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You have left—but you have not arrived

We had already completed the first flight of our trip, but we still had another flight ahead of us.

Between them was a four-hour overnight layover.

The airport terminal was unusually quiet. Luggage sat beside rows of seats. People slept wherever they could find enough room—across chairs, against walls, and on the floor.

For those four hours, we were no longer where we had started, but we were not yet where we were going.

We belonged to neither place.

There are seasons of life that feel exactly like that.

You know something has ended. Perhaps you left a job, stepped away from a ministry, ended a relationship, moved away, or simply recognized that a familiar chapter of your life had closed.

You cannot go back and live in that season again.

But you also cannot clearly see what is supposed to replace it.

You have left—but you have not arrived.

These seasons can make us question ourselves because very little appears to be happening. We want visible movement. We want a clear direction, measurable progress, and some evidence that we are getting closer to whatever comes next.

Instead, we find ourselves waiting.

But a layover is still part of the journey.

It is not the destination, and it is not necessarily a place where we would choose to remain. Yet it connects the flight we have completed with the one we still need to take.

Eventually, our boarding group was called. We gathered our luggage, boarded the next airplane, and continued the journey.

We were moving again, but we still could not see our destination.

The ground was hidden by darkness and clouds. We knew the general direction we were traveling, but the place itself remained somewhere beyond the horizon.

Then dawn began to break at 30,000 feet.

The sunrise did not mean we had arrived.

It did not show us the entire route or answer every question about what waited for us when we landed.

It simply gave us enough light to continue traveling.

Psalm 139:9–10 says:

“If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;
Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.”

“Even there.”

Not only after we arrive.

Not only when we understand the route.

Not only when everything finally makes sense.

Even in the place between what ended and what has not yet begun, God’s hand can still lead us.

I think we sometimes interpret uncertainty as evidence that we have missed God. But faithfulness does not guarantee that we will always understand what He is doing. There are times when we are obeying the last direction He gave us while still waiting for the next one.

The clouds may hide the horizon from us, but they cannot stop God from bringing the dawn.

The sunrise does not always mean we have arrived. Sometimes it is simply God reminding us that He is still present and giving us enough light to take the next part of the journey.

Have you ever experienced a season when you knew where you had been—but could not yet see where God was taking you?

You have left—but you have not arrived

We had already completed the first flight of our trip, but we still had another flight ahead of us.

Between them was a four-hour overnight layover.

The airport terminal was unusually quiet. Luggage sat beside rows of seats. People slept wherever they could find enough room—across chairs, against walls, and on the floor.

For those four hours, we were no longer where we had started, but we were not yet where we were going.

We belonged to neither place.

There are seasons of life that feel exactly like that.

You know something has ended. Perhaps you left a job, stepped away from a ministry, ended a relationship, moved away, or simply recognized that a familiar chapter of your life had closed.

You cannot go back and live in that season again.

But you also cannot clearly see what is supposed to replace it.

You have left—but you have not arrived.

These seasons can make us question ourselves because very little appears to be happening. We want visible movement. We want a clear direction, measurable progress, and some evidence that we are getting closer to whatever comes next.

Instead, we find ourselves waiting.

But a layover is still part of the journey.

It is not the destination, and it is not necessarily a place where we would choose to remain. Yet it connects the flight we have completed with the one we still need to take.

Eventually, our boarding group was called. We gathered our luggage, boarded the next airplane, and continued the journey.

We were moving again, but we still could not see our destination.

The ground was hidden by darkness and clouds. We knew the general direction we were traveling, but the place itself remained somewhere beyond the horizon.

Then dawn began to break at 30,000 feet.

The sunrise did not mean we had arrived.

It did not show us the entire route or answer every question about what waited for us when we landed.

It simply gave us enough light to continue traveling.

Psalm 139:9–10 says:

“If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;
Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.”

“Even there.”

Not only after we arrive.

Not only when we understand the route.

Not only when everything finally makes sense.

Even in the place between what ended and what has not yet begun, God’s hand can still lead us.

