No More Hiding

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So you’ve done something you aren’t proud of. It hurt someone you care about—or maybe someone you barely know. But it’s not sitting well. Something in you is unsettled.

And instead of facing that discomfort, your mind starts reaching for relief. You justify. You minimize. You explain. You shift blame. You tell yourself you’ll think about it tomorrow.

But here’s the truth: there are no shortcuts through the harm we’ve done. Not spiritually. Not relationally. Not emotionally. The only way through is honest lament.

Psalm 51:1 gives us the starting point: “Have mercy on me, O God.” David doesn’t begin with excuses. He doesn’t begin with explanations. He begins with truth. He begins with lament.

Lamenting my sin is not wallowing. It’s not whining. It’s not beating myself up. Lament is simply telling the truth in God’s presence. It’s the moment I stop running from what I’ve done and allow myself to feel the weight of it—not to be crushed by it, but to be freed from it.

Scripture gives us a clear and honest path for this kind of truth‑telling.

Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 7:10 that there are two kinds of sorrow. One kind is mostly about consequences—how something makes us look, what it costs us, how uncomfortable it feels. That kind of sorrow doesn’t change us. It keeps us stuck.

But there’s another kind of sorrow—the kind that faces the truth head‑on. It’s the kind that says, “I see the harm I’ve caused, and it grieves me. I don’t want to stay this way.” That kind of sorrow opens the door to healing. It’s not self‑hatred. It’s not shame. It’s the Spirit nudging us toward honesty so He can lead us toward freedom.

Proverbs 28:13 puts it plainly: “Whoever hides their sins doesn’t prosper, but the one who admits them and turns from them finds mercy.” Hiding never heals us. Minimizing never frees us. Justifying never restores us. Telling the truth—honestly, without spin—is where mercy meets us. Not because God is waiting to punish us, but because we can’t receive healing while we’re still pretending we don’t need it.

Jesus makes this even more vivid in Luke 18:9–14. Two men go to pray. One stands tall, listing all the good things he’s done. The other stands at a distance, unable to lift his eyes, and simply says, “God, have mercy on me.” Jesus says it’s the second man—the honest one—who goes home made right with God.

That posture is exactly what Jesus blesses in the first Beatitude: “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” To be “poor in spirit” is not to think badly of yourself. It’s to be honest about your need. It’s to stop pretending you’re fine. It’s to stop performing. It’s to stop explaining away the harm you’ve done. It’s the moment you say, “I don’t have excuses. I need help.” And Jesus calls that blessed.

When you hold these passages together, a clear picture emerges of what lament really is.
Lament begins with honest sorrow.
Lament refuses to hide.
Lament is the posture God honors.
Lament is the worship of the honest and humble.

Lament is not something that happens to us—it’s something we choose. We participate in lament when we tell the truth about what we’ve done, stop explaining away the harm, stop minimizing the impact, stop blaming others, and bring our whole selves—unedited and unguarded—before God.

This honesty is not for God’s sake. He already knows. It’s for ours. Because only in truth can we receive what the Holy Spirit longs to give: grace, mercy, cleansing, restoration, a renewed heart, a reoriented life. Lament is the doorway through which healing enters.

Photo by Kindel Media

And here’s the deeper reality: we can’t receive when we refuse to acknowledge.
If we’re convinced we’re fine, we won’t reach for help.
If we’re busy defending ourselves, we won’t open ourselves.
If we’re hiding the truth, we won’t be healed by it.

When we aren’t honest about where we really are—what we’ve done, what we’ve avoided, what we’ve broken—we close our hands around our own version of the story. And closed hands can’t receive anything. Lament pries those hands open. It makes room for mercy. It makes room for healing. It makes room for God.

This is the heart of holiness: God doesn’t just forgive us—He transforms us. But transformation requires surrender. And surrender begins with truth.

And this matters because this is only week one. Over the next six weeks, we’ll walk through lamenting our sin, our community’s sin, the harm done to us, the losses we carry, the hardships we endure, and finally, the restoration God promises. But it all begins here—with the courage to tell the truth about our own hearts.

Lamenting our sin is not about staying stuck in what we’ve done—it’s about finally telling the truth so we can be healed. When we stop hiding, stop minimizing, stop explaining, and simply stand before God as we are, we make space for the Holy Spirit to do what we cannot do for ourselves. God meets us in honesty. He restores us in humility. This is why lament matters: it is the doorway to becoming whole again. There are no shortcuts. But there is a Savior who meets us every time we choose the courage of confession over the comfort of denial. And in His presence, lament becomes worship, and turning back toward Him becomes the beginning of new life.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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Lament: The Path to Resurrection Hope

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Photo by MART PRODUCTION

Most of us walk into church carrying things we don’t quite know what to do with. We pray, we sing, we greet one another—but underneath, there are losses we haven’t named, hurts we haven’t voiced, questions we don’t know how to ask. We carry grief in our bodies even when we don’t have language for it. Scripture gives us a word for that. It gives us lament.

Loss doesn’t arrive politely. It doesn’t knock first. It doesn’t wait for a convenient moment. Sometimes loss is sudden. Sometimes it’s slow. Sometimes it’s not even the loss of a person—it’s the loss of a future, a dream, a sense of safety, a version of life you thought you’d have. And when loss hits, most of us don’t know what to do with it. We try to be strong. We try to keep moving. We try not to fall apart. But Scripture never asks us to pretend. It gives us a different way. It gives us lament.

Lament is telling God the truth about our pain. It’s the honest prayer we pray when life hurts and we don’t have answers. Lament is not complaining. It’s not losing faith. It’s not getting stuck. Lament is how we bring our real pain to a real God who really listens and never leaves. Lament is faith with dirt under its nails—faith that’s been on the ground, faith that’s cried in the car, faith that’s been awake at 3 a.m., faith that’s holding on to God with one hand while wiping tears with the other. Lament is not the opposite of faith. Lament is an act of faith. If you didn’t believe God was listening, you wouldn’t cry out. If you didn’t believe God cared, you wouldn’t bring Him your pain. If you didn’t believe God could do something with your grief, you wouldn’t bother praying at all. Lament is faith refusing to go silent.

One of the most powerful moments in Scripture happens at a graveside. In John 11, Jesus arrives at the tomb of His friend Lazarus. Mary and Martha are devastated. Confused. Disappointed. Hurt. They had sent for Jesus days earlier, and He didn’t come in time. When Jesus arrives, He doesn’t stand at a distance. He doesn’t offer explanations. He doesn’t tell them to “trust God more.” He steps into their grief. And then comes the shortest, most honest sentence in the Gospels: “Jesus wept.” He knew resurrection was minutes away—but He still cried. Because lament is not about the outcome. It’s about the moment. It’s about love. It’s about presence. It’s about entering someone else’s pain before you try to lift them out of it. Jesus wept because love weeps. This is the God who meets us in lament.

