world—to tyrants, to tribes, and to the powers that demand conformity.
This is where Christian formation begins: with identity.
John 18:36 – “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would fight.”
Observation: Jesus consistently refused to become a political revolutionary, even when crowds wanted to make Him king (John 6:15). Yet He was executed as a political threat. This tension is not accidental.
What this means: Jesus was neither politically passive nor politically coercive. He represented a third way.
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‘Jesus reinigt den Tempel’
Schnorr von Carolsfeld, Julius 1794-1874. ‘Jesus reinigt den Tempel’. Holzschnitt, spätere Kolorierung. Aus: Die Bibel in Bildern, Leipzig (Georg Wigand) 1860. Berlin, Slg.Archiv f.Kunst & Geschichte.
2. Jesus Confronted Power Directly When Necessary
Mark 11:15-17 – Jesus cleared the temple, overturning tables and driving out merchants.
Matthew 23 – Jesus publicly denounced religious leaders: “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!”
Observation: Jesus did not avoid conflict with corrupt authority. He named injustice, exposed hypocrisy, and disrupted systems that exploited the vulnerable.
3. Jesus Was Tender Toward the Broken
Matthew 11:28 – “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened.”
John 8:1-11 – Woman caught in adultery: “Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.”
Observation: Jesus’ harshest words were for the powerful and self-righteous. His gentlest words were for the wounded and repentant.
4. Jesus Refused False Binaries
Matthew 22:15-22 – “Render to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.”
Observation: Jesus did not allow Himself to be trapped by either/or political frameworks. He redefined the question.
John 13:34-35 – “By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
Observation: Jesus’ primary strategy was not lobbying Rome or reforming the Sanhedrin. It was creating a community whose life together would be a visible alternative.
Bob’s story has been marked by endurance few ever choose and many never see. Years of pain, delayed care, uncertainty, and now a sober medical reality. Scripture never pretends that such paths are easy or quickly resolved. Instead, it speaks honestly to people who must live forward without the promise of full restoration.
There is a quiet truth that matters today: being preserved is not the same as being abandoned. Even when healing does not look like reversal, life still has purpose, dignity, and meaning. Strength is not measured by improvement alone, but by faithfulness through limitation.
There is One in the Christian story who knows what it is to suffer bodily, to be misunderstood, to endure pain without quick relief. He does not stand at a distance offering explanations; He walks alongside, bearing weight with us. When words fail and the future feels smaller, presence still remains—and presence is enough for today.
Bob is not defined by injury, diagnosis, or what may never return. He is known, seen, and held—right here, right now. And even in guarded outcomes, grace can still guard the soul.
Prayer for Bob
Lord of mercy and steady strength, We lift Bob into Your care today. You see the years of pain, the delays, the losses, and the courage it has taken simply to endure. Grant him peace that does not depend on outcomes, courage for the road ahead, and wisdom for every doctor and decision.
As surgery is considered, guard his body, preserve what can be preserved, and bring clarity through each specialist who examines him. Protect his voice, his dignity, and his sense of being fully human and fully valued.
When pain is constant and answers are limited, be near in ways that are unmistakable. Let Bob know he is not forgotten, not overlooked, and not walking alone. Carry what he can no longer carry himself, and surround him with people who reflect Your steady love.
Give rest to his body, calm to his mind, and quiet hope to his heart—one day at a time. In Jesus Name, Amen.
Few of Jesus’ parables unsettle modern readers like the story of the Shrewd Manager (Luke 16:1–9). The central character is dishonest, self-interested, and motivated by fear. Worse, the resources he manipulates are not his own. And yet, Jesus says the master commended him.
This discomfort is intentional. Jesus is not softening morality; He is sharpening perception.
The parable does not commend dishonesty, fraud, or fear-driven ethics. The manager is clearly corrupt. His impending dismissal confirms it. Jesus never calls his actions righteous, nor does He suggest his behavior should be imitated.
If the parable ended there, it would undermine Jesus’ own moral teaching. But it does not.
What Is Actually Commended
The praise falls on one narrow point: clarity under accountability.
When the manager realizes judgment is inevitable, illusion disappears. He stops pretending the assets are his. He accepts that his authority is ending. And he acts decisively with the time he has left.
The master commends him not for what he did, but for finally understanding reality.
Jesus makes the comparison explicit: “The people of this world are more shrewd in dealing with their own kind than are the people of the light.”
The rebuke is aimed at the disciples, not the manager.
Stewardship, Not Ownership
At the heart of the parable is a biblical truth that is easy to confess and hard to live: nothing we possess truly belongs to us.
Time, money, influence, skill, position—these are entrusted, not owned. The manager’s error was not recognizing this sooner. His late wisdom was realizing that relationships outlast assets and mercy survives audits.
Jesus is exposing how often faithful people live as functional owners while professing to be stewards.
Fear as an Awakener, Not a Virtue
The manager acts out of fear, and fear is never presented as the highest moral motive. Scripture consistently teaches that love is greater than fear. Yet fear can still serve a purpose: it can awaken urgency.
Fear strips away denial. Fear confronts us with limits. Fear reminds us that time runs out.
The moral irony of the parable is this: a dishonest man takes judgment seriously, while God’s people often postpone obedience as if accountability were theoretical.
The Ethical Core of the Teaching
Jesus reframes moral wisdom away from mere rule-keeping toward eternal awareness.
The teaching is not “use dishonest methods,” but rather:
Use temporary resources with eternal seriousness
Convert wealth into generosity, reconciliation, and mercy
Invest in people, not possessions
Jesus immediately clarifies the point: when earthly wealth fails—and it always does—what remains are the relationships shaped by how it was used.
Why This Parable Offends Us
The story unsettles because it refuses to offer a sanitized hero. It acknowledges mixed motives and flawed character. It separates prudence from virtue and asks an uncomfortable question:
Why do people who claim eternal hope often live with less urgency than those facing temporary loss?
The Moral Conclusion
The Shrewd Manager is not a model of righteousness. He is a mirror.
The parable teaches that:
Stewardship demands foresight
Delay is itself a moral failure
Awakening late is still wiser than sleeping through responsibility
Jesus is not lowering ethical standards. He is raising the stakes.
The warning is simple and sharp: Do not be less serious about eternity than a dishonest man is about his future.
That is the morality of the parable—and why it still confronts us today.
John Hargrove Seeking Truth and Reality 