I think we sometimes interpret uncertainty as evidence that we have missed God. But faithfulness does not guarantee that we will always understand what He is doing. There are times when we are obeying the last direction He gave us while still waiting for the next one.

The clouds may hide the horizon from us, but they cannot stop God from bringing the dawn.

The sunrise does not always mean we have arrived. Sometimes it is simply God reminding us that He is still present and giving us enough light to take the next part of the journey.

Have you ever experienced a season when you knew where you had been—but could not yet see where God was taking you?

“And he said unto them, Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest a while: for there were many coming and going, and they had no leisure so much as to eat.”
—Mark 6:31

I recently returned from a vacation and realized that I had been more depleted than I understood.

That is one of the dangers of constant activity: exhaustion eventually begins to feel normal.

We keep working, answering messages, solving problems, caring for people, and meeting responsibilities. Because we are still functioning, we assume we must be fine.

Mark 6 describes the disciples returning to Jesus after being sent out in ministry. They had preached repentance, cast out devils, anointed the sick, and witnessed people being healed.

They were not exhausted from wasting their time.

They were exhausted from pouring themselves out.

The demands became so constant that Scripture says there were “many coming and going.” They could not even find enough uninterrupted time to eat.

Jesus saw the crowd and the needs surrounding them.

But He also saw His disciples.

He did not question their commitment or accuse them of laziness. He did not tell them that greater faith would remove their need for food, sleep, distance, or quiet.

He told them:

“Come ye yourselves apart…and rest a while.”

What strikes me is that the work was not finished.

The people had not stopped coming. The needs had not disappeared. There were still sick people, hungry people, and people who needed to hear the truth.

Jesus did not invite the disciples to rest because the work was finished.

He invited them to rest because they were not.

Many of us treat rest as a reward we are allowed to receive once everything has been completed.

Once the work is finished, we will rest.

Once the messages are answered, we will rest.

Once every problem has been solved and everyone else is satisfied, we will rest.

But everything is never finished.

There will always be another need, another email, another problem, and another person asking something from us.

If we wait until life gives us permission to rest, we may never rest at all.

Rest is not laziness. It is woven throughout Scripture.

God rested after creation—not because He was exhausted, but because the work had reached its appointed stopping place. Israel was commanded to observe the Sabbath. David wrote of still waters and a restored soul. Jesus regularly withdrew from the crowds to pray.

Rest is not always the absence of activity.

Sometimes rest is the absence of demand.

My vacation was physically active. I traveled, walked, toured, photographed, talked with family, and wrote in my journal. In some ways, my mind became more active than it had been in months.

But for several days, I was no longer required to give my attention to everything that normally demanded it.

Once that noise quieted, I began noticing things I might otherwise have overlooked: people waiting at an airport gate, dawn above the clouds, the sound of the ocean in darkness, the history carried by weathered buildings and old streets, and the bittersweet truth that sometimes we leave because a good season has reached its appointed end.

None of those moments shouted.

They were simply there, waiting to be noticed.

Rest does not require an airline ticket or an expensive vacation.

It may be an hour without the phone, a quiet drive, a walk without headphones, or time with an open Bible and no agenda beyond listening.

I left believing I needed a vacation.

I returned understanding that I needed enough distance from the noise to recognize what God had been placing in front of me.

The journey did not suddenly make God speak.

God had been speaking all along.

Rest simply created room for me to listen.

When was the last time you stopped—not because everything was finished, but because you recognized that you needed rest?

“And he said unto them, Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest a while: for there were many coming and going, and they had no leisure so much as to eat.”
—Mark 6:31

I recently returned from a vacation and realized that I had been more depleted than I understood.

That is one of the dangers of constant activity: exhaustion eventually begins to feel normal.

We keep working, answering messages, solving problems, caring for people, and meeting responsibilities. Because we are still functioning, we assume we must be fine.

Mark 6 describes the disciples returning to Jesus after being sent out in ministry. They had preached repentance, cast out devils, anointed the sick, and witnessed people being healed.

They were not exhausted from wasting their time.