As we move toward Easter, we’re spending intentional time learning how to lament. Not because lament is a detour, but because it’s part of the road. There are no shortcuts through grief. We don’t get to resurrection by skipping the tomb. We can’t celebrate resurrection without first naming what needs resurrecting. Lament matters because you can’t heal what you won’t name. Because God meets us in the places we’d rather hide. Because Jesus Himself lamented—love enters pain before it lifts pain. Because lament forms us into people who walk with God in the real world. Because Easter is for people who know what loss feels like and need God to make things new. Lament is not weakness. Lament is discipleship.

If lament is so important, why do so few of us practice it? Because most of us have been taught—explicitly or implicitly—to rush past our pain. Pressure sounds like: “Be strong.” “Don’t cry.” “You should be over this by now.” Pressure makes grief feel like a problem to solve instead of a wound to tend. But God doesn’t meet us with pressure. God meets us with compassion. He doesn’t rush grief. He doesn’t set a timeline. He doesn’t say, “You should be better by now.” He says, “I’m here.”

Six months after my daughter died, I told a friend I was still struggling—still sad, still waking up in the night, still wrestling with guilt and questions. She said, “I thought you would have gotten over it by now.” She wasn’t trying to be cruel. She was just living in a world that had moved on. Her life was normal again. Mine was still in the wreckage. But while people moved on, God didn’t. God wasn’t waiting for me to “get over it.” He wasn’t disappointed in my tears. He wasn’t frustrated that I wasn’t “stronger.” God sat with me in sackcloth and ashes—holding my hand, wiping my tears, not rushing me out of the pain but choosing to be with me in it. This is the God who meets us in lament.

Photo by Christophe Leclaire

Romans 12:15 says, “Weep with those who weep.” Job’s friends, before they got it wrong, got it right. They sat with him in silence for seven days. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is sit down next to someone and stay. Not to fix them. Not to rush them. Just to be with them. There’s a story I love about a man who fell into a deep hole. A psychiatrist walked by, wrote a prescription, and kept walking. A pastor walked by, prayed a prayer, and kept walking. Finally, a friend walked by, saw the man, and jumped in. The man panicked: “Now we’re both stuck!” But the friend said, “It’s okay. I’ve been here before. And I know the way out.” That’s presence. That’s compassion. That’s what makes lament possible.

A few years ago, I got a call from the mother of a young man in my youth group. He was very sick—multiple complications, on life support. She asked if I could come. As I drove to the hospital, something inside me tightened. It was the same hospital, the same ward where my daughter had been when she passed. Grief has a way of collapsing time. I prayed in the car: “Lord, help me. I don’t know if I can do this.” But I walked through the door. I spent the day with the family. And the next day too. I prayed with them. I listened. I cried with them. I held her hand in her hurt and confusion. And here’s the part that still humbles me: I was more blessed by that experience than I can express. God took my pain, my loss, my broken pieces—and He used them. Not because I was strong. Not because I was healed. Not because I had answers. But because God had sat with me in my own ashes long enough to shape compassion in me. And then He let that compassion become a gift for someone else. This is what restoration looks like. Not forgetting the pain. Not pretending it didn’t happen. But letting God redeem it.

So what do we do now? We tell God the truth. Not the polished version. Not the “I’m fine” version. The real version. God can only meet us where we actually are. We let God be close to our broken hearts. We don’t have to pretend. We don’t have to be strong. We don’t have to rush. We let God sit with us in the ashes. And we let lament soften us and send us. We stop asking why this is happening and begin asking what God is forming in us through this loss. Then we let that compassion move us toward others.

Lament doesn’t erase the loss. It doesn’t make the pain tidy. But it keeps us moving toward God instead of away from Him. It keeps us tender instead of numb. It keeps us connected instead of isolated. It keeps us hopeful instead of hopeless. And in all of it, God is close. God is compassionate. God is transforming us. God is restoring us. And God is giving us one another. Lament is how we bring our real pain to a real God who really listens and never leaves. Lament is not a detour. And God meets us right there.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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No Isn’t a Bad Word

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Photo by Ahmed

In the middle of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says something almost shockingly simple: “Let your ‘Yes’ be yes and your ‘No,’ no.” He’s speaking into a culture where people used oaths to make their words sound more believable. Swearing by heaven meant one thing. Swearing by earth meant another. Swearing “by God” was the ultimate guarantee. It was a whole system built around managing trust because everyday speech wasn’t reliable.

Jesus steps into that and essentially says, “Stop performing. Stop manipulating. Stop trying to make your words sound more true than they are. Just tell the truth.” He’s not banning legal oaths. He’s not being rigid. He’s calling His followers to integrity — the kind of integrity where your everyday yes and no are so trustworthy that you don’t need to dress them up with promises or emotional guarantees. This is holiness in its simplest form: a heart made whole by grace, expressed in a life that is honest, simple, and aligned.

Scripture has always tied holiness to truthfulness. Psalm 15 describes the kind of person who can dwell in God’s presence as one “who speaks truth from the heart.” Colossians 3 calls us to “put off falsehood” because we’ve “put on the new self.” Zechariah 8 paints a picture of a restored community where people “speak the truth to each other.” Truthfulness isn’t a side issue — it’s part of the life God forms in us.

And yet, “no” is one of the hardest truths for us to speak. Even though “no” is a complete declarative sentence — one word, no emotional freight attached — most of us don’t experience it that way. From childhood, we’re taught, often without anyone meaning to, that “no” is a bad word. A toddler says “no,” and we correct them. A child says “no,” and we discipline them. A teenager says “no,” and we accuse them of disrespect. So we grow up believing that “no” creates conflict, disappoints people, threatens relationships, and should be avoided.

Because of that, we learn to hide from it. We say yes when we’re tired. We say yes when we’re scared. We say yes when we know full well we won’t follow through. We say yes because we don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings — only to hurt them more later when we back out, disappear, or make excuses. A dishonest yes becomes a form of bondage. It’s lying — even if we didn’t intend it to be. And once we lie, we feel pressure to lie again to protect the first lie.

