“I was born for a controversial world, and I cannot escape my destiny. John Quincy Adams”
JOURNAL
“I was born for a controversial world, and I cannot escape my destiny. John Quincy Adams”
JOURNAL
Nearly everything we celebrate in life is rooted in overcoming conflict. Sports exist because there is an opponent. Business is built on risk, pressure, and competition. Progress, personal, cultural, and spiritual, comes through resistance. Even the stories that move us most are not about comfort, but about endurance, sacrifice, and victory forged in difficulty.
And yet, despite being wired to admire conflict overcome, something deep inside me still longs for comfort over confrontation. I want affirmation without fire, growth without resistance, peace without the wilderness. That desire runs directly against how life actually works and against how God works. Jesus is baptized. Heaven opens. The Father affirms Him: “You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.” And immediately, without pause, the Spirit drives Him into the wilderness. Not into celebration. Not into rest. Into hunger. Isolation. Temptation. Direct conflict with Satan.
That is unsettling if my view of God is comfort first. But it makes perfect sense if conflict is not a detour from purpose, but the purpose. Jesus was not sent into the world to avoid battle but to enter it fully and decisively. His affirmation was not a reward; it was a commissioning. This exposes my flawed assumptions about God and difficulty. I often imagine that obedience should lead to ease, that faithfulness should result in protection from hardship. But Scripture paints the opposite picture. Affirmation precedes testing. Calling leads to conflict. Love does not remove the wilderness; it sends us into it, equipped.
Our culture dreams of success for what it promises: wealth, comfort, recognition, control. But that is not what we are promised. We are promised purpose. We are promised presence. We are promised victory, but not the absence of battle. Conflict, then, is not something to escape. It is something to accept, engage, and endure. We are here to build God’s kingdom, and kingdoms are not built without resistance. Sin must be confronted. Truth must be defended. Love must be practiced when it costs us something.
The victory is already assured, but the battles are still real. And we are not sent into them alone. We are sent with power, with love, and with discipline. Not for comfort, but for faithfulness. Maybe the real question is not why God allows conflict, but why I keep hoping for a life without it, when everything I value most has always required overcoming it.
“It's the action, not the fruit of the action, that's important. You have to do the right thing. It may not be in your power, may not be in your time, that there'll be any fruit. But that doesn't mean you stop doing the right thing. You may never know what results come from your action. But if you do nothing, there will be no result.”
LEVITICUS 20-21
JOURNAL
“Some doubted.” That phrase captures something deeply human. Doubt is not a flaw in our design; it is the shadow side of intelligence. We can imagine alternatives, question narratives, and test what we are told. But doubt becomes destructive when it no longer seeks truth and instead avoids it.
Truth is hard because it exposes worlds we wish were different. It reveals things about ourselves we would rather keep hidden and dismantles the stories we build to survive. From the beginning, doubt has been used not to pursue truth, but to distort it. Humanity’s struggle has never been only with sin, but with honesty.
This is why the cross is both terrifying and beautiful. The cross works only if we are honest. It cannot be used to hide, manipulate, or clean up our image. It is not a curtain. It is a spotlight. Its purpose is to bring into the open what we keep in the dark. No wonder fear tempts me to withdraw. Hiding is one of our most practiced skills, and also our greatest weakness.
When we run from truth or withhold it from those we love, we do not protect ourselves. We lose joy. We thin our relationships. Life shrinks. The cross strips away every covering and calls us to stand exposed before God. And in that moment, when there is nothing left to manage or perform, God meets us with love. We are fully forgiven, but more than that, we are redeemed. Not because we fixed ourselves, but because we stopped hiding.
I know what doubt does to me. It freezes me. It convinces me that action will only cause harm, so inaction feels safer. It leads to procrastination, avoidance, and retreat. But Scripture and the quiet work of God’s Spirit remind me that truth, though hard, leads to freedom. The world may not be as I hoped, but God remains faithful and present.
Hiding has never been the answer. God does not call us to withdraw, but to move forward in truth. Faith is not passive belief; it is lived obedience. Action matters, even when outcomes are unseen or delayed.
If I do nothing, nothing changes.
Faith without action is hollow. Truth without movement is incomplete. The cross does not invite me to hide. It sends me forward, honest, exposed, and free.
“To be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you.”
LEVITICUS 18-19
JOURNAL
It is easy, even within faith, to fall into the trap of believing that the goal of life is to fix everything about ourselves that feels broken or lacking. We convince ourselves that if we could just correct the flaws, quiet the doubts, and smooth the rough edges, then we would finally be acceptable to others, to ourselves, and even to God. Growth and repentance matter, but taken too far, that pursuit becomes a rejection of who we actually are.
What we often miss is that the beauty of life is not found in arriving perfected, but in the process of becoming. Our authenticity, with all its messiness and unfinished edges, is not something to hide. It is the very place where grace does its work. God is not waiting for a better version of us. He meets us exactly where we are.
This truth comes into sharp focus at the cross. Jesus is crucified. The brutality of humanity is exposed in full view. He cries out to God while being mocked, spat on, and challenged to save Himself. Darkness covers the land. It is a horrifying scene, not only because of the suffering, but because it reveals what we are capable of when fear and pride rule us. We destroy goodness. We mock righteousness. We avoid responsibility and allow suffering to continue.
And yet the cross is not God’s rejection of humanity. It is His refusal to abandon it. Every one of us carries guilt. No one moves through life unscarred by sin or failure. But the cross declares that God does not love us after we are cleaned up. He loves us in our brokenness and transforms us from within. Redemption does not erase our story. It redeems it. Grace does not deny our mess. It enters it.