They were exhausted from pouring themselves out.

The demands became so constant that Scripture says there were “many coming and going.” They could not even find enough uninterrupted time to eat.

Jesus saw the crowd and the needs surrounding them.

But He also saw His disciples.

He did not question their commitment or accuse them of laziness. He did not tell them that greater faith would remove their need for food, sleep, distance, or quiet.

He told them:

“Come ye yourselves apart…and rest a while.”

What strikes me is that the work was not finished.

The people had not stopped coming. The needs had not disappeared. There were still sick people, hungry people, and people who needed to hear the truth.

Jesus did not invite the disciples to rest because the work was finished.

He invited them to rest because they were not.

Many of us treat rest as a reward we are allowed to receive once everything has been completed.

Once the work is finished, we will rest.

Once the messages are answered, we will rest.

Once every problem has been solved and everyone else is satisfied, we will rest.

But everything is never finished.

There will always be another need, another email, another problem, and another person asking something from us.

If we wait until life gives us permission to rest, we may never rest at all.

Rest is not laziness. It is woven throughout Scripture.

God rested after creation—not because He was exhausted, but because the work had reached its appointed stopping place. Israel was commanded to observe the Sabbath. David wrote of still waters and a restored soul. Jesus regularly withdrew from the crowds to pray.

Rest is not always the absence of activity.

Sometimes rest is the absence of demand.

My vacation was physically active. I traveled, walked, toured, photographed, talked with family, and wrote in my journal. In some ways, my mind became more active than it had been in months.

But for several days, I was no longer required to give my attention to everything that normally demanded it.

Once that noise quieted, I began noticing things I might otherwise have overlooked: people waiting at an airport gate, dawn above the clouds, the sound of the ocean in darkness, the history carried by weathered buildings and old streets, and the bittersweet truth that sometimes we leave because a good season has reached its appointed end.

None of those moments shouted.

They were simply there, waiting to be noticed.

Rest does not require an airline ticket or an expensive vacation.

It may be an hour without the phone, a quiet drive, a walk without headphones, or time with an open Bible and no agenda beyond listening.

I left believing I needed a vacation.

I returned understanding that I needed enough distance from the noise to recognize what God had been placing in front of me.

The journey did not suddenly make God speak.

God had been speaking all along.

Rest simply created room for me to listen.

When was the last time you stopped—not because everything was finished, but because you recognized that you needed rest?

Just a quick note for those who regularly follow Watchman Ministries…

I’m going to be a little quiet on social media this week.

Sometimes the right thing to do is simply put the phone down, step away from the noise, and be fully present with the people God has placed in your life.

So that’s what I’m doing.

No daily posts. No pressure to keep up with comments or notifications.

Just some time to rest, recharge, enjoy the people around me, and pay attention to what God may want to say when I’m not so busy trying to find something to say.

Watchman Ministries will be back.

Until then, take care of yourselves, love the people God has given you, and maybe put your own phone down for a little while, too.

Sometimes being present is the most important thing on the schedule.

Just a quick note for those who regularly follow Watchman Ministries…

I’m going to be a little quiet on social media this week.

Sometimes the right thing to do is simply put the phone down, step away from the noise, and be fully present with the people God has placed in your life.

So that’s what I’m doing.

No daily posts. No pressure to keep up with comments or notifications.

Just some time to rest, recharge, enjoy the people around me, and pay attention to what God may want to say when I’m not so busy trying to find something to say.

Watchman Ministries will be back.

Until then, take care of yourselves, love the people God has given you, and maybe put your own phone down for a little while, too.

Sometimes being present is the most important thing on the schedule.

I’ve restored old cast iron for years, and something occurred to me one evening while I was working on a particularly stubborn piece.

Some old cast iron looks absolutely hopeless when you find it.

Rust. Grease. Carbon. Decades of buildup.

Most people would probably walk right past it.

But if you’ve restored enough of it, you learn not to judge the iron by what’s accumulated on its surface.

You begin seeing what it could be.