This is exactly the cycle Jesus is addressing. When our yes and no lose their weight, we start adding verbal padding: “I promise,” “Honestly,” “I swear,” “I swear to God.” Those additives only exist when our words can’t stand on their own. Jesus is calling us back to simplicity, to truth, to freedom.

This has become real for me in the last season of my life. I’ve learned that I have to be far more intentional about my responses when people ask things of me. I’m a full‑time bi‑vocational pastor with a family. My life is full — beautifully full — and that means my time, energy, and emotional bandwidth are not unlimited. For years, my knee‑jerk reaction was to say “yes,” “sure,” or “absolutely” without pausing to consider whether I actually had the margin to follow through. I wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. I was trying to be kind. I didn’t want to disappoint people or seem unavailable. I didn’t want to hurt feelings.

But the truth is: I said yes when I didn’t mean it. And that yes became a lie. A dear friend finally called me to account — gently, honestly, lovingly. They helped me see that my quick yeses were unintentionally causing harm. I was overcommitting, underdelivering, and stretching myself thin in ways that hurt others, my family, and myself.

So now, I’m learning a new rhythm. I try — imperfectly — to pause. To ask for time. To check with my family. To look at my work calendar. To evaluate my emotional state. To discern whether I can give myself away without breaking something inside me. I want my yes to be a real yes — “yes, I’m all in.” And I want my no to be a clean no — “no, I don’t have the ability to do that right now.”

“No” is not negative. It’s not rejection. It’s not a commentary on my love or care. It’s simply a statement about the state of my life in that moment. This is holiness in real time — not perfection, but alignment. A heart made whole by grace. A life where truth is not something we perform but something we live. A dishonest yes fractures us. A clean no keeps us whole. A dishonest yes damages relationships. A clean no protects them. A dishonest yes steals from our families. A clean no honors them. Jesus isn’t trying to make us rigid. He’s trying to make us real.

So here’s the practice I’m learning. Pause before responding. You don’t owe anyone an instant answer. Give yourself space to breathe and think. Check your real capacity. Look at your calendar. Talk to your family. Pay attention to your emotional state. Your humanity is not an inconvenience. Tell the truth kindly: “Yes, I can do that,” or “No, I’m not able to take that on right now.” Short. Clear. Honest. Trust that “no” is not unloving. It’s not rejection. It’s not selfishness. It’s not a lack of care. It’s simply truth. Let your words be enough. No padding. No promises. No emotional gymnastics. Just truth spoken in love.

A life of honest yeses and honest nos is a life of integrity, freedom, and Christlike love — a life where your words are enough because your heart is whole.

And this is the freedom Jesus is offering. Not a burden. Not a rule to perform. A way of living that keeps us honest, keeps us whole, and keeps us grounded in the kind of love that doesn’t need to pretend.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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The Lies That Bind, The Truth That Frees

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Photo by AHMED AQEELY

We all want freedom. Real freedom. The kind that lets us breathe without fear or pretending. But most of the time, the thing holding us back isn’t someone else. It’s the lies we tell ourselves — the ones we repeat so often they start to feel like truth.

Jesus said, “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32). He wasn’t giving a slogan or a threat. He wasn’t handing out a weapon for people to use on each other. He was inviting us into freedom — the kind that only comes from Him.

People love to quote this verse. Sometimes they use it to “call someone out” or to justify being harsh. But Jesus wasn’t talking about blasting people with “truth.” He wasn’t talking about winning arguments. He wasn’t talking about exposing someone else’s flaws. He was talking about Himself — “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). When this verse is used out of context, it becomes a tool for judgment. When it’s used the way Jesus meant it, it becomes a lifeline.

Most of the lies that keep us stuck aren’t loud. They’re quiet. They sound reasonable. They sound like coping. They sound like survival. “I’m fine.” “It’s not that bad.” “I can handle it.” “They’re not that bad.” “I’m not that bad.” “This is just who I am.” “It could be worse.” These lies feel small, but they shape everything. They keep us from facing what’s real. They keep us from healing. They keep us from growing. They keep us from God. We don’t just tell these lies — we build our identity around them.

Nobody wakes up one day and decides to hide. We learn it. Somewhere along the way, someone rejected you when you were honest. Someone made fun of something real about you. Someone taught you that being accepted meant being “good enough.” Someone told you to hide the parts that might make people uncomfortable. So you learned to protect yourself. You learned to show only the parts that felt safe. You learned to keep the rest tucked away. You learned to manage your image so no one could hurt you again.

But here’s the truth: you cannot be fully loved where you are not fully known. And the version of yourself you’ve been protecting — the edited, filtered, careful version — becomes a cage.

I remember being a kid and telling my mom I was nervous about my first speaking role in a school play. My stomach was in knots. My hands were shaking. I was convinced everyone would stare at me and see every flaw I had. She gave me the classic line we’ve all heard: “Just picture everyone in the audience in their underwear.” It sounded ridiculous, but the idea behind it was simple: if you could see everyone else as vulnerable as you feel, you wouldn’t be so afraid.

There’s a silliness to it, but also a truth. If we could see people as they really are — no pretending, no posturing, no hiding — the whole playing field would level out. All the pressure would fall away. All the lies we tell to protect ourselves would lose their power. Imagine the freedom we’d feel if everyone showed up as their real, unfiltered selves. No masks. No roles. No “I’m fine.” Just people being people.

That’s what it’s like with God. He already sees every part of us. He’s the One who made us (Psalm 139:13). He’s the One who counted the hairs on our head (Luke 12:7). He knows every secret we’ve tried to bury (Psalm 139:1–4). He knows the thoughts we wish we didn’t think. He knows the fears we hide behind jokes and busyness. He knows the lies we tell to make ourselves feel safer. And He loves us just the same (Romans 5:8).

We don’t have to pretend with Him. We don’t have to perform. We don’t have to hide the parts we’re afraid people won’t accept. God isn’t shocked by our humanity. He isn’t disappointed by our weakness. He isn’t surprised by our struggles. He sees us fully — and loves us fully.

The lies we believe about ourselves are really lies about Him. Lies that say we have to hide. Lies that say we’re too much. Lies that say people will leave if they know the real us. Lies that say we have to earn love. But God speaks a different truth.

Photo by Min An

The lie says, “Hide so you won’t be rejected.”
The truth says, “Come into the light so you can be healed” (1 John 1:7; Ephesians 5:13).

The lie says, “You’re too much.”
The truth says, “You are mine” (Isaiah 43:1; 1 John 3:1).

The lie says, “If they knew the real you, they’d leave.”
The truth says, “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5; Psalm 34:18).

