“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.”
EZEKIEL 41-42
JOURNAL
There are days when I realize the version of God that formed in my childhood was more dreamlike than real. Part of being human is hoping for a world where wrongs are made right and where life plays fair. That longing is not foolish; it is woven into us. Yet it can make this present world confusing, especially when we hold onto the idea of a righteous God while living in a world that does not behave righteously.
Scripture never promises that earth will operate like heaven. In fact, it tells the truth without apology. Heaven will be heaven and hell will be hell. Here, though, is a mixture. Beauty and peril. Grief and love intertwined. Darkness and light wrestling in the same story.
It is why Tolkien’s words ring so true. The world is full of peril, and many dark places exist. Yet there is still so much that is fair. Love grows in the soil of grief, and maybe that is why it becomes greater. Maybe love reveals its truest form when it must push through sorrow to survive.
When I look at the stories of Jesus, the disciples, and Paul, none of them lived lives that could easily be labeled “successful” by worldly standards. They suffered. They were rejected. They were misunderstood. And still they believed in a kingdom whose values were not shaped by comfort or success but by love, service, joy, and sacrifice. They lived for something beyond their lifetimes, trusting that God’s story was greater than anything they endured.
Peter’s letter reminds me that even in this uncertain world, God has already given us everything we need to live faithfully. His divine power holds nothing back. His promises are not soft illusions but anchors that tie us to his nature. And if we let those promises shape us, our lives will overflow with goodness, knowledge, self control, perseverance, godliness, affection, and love. These virtues do not eliminate suffering, but they keep us from being swallowed by it. They keep us from losing ourselves.
Reading Ezekiel and seeing God measure the temple walls does something in me. It reminds me that God defines what is holy. He sets the boundaries between the sacred and the common. And when I allow God to measure my life, when I allow him to shape my inner world, it separates illusion from truth. It opens a space where his Spirit can breathe.
That is why I love Eldredge’s Epic. It frames life not as chaos but as story. God’s story. A great narrative with beauty and conflict, villains and heroes, courage and fear, suffering and promise. Each of us is placed inside a subplot that matters deeply. We are not accidents of biology or random characters. We are chosen for a role. And the story cannot move forward without us taking our part seriously.
Some days I forget that. I focus on the irritation of the moment or the fear of what might come. I lose sight of the adventure. Yet God keeps calling me back to my place in the narrative. Back to purpose. Back to the truth that joy is not the absence of hardship but the presence of Christ.
Peter wrote his letter knowing his martyrdom was near. And still he urges believers to live fully, love deeply, persevere courageously. That alone is evidence that joy is not tied to circumstance but to identity and hope.
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