Restoration starts by removing as much loose buildup as possible with a wire brush. Eventually, though, you reach places the brush can’t.

That’s when I put the piece into an electrolysis tank.

And wait.

Sometimes hours.

Sometimes days.

From the outside, it doesn’t look like much is happening.

But beneath the water, rust is loosening. Corrosion is releasing its grip. Things that have been attached for decades are separating from the iron.

Eventually I pull it out, scrub it, and inspect it.

Sometimes it needs to go back in.

The process isn’t repeated because it failed. It’s repeated because the work isn’t finished.

I’ve thought about that sentence quite a bit.

Because sometimes God’s work in us feels exactly like that.

We accumulate things along the way.

Sin. Shame. Pride. Bitterness. Compromise.

Then there are the less obvious layers—habits, influences, buried wounds, offenses, attitudes we’ve carried for so long that we begin thinking they’re simply part of who we are.

But God doesn’t mistake the buildup for the person beneath it.

Sometimes His correction feels like the wire brush.

Sometimes His work happens in places nobody else can see.

Sometimes we think we’re finally finished with something only to discover another layer.

Back into His hands we go.

More conviction.

More surrender.

More healing.

More letting go.

That doesn’t mean God failed.

It means He’s not finished.

Philippians 1:6 says that He who began a good work in us will complete it.

There’s another rule of cast iron restoration:

Never season over the buildup.

If you season over rust, grease, and carbon, you haven’t restored anything. You’ve just covered the problem.

We sometimes try to do that spiritually.

Clean up the outside.

Say the right things.

Look religious.

Make sure everybody thinks we’re doing fine.

But Isaiah 64:6 says even our righteousness is like filthy rags before Him.

God isn’t interested in cosmetic righteousness.

He doesn’t season over our sin.

He cleanses us.

And that’s where 2 Corinthians 5:17 becomes beautiful:

“If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.”

When I finish stripping an old piece of cast iron, it’s still the same iron.

But you’d hardly recognize it.

Details that had disappeared beneath corrosion suddenly become visible again.

The history hasn’t changed.

The condition has.

And I think that’s important.

God doesn’t erase our history.

He changes what defines us.

Scars may remain.

Consequences may remain.

There may even be some “pitting” from things that happened years ago.

But those things no longer own us.

Then comes seasoning.

Oil. Heat. Cool. Repeat.

Layer after layer.

And eventually that old skillet is ready to do what it was created to do.

Be used.

That’s when another part of the illustration hit me.

The rust never changed the skillet’s purpose.

Neither did the grime.

Neither did the years it spent neglected or unused.

Those things only prevented it from fulfilling that purpose.

Maybe somebody reading this needs to hear the same thing:

What happened to you has not changed why God created you.

2 Timothy 2:21 speaks about becoming “a vessel for honor, sanctified and useful for the Master, prepared for every good work.”

Useful.

That’s the goal.

A restored skillet isn’t meant to spend the rest of its existence sitting on a shelf looking pretty.

It’s meant to feed people.

And maybe there’s one last lesson there for us.

God doesn’t restore us merely so we can admire our own restoration.

He restores us so our lives can become useful to Him and a blessing to others.

Our restoration was never intended to end with us.

If you think too much rust has accumulated…

If you think you’ve been neglected too long…

If you think your scars have made you useless…

Remember:

The Restorer sees beneath the corrosion.

He knows what He created.

And He hasn’t forgotten why He created you.

God is still in the business of restoration.

And He still has a purpose for the restored.

I’ve restored old cast iron for years, and something occurred to me one evening while I was working on a particularly stubborn piece.

Some old cast iron looks absolutely hopeless when you find it.

Rust. Grease. Carbon. Decades of buildup.

Most people would probably walk right past it.

But if you’ve restored enough of it, you learn not to judge the iron by what’s accumulated on its surface.

You begin seeing what it could be.

Restoration starts by removing as much loose buildup as possible with a wire brush. Eventually, though, you reach places the brush can’t simply can’t get thru.

That’s when I put the piece into an electrolysis tank.