The lie says, “You have to hide the real you to be loved.”
The truth says, “You are fully known and fully loved” (Psalm 139:1; Romans 5:8).

Every lie we tell ourselves is really an identity lie. “I’m fine” becomes “I don’t need help.” “It’s not that bad” becomes “I can manage this alone.” “This is just who I am” becomes “God can’t change me.” “I have to keep people happy” becomes “Their opinion defines me.”

But here’s the truth: your identity is not found in the world. Your identity is not found in people. Your identity is not found in their expectations, opinions, or conditions. Your identity is found in Christ — and Christ alone (Galatians 2:20; Colossians 3:3). And that is the only identity that cannot be taken from you.

People change. Opinions change. Reputations change. Circumstances change. Jesus does not (Hebrews 13:8).

Choosing Christ as your identity is the hard part. It means letting go of every other voice that has tried to name you. It means letting go of what people think, what people expect, what people assume, what people demand, what people say you should be. Their opinions are not your truth. Their expectations are not your identity. Their labels are not your name.

Only Jesus gets to tell you who you are. And when you choose Him — when you root your identity in Him — the lies lose their grip. The fear loses its voice. The world loses its claim on you.

That is the freedom Jesus was talking about. Not freedom to do whatever you want. Freedom to finally be who you were created to be. Fully known. Fully loved. Fully free.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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The God Who Cannot Be Absent

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Photo by cottonbro studio

There are moments in life when the silence feels louder than God’s voice. When the weight of what we’re carrying makes us whisper the same question people have asked for thousands of years: “Where are You, God?”

It’s not a question of doubt. It’s a question of being human. And the Bible doesn’t hide that question. It gives us the words for it. It shows us people who felt the same way we do — even though God had never left them.

Psalm 31 is one of those places. It’s honest and unfiltered. The writer feels abandoned, overwhelmed, forgotten. But underneath all of that emotion is a truth he keeps coming back to: God is present, even when we can’t feel Him. That tension — between what we feel and what is true — is part of the life of faith.

The psalmist says things like, “I am forgotten as though I were dead” (Psalm 31:12). “My strength fails” (Psalm 31:10). “I am in distress” (Psalm 31:9). These aren’t the words of someone who has lost faith. They’re the words of someone trying to hold onto it. And then, right in the middle of all that fear, he says, “But I trust in You, Lord… My times are in Your hands” (Psalm 31:14–15). He’s basically saying, “I don’t feel You, but I know You’re here.” That’s the tension most of us live in.

This morning I woke up because the wave machine I sleep with suddenly shut off. The silence was so loud it startled me awake. I didn’t realize how much I’d gotten used to the steady sound of waves until it disappeared. And as I lay there, it hit me: this is exactly what God’s silence has felt like in some seasons of my life. Not that He left. Not that He stopped caring. Just that the “sound” of His nearness felt harder to sense. The silence was real. But the absence wasn’t. Psalm 31 gives us permission to name that feeling without confusing it for truth.

We use the word “omnipresent” in church, but most people don’t use that word anywhere else. So here’s the simple version: omnipresent means God is always present everywhere. Not sometimes. Not when we feel it. Always. Everywhere. All the time. It’s not something God does. It’s who He is. Which means the idea of God being absent, silent, or checked out isn’t just painful — it’s impossible. If God could step away from us, even for a moment, He would stop being God. His presence isn’t a mood. It isn’t a reward. It isn’t something we earn. It’s His nature.

Photo by molochkomolochko:

The Bible doesn’t just say God is “around.” It says something much deeper. From the very beginning, God breathed

His own life into us (Genesis 2:7). That breath wasn’t a one‑time moment — it’s the breath that keeps us alive. Paul puts it this way: “In Him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). We don’t just live near God. We live in the God who holds everything together.

And Jesus makes it even clearer: “He lives with you and will be in you” (John 14:17). “We will come to them and make our home with them” (John 14:23). “Remain in Me, as I also remain in you” (John 15:4). Jesus isn’t describing a God who pops in and out. He’s describing a God who has made His home in us. A God whose presence is the very thing that keeps us alive. So when we say “God feels far,” we’re talking about our feelings, not His location.

Psalm 31 shows us a God who sees and stays, but Scripture goes even further: God is not just present — He is active. Jesus said, “My Father is always at His work” (John 5:17). Paul reminds us that God is working “in all things” for our good (Romans 8:28), and that He is working in us to shape our desires and actions according to His purpose (Philippians 2:13). And long before that, Isaiah declared that God “works for those who wait for Him” (Isaiah 64:4). God is not a passive observer of our lives. He is moving, shaping, sustaining, redeeming, and working in the very places where we feel most alone.

When Jeremiah was terrified of what God was asking him to do, God didn’t give him a pep talk. He simply said, “Do not be afraid… for I am with you” (Jeremiah 1:8). God’s presence is His answer. His nearness is His reassurance. His character is His promise. And Jesus echoes the same truth: “I am with you always” (Matthew 28:20). Always.

Psalm 31 gives us the language of fear and trust, of feeling abandoned and choosing to cling to God anyway. But the psalmist’s feelings are not the foundation of our hope. God’s nature is. Our emotions may shout, but they do not define reality. God does.

And Scripture tells us who He is:
The God who breathed life into us (Genesis 2:7).
The God in whom we live and move and have our being (Acts 17:28).
The God who makes His home in us (John 14:23).
The God who works in all things for our good (Romans 8:28).
The God who cannot deny Himself (2 Timothy 2:13).

This is the God who holds us.

So here is the truth we stand on: God’s absence is impossible. Not unlikely. Not rare. Not “mostly untrue.” Impossible. Because if God could be absent — even for a moment — He would stop being omnipresent. He would stop being faithful. He would stop being holy love. He would stop being who He is. But He cannot deny Himself.

So even when we feel abandoned, we are held. Even when we feel forgotten, we are seen. Even when we feel alone, we are surrounded. Even when we hear silence, we are not without Him.

This is not wishful thinking. This is not emotional comfort. This is not “God will show up eventually.” This is the unchanging reality of the God who is always present, always active, always sustaining, always working, always God. Anything less would violate His nature.

Psalm 31 begins with trembling hands reaching for help. But the final word does not belong to our trembling. The final word belongs to the God who cannot leave.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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Love Fiercely, but Hold Loosely

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Photo by Daniel Pérez

There is a kind of love Jesus calls us to that feels both beautiful and terrifying. A love that is wholehearted, self‑giving, and without favoritism. A love that doesn’t wait for people to earn it. A love that doesn’t shrink back when relationships get complicated or painful. A love that keeps showing up even when the story takes a turn you never wanted. A love that looks like Jesus kneeling on the f

loor, towel in hand, washing the feet of the one who would betray Him. “Having loved His own who were in the world, He loved them to the end” (John 13:1). Jesus washed Judas’ feet. He loved fiercely — but He never clung.

