“But you were always a good man of business, Jacob,' faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself.
Business!' cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. "Mankind was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The deals of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”
― Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
Business!' cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. "Mankind was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The deals of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”
― Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
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.
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.
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