And wait.

Sometimes hours.

Sometimes days.

From the outside, it doesn’t look like much is happening.

But beneath the water, rust is loosening. Corrosion is releasing its grip. Things that have been attached for decades are separating from the iron.

Eventually I pull it out, scrub it, and inspect it.

Sometimes it needs to go back in.

The process isn’t repeated because it failed. It’s repeated because the work isn’t finished.

I’ve thought about that sentence quite a bit.

Because sometimes God’s work in us feels exactly like that.

We accumulate things along the way.

Sin. Shame. Pride. Bitterness. Compromise.

Then there are the less obvious layers—habits, influences, buried wounds, offenses, attitudes we’ve carried for so long that we begin thinking they’re simply part of who we are.

But God doesn’t mistake the buildup for the person beneath it.

Sometimes His correction feels like the wire brush.

Sometimes His work happens in places nobody else can see.

Sometimes we think we’re finally finished with something only to discover another layer.

Back into His hands we go.

More conviction.

More surrender.

More healing.

More letting go.

That doesn’t mean God failed.

It means He’s not finished.

Philippians 1:6 says that “…He who began a good work in us will complete it.”

There’s another rule of cast iron restoration:

Never season over the buildup.

If you season over rust, grease, and carbon, you haven’t restored anything. You’ve just covered the problem.

We sometimes try to do that spiritually.

Clean up the outside.

Say the right things.

Look religious.

Make sure everybody thinks we’re doing fine.

But Isaiah 64:6 says even our righteousness is like filthy rags before Him.

God isn’t interested in cosmetic righteousness.

He doesn’t season over our sin.

He cleanses us.

And that’s where 2 Corinthians 5:17 becomes beautiful:

“If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.”

When I finish stripping an old piece of cast iron, it’s still the same iron.

But you’d hardly recognize it.

Details that had disappeared beneath corrosion suddenly become visible again.

The history hasn’t changed.

The condition has.

And I think that’s important.

God doesn’t erase our history.

He changes what defines us.

Scars may remain.

Consequences may remain.

There may even be some “pitting” from things that happened years ago.

But those things no longer own us.

Then comes seasoning.

Oil. Heat. Cool. Repeat.

Layer after layer.

And eventually that old skillet is ready to do what it was created to do.

Be used.

That’s when another part of the illustration hit me.

The rust never changed the skillet’s purpose.

Neither did the grime.

Neither did the years it spent neglected or unused.

Those things only prevented it from fulfilling that purpose.

Maybe somebody reading this needs to hear the same thing:

What happened to you has not changed why God created you.

2 Timothy 2:21 speaks about becoming “a vessel for honor, sanctified and useful for the Master, prepared for every good work.”

Useful.

That’s the goal.

A restored skillet isn’t meant to spend the rest of its existence sitting on a shelf looking pretty.

It’s meant to feed people.

And maybe there’s one last lesson there for us.

God doesn’t restore us merely so we can admire our own restoration.

He restores us so our lives can become useful to Him and a blessing to others.

Our restoration was never intended to end with us.

If you think too much rust has accumulated…

If you think you’ve been neglected too long…

If you think your scars have made you useless…

Remember:

The Restorer sees beneath the corrosion.

He knows what He created.

And He hasn’t forgotten why He created you.

God is still in the business of restoration.

And He still has a purpose for the restored.

Those of you who have followed me for any length of time know that I rarely—almost never—use this space to address doctrinal controversies.

I’d much rather point people toward Christ than spend my time arguing about the things Christians disagree over.

But every once in a while, something happens.

A conversation.

A social media post.

A sermon that doesn’t quite sit right in my spirit.

And something begins to burn.

Not because I want an argument. Not because I believe everyone has to agree with me. And certainly not because I have everything figured out.

But because sometimes something needs to be said.

This is one of those times.

I recently encountered a meme criticizing churches that do not enforce certain “holiness standards.” It accused them of cherry-picking the Bible, called their worship “strange fire,” compared them to the Laodicean church, and ended with an admonition:

“Repent. Return to holiness. Preach the whole counsel of God.”