And that’s the tension we’re invited into: loving people with the fullness of Christ while holding them with open hands. God alone is the center. God alone is constant. God alone holds the outcomes of our lives. Every relationship — no matter how precious — is a gift, not a god.

I’m not writing this from a distance. I’m writing this in the middle of real loss, real heartbreak, and real relational unraveling — the kind of season where loving people fiercely and holding them loosely isn’t a concept, it’s survival. And I know I’m not the only one. Our church family, our community, and our world are full of people trying to love well while watching relationships fracture, shift, or disappear. This tension is not theoretical. It’s where many of us are living right now.

And here’s the truth we rarely admit: when people sit in God’s place, we cling. We cling because we’re afraid — afraid of losing them, afraid of being alone, afraid of not being enough. We call it love, but underneath it is fear. And fear‑based attachment is not love. It’s bondage. Scripture says, “There is no fear in love… perfect love drives out fear” (1 John 4:18). When fear rules the heart, love becomes distorted. We grip relationships too tightly. We bend ourselves into shapes God never asked of us. We tolerate what wounds us. We silence our convictions. We lose our ability to hear God because we’re too busy trying to keep someone close. Clinging is not Christlike love. It’s a sign someone has taken a seat that belongs only to God.

But when God is the One we cling to, everything shifts. We are no longer driven by fear of loss or controlled by the need for approval. We are no longer paralyzed by the thought of someone walking away. Jesus said, “Seek first the Kingdom of God…” (Matthew 6:33). When God is first, relationships stop being idols and start being blessings. We can love people fiercely because our identity isn’t tied to their response. We can hold them loosely because our security isn’t tied to their presence. Only when God is in His rightful place are we free to love as Jesus did — freely, generously, sincerely, without manipulation or fear.

Photo by Sergio Zhukov

One of the biggest obstacles to loving like Jesus today is something Scripture describes in principle: co‑dependency — relying on others for what only God can give. Paul asks, “Am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God?” (Galatians 1:10). We live in a world that constantly tells us what matters — image, success, productivity, popularity. And if we’re not careful, we start shaping our relationships around those values instead of the values of the Kingdom. John warns us, “Do not love the world… The world and its desires pass away” (1 John 2:15–17). When the world’s voice becomes louder than God’s voice, we lose the ability to think, act, and love like Jesus. We become distracted, reactive, spiritually disoriented. We start loving people for what they give us, not for who they are in God’s eyes. Co‑dependency is not fierce love. It’s fear wearing the mask of loyalty.

Jesus shows us a different way. He withdrew to pray when crowds demanded more of Him (Luke 5:15–16). He refused to be controlled by others’ expectations, even from His own family (John 7:1–6). He stayed focused on His mission, even when people begged Him to stay where He was (Luke 4:42–44). He let people walk away when His teaching was too hard for them (John 6:66–67). And He entrusted Himself to no one because He knew the human heart (John 2:24–25). Jesus loved with His whole heart — but He never clung. That is the freedom He invites us into.

When we cling to relationships God is loosening, they become heavy. When we force connections God is not sustaining, they become draining. When we try to hold people in place, we end up carrying a weight we were never meant to bear. Paul acknowledges this reality: “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone” (Romans 12:18). You can love. You can forgive. You can show up. But you cannot force closeness, connection, or continuity. Forced relationships are burdensome. Real love — God‑centered love — is life‑giving.

When God is the center, relationships become what they were meant to be: gifts to enjoy, not idols to protect; people to love, not outcomes to manage; fellow travelers, not sources of identity; blessings to steward, not anchors to cling to. Paul captures this beautifully: “Let your love be sincere” (Romans 12:9). Sincere love is free. It is honest. It is unforced. It is rooted in God, not in fear. And it is only possible when our hands are open.

So love fiercely — the way Jesus loved. Serve generously. Forgive freely. Show up wholeheartedly. But hold loosely — trusting God with the shape, length, and outcome of every relationship. Because only when people are in their right place, behind God, can we truly enjoy them. Only when our hearts are anchored in Him can our love be life‑giving instead of burdensome. Only when God is the center can our relationships be what He intended them to be.

Love fiercely. Hold loosely. Cling only to the One who never leaves.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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When Being Right Can Still Be Wrong

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Photo by Nathan Marcam

Most of us know what it feels like to be wronged. Sometimes it’s small and annoying. Other times it hits so hard it rearranges your life. And when that happens, something rises up in us — a need for justice, for fairness, for someone to finally say, “What happened to you wasn’t okay.” The world tells us that if we don’t fight back, if we don’t make the person who hurt us feel it, then we’re weak. Or worse — we’re letting them win. “For their own good,” the world says, “you have to hit back harder.” This is the air we breathe — a world that treats payback like wisdom.

But Genesis 50:19–20 pulls us into a different way of seeing things. A way that doesn’t come naturally. A way that doesn’t come from fear or self‑protection. A way that only makes sense if God is actually involved in our stories. Joseph looks at the very brothers who sold him into slavery, who ripped him out of his home and his childhood, and he says, “Do not be afraid. Am I in the place of God? You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good…” (Genesis 50:19–20).

Joseph isn’t sugarcoating anything. He’s not pretending it didn’t hurt. He’s not pretending it didn’t change him. He says it straight: you intended to harm me. But he refuses to let their intention be the final word. Joseph is looking at his life through a different lens — not the lens of what people did to him, but the lens of what God is doing in him and through him. And because of that, he refuses to sit in the judgment seat. He knows that seat belongs to God, not him.

His words hit harder when you remember what he lived through. He wasn’t just picked on. He was betrayed by his own brothers — violently, intentionally, and without remorse. He was sold like property. He lost his freedom, his identity, his safety. He was falsely accused when he did the right thing. He was thrown into prison and forgotten. He was overlooked even when he helped others. Joseph’s life wasn’t a series of unfortunate events. It was a series of deep, life‑altering injustices.

And yet — when he finally has power, when the tables have turned, when he could have made them pay — Joseph doesn’t cling to his right to be right. He doesn’t weaponize his pain. He doesn’t demand repayment. He chooses relationship over revenge. He chooses mercy over payback. He chooses to see God’s hand where others only see human harm. That’s what makes his words so shocking: “What you meant for evil, God used for good.” (Genesis 50:20). He’s not saying the evil was good. He’s saying the evil didn’t get the last word.