Therefore the cross is not a demand for perfection. It is an invitation to honesty. It calls us to stop trying to save ourselves and to receive what we could never earn. This is the greatest love imaginable. A love that steps into suffering, absorbs the weight of our brokenness, and offers forgiveness instead of condemnation. In many ways, we are like babies. Helpless, dependent, often selfish, unable to care for ourselves. And yet we call babies perfect, not in ability, but in authenticity. Their weakness does not disqualify them from love.
The cross reveals the same truth about us. We are not redeemed because we finally become capable, but because God meets us in our helplessness and calls us worthy of love. Our lives are made beautiful as God meets us in the middle of our honest mess and turns what the world calls failure into a perfection rooted in love and truth..
“But you were always a good man of business, Jacob,' faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself.
LEVITICUS 17
JOURNAL
Over the last few days, the reality of death has felt unusually close. My first response is fear. Am I doing enough? Am I eating right, training right, paying attention to the signs, protecting my health the way I should? The instinct to preserve my life rises quickly.
And then I’m reminded that preserving my life is not my ultimate mission. My calling is to live fully each day I am given, to live with intention, and to make mankind my business. I look around my classroom and realize that one hundred years from now, almost none of us will still be here. Two hundred years from now, we will all be several generations removed. The worries that consume my mind, the pressures that feel urgent, the stressors that steal my peace will not matter at all.
So the question becomes simple: why am I investing so much energy in things that will not last? If I want my life to matter, I need to live for what will still matter two hundred years from now. Relationships. Faithfulness. Courage. Compassion. The ways I choose to love people. The ways I choose to engage suffering instead of avoiding it. The ways making the business of mankind my business advances God’s kingdom rather than my comfort.
That is why Pilate unsettles me so deeply.
He wasn’t ignorant. He wasn’t uninformed. He saw innocence clearly enough to name it. His wife even warned him. The injustice wasn’t hidden; it was unfolding right in front of him. And yet, he was caught up in something bigger than the moment itself...political pressure, crowd control, reputation, the fear of what might happen if he intervened. In the end, he missed what was required of him right then. He washed his hands and moved on.
I realize how easily I do the same thing. I tend to imagine faithfulness in grand gestures, big stands, dramatic moments, sweeping acts of courage, while quietly overlooking the subtle cries for help that appear right in front of me. A tired face. A distracted child. A student who needs attention more than instruction. A conversation I rush past because it feels inconvenient or small. I tell myself I’ll show up later, in a bigger way, when it really counts.
But Scripture seems to insist that it always counts. The call of faith is not primarily about extraordinary acts reserved for extraordinary moments. It is about attentiveness. Presence. Responding to what God places in front of me today. Hunger rarely announces itself loudly. Loneliness is often disguised. Suffering usually whispers. And if I’m waiting for something obvious or heroic, I will miss the very opportunities God intends for me to see.
Jesus doesn’t describe the final judgment in terms of bold declarations or public achievements. He points to small, ordinary moments...feeding, welcoming, visiting, noticing. Acts so unremarkable that the righteous don’t even remember doing them. They were simply faithful to the moment they were given.
I think this is what Scripture ultimately calls me to embrace: letting today be my primary concern. Not tomorrow’s outcomes. Not future fears. Not imagined scenarios that may never come. Today is where obedience lives. Today is where love shows up. The rest, how long I live, what comes next, how it all turns out, I can entrust to God.
My responsibility is not to orchestrate a meaningful life. It is to be present in the one I’ve been given, and to treat every quiet need, every small moment, as holy ground.
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
LEVITICUS 14
JOURNAL
The purpose of our lives is not to manage outcomes or secure tomorrow. It is to live fully in the moment we are given. To live it attentively, faithfully, and with courage. To resist the constant temptation to escape the present by trying to fix, predict, or control what comes next.
Peter didn’t fail because he lacked knowledge. He failed because fear pulled him out of the moment. Everything he thought would happen was unraveling. His expectations of how the story was supposed to go were collapsing in real time. And in that moment of fear, when the future felt unsafe and uncertain, he rejected the very presence of God standing before him.
I see myself in Peter more than I want to admit.
I reject Jesus not always through outright denial, but through distraction. Through dismissing the extraordinary weight of the present moment while obsessing over tomorrow. I do it when fear of what might happen robs me of faithfulness to what is happening. Scripture is clear: I cannot control tomorrow. Not even a little. But I can participate in today. And when I do, I am present with Christ. When I don’t, I turn away from Him.
Peter denied Jesus because he was trying to survive the moment instead of inhabit it.
How often do I do the same?
We rejected perfection. Humanity looked at goodness without flaw and executed it. That truth should horrify us, yet it reveals something deeper: goodness will always be resisted in a broken world. If I seek God honestly, suffering will follow. Not because God is cruel, but because light exposes darkness, and darkness lashes out.
There are moments when the cross feels absurd in its mercy. When the depth of forgiveness stops me cold. I ask God to keep that reality alive in me, not as guilt, but as grounding. I ask Him to steady the pendulum so my life is not a constant swing between obedience and rebellion, but a quiet, faithful staying in the present...where Jesus is always found.
To live the moment well is not passive. It is courageous. It is resistance against fear. It is the daily choice to trust God here, now, without guarantees. And when I do that, I do not reject Christ. I receive Him.