On that last point, I couldn’t agree more.

So let’s do exactly that.

I believe in holiness.

I believe Scripture when it says, “Pursue peace with all people, and holiness, without which no one will see the Lord” (Hebrews 12:14 NKJV).

I believe Christians are called to be different from the world. I believe our relationship with Christ should affect our conduct, our speech, our relationships, our entertainment, our priorities, our appearance, and ultimately every area of our lives.

This is not an argument against holiness.

It is an argument that holiness and enforced conformity are not the same thing.

A church can enforce a dress code.

A church can establish grooming requirements.

A church can make rules concerning jewelry, makeup, clothing, entertainment, or any number of other things.

Those rules may even have been established with sincere intentions and based upon someone’s earnest application of biblical principles.

But rules can only produce compliance.

They cannot produce holiness.

A person can look exactly right on Sunday morning while being filled with bitterness, pride, lust, dishonesty, hatred, unforgiveness, or self-righteousness.

Jesus addressed precisely that danger when He confronted the Pharisees:

“First cleanse the inside of the cup and dish, that the outside of them may be clean also.”
— Matthew 23:26 NKJV

Notice the order.

Inside first. Then outside.

Jesus wasn’t teaching that the outside doesn’t matter. He was teaching us where genuine transformation begins.

And that distinction matters.

Commandment, Conviction, and Tradition

I believe much of the confusion surrounding holiness disappears when we recognize three different categories that Christians sometimes unintentionally combine.

First, there are biblical commands.

Where Scripture clearly speaks, we obey.

Adultery isn’t a personal-conviction issue. Neither are dishonesty, drunkenness, hatred, sexual immorality, or the many other things Scripture plainly addresses.

We don’t get to dismiss God’s commandments by saying, “I don’t personally feel convicted about that.”

God has already spoken.

Second, there are personal convictions.

This is an area where I believe we desperately need to recover Paul’s teaching in Romans 14.

There may be things you cannot do with a clear conscience before God that another sincere Christian can.

If a woman sincerely believes cutting her hair would violate her conscience before God, she shouldn’t cut it.

If a man sincerely believes wearing facial hair would violate his conscience before God, he shouldn’t grow it.

If someone believes wearing shorts would violate his conviction before God, he shouldn’t wear them.

Paul writes:

“Happy is he who does not condemn himself in what he approves.”
— Romans 14:22 NKJV

And then:

“For whatever is not from faith is sin.”
— Romans 14:23 NKJV

We should never encourage someone to violate a sincere conviction simply because we don’t share it.

But Romans 14 goes both directions.

Paul also says:

“Let not him who eats despise him who does not eat, and let not him who does not eat judge him who eats; for God has received him.”
— Romans 14:3 NKJV

That’s a remarkable balance.

Don’t despise.

Don’t judge.

The Christian who possesses liberty shouldn’t mock someone whose conscience is more restrictive.

But the Christian with the restrictive conviction shouldn’t turn his personal conviction into God’s universal commandment.

“God convicted me” and “God commanded everyone” are not necessarily the same statement.

We need enough humility to recognize the difference.

Liberty Is Governed by Love

There’s another side of this that matters deeply to me.

Having Christian liberty doesn’t mean I have to exercise it everywhere simply because I can.

Paul writes:

“But beware lest somehow this liberty of yours become a stumbling block to those who are weak.”
— 1 Corinthians 8:9 NKJV

I wear shorts.

I have no personal conviction against them.

But if I’m going somewhere with a brother whom I know sincerely believes he shouldn’t wear shorts, I’m perfectly capable of putting on a pair of long pants.

Why?

Not because his conviction suddenly became mine.

Not because I’ve decided shorts are sinful.

And not because another Christian gets to dictate my convictions.

I do it because loving my brother matters more than proving my liberty.

Christian maturity isn’t demonstrated by seeing how much liberty we can exercise.

Sometimes it’s demonstrated by having liberty and voluntarily laying it aside for someone else’s sake.