And Joseph doesn’t pretend otherwise. He doesn’t rewrite the story or soften what happened. He says plainly: “You meant evil against me.” (Genesis 50:20). And it wasn’t just their intention — they actually did harm. Their choices changed the entire direction of his life. Their actions caused real pain, real loss, real trauma. Joseph lived with the consequences for years. And yet — even as he names the evil honestly — he refuses to sit in God’s place. “Am I in the place of God?” (Genesis 50:19).

Joseph gets something we often miss: naming the harm doesn’t give us permission to become judge, jury, and executioner. He tells the truth about what happened, but he trusts God with what happens next. He holds all three truths at once: you meant evil; you did evil; but God used it for good — to accomplish His purposes. The evil was real — but it wasn’t the end of the story.

Photo by Çağdaş Birsen

And we need to say this out loud: Joseph’s words are not a command to stay in harmful situations or to quietly endure abuse. Scripture never asks us to tolerate violence, injustice, or danger. Holiness is not passivity. Joseph didn’t go back to the pit. He didn’t pretend the abuse was acceptable. He named the harm, he lived in safety, and he made wise choices to protect himself and his family. What he refused to do was let the harm define him or turn him into someone he didn’t want to be. The message isn’t “accept evil.” The message is “don’t let evil shape who you become.” God can redeem anything — but He never asks us to stay where we’re being harmed. He asks us to walk in wisdom, truth, and safety while trusting that He can use even the darkest chapters to accomplish His purposes.

This is where Paul’s words in Romans land with weight: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him…” (Romans 8:28). Paul isn’t saying everything that happens is good. He’s saying God refuses to waste anything — even the things shaped by human evil. Joseph lived this long before Paul wrote it. He didn’t pretend the evil was good. He just refused to let the evil be the final word.

Most of us live with a “why is this happening” reflex. When something painful hits, we want answers. We want fairness. We want the world to make sense. But Joseph’s worldview is different. He doesn’t ask why. He asks what now. What is God doing in this moment? That shift changes everything. It moves us from trying to control the outcome to trusting God’s character. It moves us from payback to redemption. It moves us from fear to participation in what God is doing.

Jesus teaches this same posture when He says, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matthew 5:44). That’s not a call to ignore injustice. It’s a call to break the cycle of retaliation. It’s a call to trust that God is doing something bigger than the harm done to us.

Paul echoes this when he writes, “Do not repay anyone evil for evil… Do not take revenge… for it is written: ‘It is mine to avenge; I will repay,’ says the Lord.” (Romans 12:17–19). Paul isn’t telling us to be passive. He’s telling us to get out of God’s chair. Joseph understood this long before Paul wrote it. He understood that trusting God isn’t a theory — it’s a way of living.

One of the most counter‑cultural truths in Scripture is that God consistently prioritizes people over proving a point. Not because truth doesn’t matter — it absolutely does — but because truth in God’s kingdom is always expressed through love, humility, and a willingness to repair what’s broken. Joseph models this beautifully. He was right. His brothers were wrong. But Joseph refuses to use his correctness as a weapon. He chooses relationship instead.

Jesus reinforces this when He teaches, “If you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother has something against you… first go and be reconciled.” (Matthew 5:23–24). Being right with God can’t be separated from making things right with others.

Paul sharpens the point when he writes, “If I… understand all mysteries and all knowledge… but do not have love, I am nothing.” (1 Corinthians 13:2). You can be right and still be wrong. And in one of the most jarring statements in the New Testament, Paul tells the Corinthians, “Why not rather be wronged? Why not rather be cheated?” (1 Corinthians 6:7).

Paul is not endorsing injustice.
He is exposing what it really means to follow Jesus.

Your witness matters more than your win.
Your unity matters more than being proven right.
Your relationships matter more than your rights.

This is the same posture Joseph takes with his brothers.

If anyone had the right to demand justice, it was Jesus. Betrayed by a friend. Abandoned by His followers. Condemned by religious leaders. Executed by the state. And yet, on the cross, Jesus says, “Father, forgive them…” (Luke 23:34). The cross is the ultimate Genesis 50:20 moment. Humanity intended harm. God intended salvation. Humanity tried to end the story. God wrote resurrection.

So what does it look like to live this way? We refuse to sit in God’s seat. We tell the truth about the harm. We ask, “God, what are You doing in this moment?” We trust God with what we can’t control. We choose hope over retaliation.

Genesis 50:19–20 isn’t comforting until we let go of our need to control the outcome. But once we do, it becomes a doorway into freedom. Joseph’s story isn’t just ancient history. It’s a picture of the kind of life Jesus invites us into today — a life that trusts God with justice, values people over being right, and believes God can redeem what others meant for harm. This isn’t easy. But it is the way of Jesus. And it is the way that leads to life.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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“Don’t Judge Me” — A Phrase Worth Retiring

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Photo by Nathan J Hilton:

I hear the phrase almost every day now — from family, from friends, from people at work, even from people at church. It shows up in casual conversations, serious conversations, and everything in between. I was having conversations with friends in their homes and communities recently, and before they shared something personal about their lives — the kind of car they drive, the school their kids attend, the neighborhood they live in — they would pause and say, almost automatically, “Don’t judge me,” and then tell me the detail.

It wasn’t said as a joke. It wasn’t said lightly. It was said as protection. Protection from being measured. Protection from being misunderstood. Protection from being reduced to a single choice.

And it made me wonder why this phrase has become so common. Why do so many people feel the need to guard themselves before they’ve even spoken? And what does Jesus actually mean when He says, “Do not judge, or you too will be judged” (Matthew 7:1)?

Because I’m convinced we’ve misunderstood both the phrase and the Scripture — and in doing so, we’ve missed the freedom Jesus offers.

The New Testament uses the word “judge” in two very different ways. If we don’t separate them, everything gets confused. The first kind is discernment — the ability to see clearly and tell the difference between what is healthy and what is harmful. Jesus encourages this when He says, “Judge with right judgment” (John 7:24). Paul says something similar when he writes that a mature believer “discerns all things” (1 Corinthians 2:15). Discernment is not harsh. It is not about ranking people. It is about wisdom, clarity, and truth.

The second kind is condemnation. This is the kind Jesus warns against in Matthew 7. It is the impulse to measure people, to assign worth, to assume motives, to reduce someone to a verdict. James speaks strongly about this when he says, “Who are you to judge your neighbor?” (James 4:12). Condemnation is not about truth. It is about superiority. It is about deciding someone’s value based on your own standards.