But neither should the phrase “stumbling block” be used as a weapon to control other believers.

Being offended by another person’s liberty isn’t necessarily the same thing as stumbling.

Paul’s concern was that my exercise of liberty could encourage another believer to violate his own conscience.

There’s a difference between:

“I wouldn’t do that.”

and:

“Watching you do that is leading me to do something I believe is sin.”

Love requires us to understand the difference.

Then There Is Tradition

This is where the conversation becomes uncomfortable.

Tradition isn’t inherently evil.

Some traditions are beautiful.

Some church standards are wise.

Some applications of biblical principles have been passed down because generations before us learned lessons worth remembering.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with saying:

“This is how our church practices this principle.”

The danger begins when:

“This is how we practice it”

becomes:

“This is what holiness requires,”

and eventually:

“Anyone who doesn’t practice it exactly as we do is disobedient to God.”

Jesus confronted this problem directly.

Speaking to religious people who had elevated their traditions, He said:

“All too well you reject the commandment of God, that you may keep your tradition.”
— Mark 7:9 NKJV

Then, after discussing their tradition concerning Corban, Jesus said they were:

“making the word of God of no effect through your tradition which you have handed down.”
— Mark 7:13 NKJV

The problem wasn’t simply that they possessed traditions.

The problem was that human tradition had acquired an authority that belonged to God’s Word.

And that should make every one of us examine ourselves.

Not just Apostolics.

Not just Baptists.

Not just Catholics.

Not just Pentecostals.

Every one of us.

Because every Christian tradition is capable of confusing:

“This is how we’ve always done it”

with:

“Thus says the Lord.”

Those statements are not interchangeable.

Tradition becomes dangerous not when we practice it, but when we can no longer distinguish between what we have always taught and what God actually said.

Where Does Scripture Say It?

Scripture teaches modesty.

Absolutely.

Scripture teaches separation from sin.

Absolutely.

Scripture teaches holiness in our conduct and how we present ourselves.

Absolutely.

But once we begin creating specific applications of those principles, intellectual and spiritual honesty require us to distinguish the biblical principle from our application of it.

How long must a sleeve be?

Exactly where must a hemline fall?

May a man wear shorts?

May he have facial hair?

What constitutes jewelry?

What about a wedding band?

What constitutes makeup?

What exactly constitutes cutting one’s hair?

Christians have developed answers to questions like these.

Sometimes those answers represent deeply held and sincere convictions.

Respect them.

If that is your conviction before God, live it faithfully.

I have no desire whatsoever to talk you out of something you sincerely believe God has asked of you.

But before we tell another Christian that our particular application is required for holiness, we have an obligation to ask:

Where does Scripture say it?

Not merely:

Where is the biblical principle from which I derived it?

But:

Where does Scripture establish my particular application of that principle as the universal requirement for every believer?

If we cannot demonstrate that, perhaps the more humble statement is:

“This is how I believe God has called me to apply that biblical principle.”

There’s no shame in saying that.

There is wisdom in it.

You Can Look the Part and Still Miss the Point

For years, I told the young people in my Sunday School classes something I still believe today.

You can wear all the right clothes.

Girls, you can keep your hair long. You can wear sleeves to your fingertips and skirts to the floor.

Boys, you can keep your hair short. You can wear long sleeves and long pants.

You can look exactly like everyone expects an Apostolic young person to look.

And then one word can reveal your heart.

One action can reveal your heart.

One moment of anger.

One cruel comment.

One lie.

One piece of gossip.

One arrogant response.

One act of dishonesty when telling the truth would cost you something.

The world already sees how you’re dressed.

They already recognize what you profess to believe.

Now they’re watching to see whether you live what you say you believe.

Jesus said:

“For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”
— Matthew 12:34 NKJV

That’s why I never wanted my students merely to learn how to look Apostolic.

I wanted them to become like Christ.

The clothing matters when it reflects a sincere conviction.

Modesty matters because Scripture teaches it.

Obedience matters.

Separation from sin matters.