Jesus illustrates this difference with the image of a person trying to remove a speck from someone else’s eye while ignoring the plank in their own (Matthew 7:3–5). His point is not that we should never help someone see clearly. His point is that we cannot help anyone if we refuse to see ourselves honestly. Condemnation blinds us. Discernment requires humility.

When my friends said, “Don’t judge me,” they weren’t afraid I would point out sin. They weren’t afraid of moral correction. They weren’t afraid of discernment. They were afraid of condemnation — afraid I would measure them, place them somewhere on the invisible social ladder, or decide who they are based on a single detail.

This fear is not limited to one culture. In many parts of the world, people feel pressure to present a certain image — to appear successful, respectable, educated, or strong. Social media has made this even more intense. We are constantly aware of how others might see us. So “don’t judge me” becomes a way of saying, “Please don’t lower my value in your eyes.”

But beneath that fear are deeper roots. Some people say it because they feel exposed. Some say it because they have been judged harshly before — by family, community, religious leaders, or society. Some say it because they fear being misunderstood. But underneath all of these is the same truth: we fear judgment because we have learned to tie our worth to human perception.

When worth is fragile, judgment feels dangerous. When worth is earned, judgment feels threatening. When worth is comparative, judgment feels crushing.

This is where Jesus offers a completely different way to live. In the world’s system, worth is assigned by perception. In God’s kingdom, worth is given by love. Scripture shows this again and again. We are created in God’s image (Genesis 1:27). That means our worth is built into us before we ever speak, act, succeed, or fail. It is not something we earn. It is something we receive.

We are also known and loved by God long before we perform for anyone. Psalm 139 describes a God who sees us, forms us, and understands us completely. Nothing about our story surprises Him. Nothing about our weakness disqualifies us. Nothing about our past lowers our value in His eyes.

And for those who follow Jesus, there is an even deeper truth: we are free from condemnation. Paul writes that “there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Romans 8:1). Jesus tells the woman caught in adultery, “I do not condemn you” (John 8:11), and then invites her into a new way of living. He does not excuse sin, but He refuses to define people by it. He lifts shame instead of adding to it. He restores dignity instead of taking it away.

Jesus frees us from the world’s verdicts. He frees us from the fear of being measured by human standards. He frees us from the pressure to prove our worth. Choosing to follow Him is choosing to live in that freedom — to step out of the world’s system of comparison and into God’s truth about who we are.

This freedom is not abstract. It changes how we see ourselves and how we move through the world. When our worth is rooted in Jesus, we no longer need to chase approval. We no longer need to defend every choice. We no longer need to hide parts of our story. We no longer need to fear being misunderstood. Our value is secure because it rests in the One who made us, loves us, and calls us His own.

Keeping our focus on Jesus keeps us grounded in this truth. When our eyes drift back to the world’s standards, fear returns. But when our eyes stay on Him, confidence grows. We remember who we are. We remember whose we are. And we remember that no human opinion has the authority to define us.

When our worth is secure, it doesn’t just change how we feel — it changes how we live. When we know our worth in Jesus, we make decisions that don’t always make sense to people around us. We choose generosity over status. We choose forgiveness over revenge. We choose humility over self‑promotion. We choose faithfulness over convenience.

These choices can look foolish in a world that measures worth by success, wealth, or image. Paul writes that the message of Jesus looks like “foolishness” to many (1 Corinthians 1:18). But when our worth is secure, we no longer need the world to validate us. We are free to live differently. We are free to live faithfully. We are free to live without fear of being judged by human standards.

Here is the challenge — and it may feel uncomfortable: it is time for followers of Jesus to stop saying “don’t judge me.” Not because people won’t misunderstand us. Not because the world suddenly becomes kind. Not because judgment disappears. But because the phrase reveals something deeper: that we still believe human perception has power over our worth.

Jesus has already removed condemnation. Jesus has already secured our identity. Jesus has already declared our value. We do not need to fear human judgment because our worth is not in human hands. Instead of saying “don’t judge me,” we can say, “My worth is in Jesus. I am free to live faithfully, even if it looks foolish.”

We say “don’t judge me” because we fear condemnation — the world’s kind of judgment that ranks and reduces. But Jesus offers a different kind of judgment: discernment that sees clearly and restores gently. When we root ourselves in His truth, we no longer need to fear being exposed or misunderstood. His discernment frees us. His lack of condemnation heals us. And that is the kind of freedom the world is desperate to see.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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With You Always: The God Who Co-Missions

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Photo by Erik, A van Dijk: https://www.pexels.com/photo/golden-morning-27421320/

There are moments in Scripture when Jesus speaks words so steady and so simple that they become anchors for our whole lives. Matthew 28:20 is one of those moments:

“And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20, NIV)

We love this verse. But it becomes even more powerful when we remember when Jesus said it — and why. He spoke these words immediately after giving His disciples the most daunting assignment of their lives. Before He promised His presence, He handed them a mission far beyond their human ability.

“All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me.” (Matthew 28:18)
With those words, Jesus establishes His unmatched authority. Then He sends them:

“Go and make disciples of all nations… baptizing them… teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you.” (Matthew 28:19–20a)

A global mission entrusted to ordinary people. It’s overwhelming. And Jesus knows that.

So He ends with the only promise big enough to hold the weight of the mission:
“And surely I am with you always.” (Matthew 28:20)
It’s as if He’s saying, You cannot do this without Me — and you don’t have to. I am sending you, and I am going with you.

Jesus never commissions without co‑missioning.

This isn’t a new idea Jesus introduces in Matthew. This is who God has always been.

When God calls Moses to confront Pharaoh, Moses immediately feels inadequate: “Who am I that I should go?” (Exodus 3:11)
God doesn’t respond with a pep talk. He simply says, “I will be with you.” (Exodus 3:12) 

That’s the whole strategy. God sends — and God stays.

The same pattern continues with Joshua. When Joshua steps into leadership after Moses, he feels the weight of the task. God calls him to lead Israel into the Promised Land, a mission filled with uncertainty and danger. And God gives him the same promise He gave Moses:

“Do not be afraid… for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” (Joshua 1:9)

Joshua’s courage isn’t rooted in his personality or confidence. It’s rooted in God’s covenantal presence. God isn’t asking Joshua to be brave on his own — He’s asking Joshua to trust the God who goes with him.

Jesus continues this pattern in His ministry. When He sends out the Twelve, He gives them His authority and promises the Spirit will speak through them:

“It will not be you speaking, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.” (Matthew 10:20)

When He sends out the Seventy‑Two, He sends them to places He Himself intends to go (Luke 10:1), gives them authority (Luke 10:19), promises provision (Luke 10:7), reminds them the harvest belongs to God (Luke 10:2), and rejoices with them when they return (Luke 10:21).

The pattern is unmistakable: God calls, God sends, God accompanies. God commissions — and God co‑missions.

If this is who God is — if this is how God works — then the question becomes: Do we believe Him? Do we trust that His presence is enough for what He’s calling us to do?

This is the same question Paul raises in Romans 8:31:“If God is for us, who can be against us?”
Not meaning nothing will come against us, but meaning nothing that comes against us can overcome the God who goes with us.

God’s grace goes before us. God invites us to respond freely. God empowers us by His Spirit to obey. God’s holy love accompanies us in every step of the journey. Faith is choosing to trust the God who co‑missions.

And this co‑missioning isn’t just for the heroes of the faith. It’s not reserved for pastors or missionaries or evangelists. This is for all of us. I don’t know about you, but I need the Holy Spirit with me to go to Walmart. God is with us in whatever He’s calling us to do — teaching, parenting, spousing, peopling. In our work, our homes, our neighborhoods, our conversations, our commutes.

Scripture says, “Whatever you do… do it in the name of the Lord Jesus.” (Colossians 3:17)
Whatever you do. God doesn’t just co‑mission the extraordinary moments — He co‑missions the ordinary ones too.

So what does this mean for your real life — your home, your work, your relationships, your calling?

It means you are never the one walking in alone. Whether it’s the workplace, the family gathering, the hard conversation, or the unknown future, Jesus walks in with you.

It means the weight you carry quietly is not carried quietly by you alone. He is with you in the questions you don’t voice and in the places where you feel unseen.

And it means whatever God is asking of you — in your family, your work, your healing, your next step — you are not sent alone. The One who calls you is the One who equips you, and the One who equips you is the One who accompanies you.

And maybe you know what it feels like to walk into a room alone — a job interview, a new school, a social gathering where you didn’t know a soul. That moment when you thought, “I wish my person were here with me.” You could almost picture the two of you strolling in together to your favorite walk‑on song, suddenly braver because you weren’t alone. Jesus is that presence for you. Your confidence isn’t in yourself — it’s in Him. And honestly, who could compare to that.

As you move into the days ahead, may you go with confidence — not in yourself, not in your strength, not in your certainty, but in the presence of the One who goes before you, beside you, and within you. Hear His promise as if He is speaking it directly to you:

“And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20)

And may this promise echo in your spirit:
He is with you. Always.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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Anchored in El Sali

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Photo by Alexey Demidov

Years ago, when I was leading a customer service department at a newspaper, I used to tell my team something that always surprised them: “I would rather have a customer call angry than have one who silently cancels.”

An angry customer is still engaged.
They still care enough to reach out.
They still want the relationship to work.

But a silent customer — the one who quietly walks away without a word — that’s the one you’ve truly lost. Because silence means disconnection. Silence means they’ve given up.

I’ve thought about that a lot over the years, especially when I read Psalm 42. Because the psalmist is not calm, collected, or cheerful. He’s overwhelmed. He’s hurting. He’s confused. But he’s still talking to God. He hasn’t silently canceled the relationship. And that alone is a powerful picture of faith.

Not perfect faith.
Not polished faith.
But faith that refuses to disengage.

The writer of Psalm 42 says, “My soul is downcast within me.” He feels forgotten and shaken. He says, “Your waves and breakers have swept over me,” describing life crashing in from every direction. But instead of letting the waves define who God is, he brings his fear and confusion straight to God.

That’s something many of us struggle with. When life gets heavy, it’s easy to let our pain tell us who God is. It’s easy to assume that if we feel overwhelmed, God must be far away. But the psalmist does something different. He names his feelings honestly, but he doesn’t let them become the whole story.

He keeps talking to God.
He keeps reaching.
He keeps holding on.

One of the most important truths in this psalm is something the writer never says directly, but shows in every verse: we are all holding onto something. When life gets hard, we reach for something to steady us — our emotions, our own strength, the approval of others, the stories we tell ourselves, or the distractions that help us escape for a moment. But none of those things can carry the weight of a human soul.

That’s why the psalmist keeps turning back to God. He calls God “my Rock” — in Hebrew, El Sali. It’s a name that means stability, safety, and strength. In the ancient world, a rock wasn’t a pebble. It was a massive cliff — a place you could hide, a place that didn’t move when everything else did.

So the psalmist is making a choice:
I will not anchor myself to the waves. I will anchor myself to the Rock.

And that choice changes everything.

There’s a moment in the New Testament where a father brings his suffering son to Jesus and says, “I believe; help my unbelief.” It’s not a confident prayer. It’s not a triumphant prayer. It’s the prayer of someone who is exhausted and afraid, but still reaching for God. Jesus receives that prayer. And that matters, because many of us think faith has to be strong to count. But Scripture shows us something different: faith that trembles is still faith. Faith that struggles is still faith. Faith that comes with questions is still faith. What matters is that we bring it to God.

Even Jesus prayed this way. In the Garden of Gethsemane, He said, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” He asked the Father if there was another way. He brought His anguish honestly, without hiding or pretending. And He stayed in the conversation. If Jesus — the Son of God — prayed that honestly, then there is room for us to do the same.

The psalmist ends with a line that feels like a deep breath: “Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him.” He’s not saying everything is fixed. He’s not saying the storm is over. He’s saying, “I know who my God is, and I know this won’t be the end of my story.” That’s the heart of this psalm. Not that life is easy. Not that faith is simple. But that God is steady, even when we are not.

God is not shaken by what shakes you.
God is not confused by what confuses you.
God is not moved by what overwhelms you.

He is El Sali — the God who is your Rock.

Maybe you’re reading this from a place of exhaustion. Maybe life has been harder than you expected. Maybe you’ve been carrying more than you can say out loud. If that’s you, hear this: you are not standing in the storm alone. El Sali — your Rock — is steady beneath your feet. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to have the right words. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. You can lean toward the One who is strong for you.

The same God who held the psalmist in his despair…
the same God who met the father in Mark 9…
the same God who strengthened Jesus in Gethsemane…
is holding you now.

And because He does not move, you can have real hope — not the kind you have to manufacture, but the kind that comes from being held by the God who will not fail you.

El Sali — God my Rock.
The One who holds me when I cannot hold myself.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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