But none of those things can substitute for a transformed heart.

You can dress modestly and treat the waitress terribly because your order is wrong.

You can never cut your hair and destroy someone’s reputation with gossip.

You can wear long sleeves and lie when telling the truth would cost you something.

You can remove every piece of jewelry and still adorn yourself with pride.

You can look unmistakably Christian and treat someone who doesn’t look like you as though they’re beneath you.

A holiness standard may tell the world something about our convictions. Our character tells the world something about our Christ.

And if our outward holiness announces that we belong to Jesus while our character tells the people around us something entirely different, the problem isn’t that our outward standard was too high.

The problem is that our transformation didn’t go deep enough.

The Pharisee Problem

This is precisely why Jesus’ confrontations with the Pharisees should make religious people uncomfortable.

His strongest confrontations were often not with people who cared nothing about righteousness.

They were with people who cared tremendously about religious observance.

He told the scribes and Pharisees:

“For you pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith.”
— Matthew 23:23 NKJV

But don’t miss what Jesus said next:

“These you ought to have done, without leaving the others undone.”

Jesus wasn’t advocating lawlessness.

The problem wasn’t that they were too obedient.

The problem was that they had become meticulous about things they could measure while neglecting things that revealed the condition of their hearts.

And religious people are still vulnerable to that.

It’s relatively easy to measure a hemline.

It’s considerably harder to measure humility.

It’s easy to see whether someone is wearing jewelry.

It’s harder to see bitterness.

It’s easy to enforce grooming standards.

It’s harder to confront pride.

It’s easy to determine whether somebody looks like us.

It’s considerably harder to ask whether we look like Christ.

That is why outward conformity can never become our primary measurement of holiness.

Paul gives us another measurement of what is happening inside a Spirit-led person:

“The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.”
— Galatians 5:22–23 NKJV

Those aren’t alternatives to holiness.

They are evidence of it.

So perhaps we should occasionally ask ourselves a harder question:

If everyone around us can see our standards, but they cannot see our love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control…

What exactly are we showing them?

And Yes—Preach the Whole Counsel of God

Preach modesty.

Preach purity.

Preach separation from sin.

Preach sobriety.

Preach obedience.

Preach repentance.

But if we’re going to preach the whole counsel of God, then let’s preach all of it.

Preach mercy.

Preach humility.

Preach compassion.

Preach patience.

Preach forgiveness.

Preach generosity.

Preach controlling the tongue.

Preach caring for the poor.

Preach loving our enemies.

Preach bearing with weaker believers.

Preach refusing to judge another man’s servant.

Preach the fruit of the Spirit.

Preach that knowledge without love makes us nothing.

Preach that the greatest among us is the servant.

Preach that God resists the proud but gives grace to the humble.

That’s holiness too.

And perhaps this is where we have sometimes failed people.

When Christianity becomes primarily a list of visible behaviors, people can learn how to look holy without ever learning how to be holy.

Worse, when our traditions are presented with the same authority as Scripture, someone who eventually discovers that a particular tradition cannot be established from the biblical text may begin questioning everything else we taught them.

And I believe this has contributed to some people walking away from churches—and, tragically, sometimes walking away from God altogether.

Not every person who leaves does so because of legalism. Not remotely. People leave churches and abandon faith for many reasons, and we shouldn’t rewrite every story to excuse individual choices.

But neither should we refuse to examine ourselves.

Because some people haven’t rejected Christ nearly as much as they’ve rejected a religious culture they were taught was indistinguishable from Christ.

That should concern us.

It should especially concern those of us entrusted with teaching the next generation.

We should want their faith anchored so deeply in Jesus Christ and the Word of God that when they encounter traditions, disagreements, failures in leadership, or Christians who practice their faith differently, their foundation remains secure.

So yes.

Preach the whole counsel of God.

Teach what Scripture commands.

Preach the principles Scripture establishes.

Allow the Holy Spirit room to develop personal convictions.

Respect the conscience of your brother or sister.

Never encourage someone to violate a sincere conviction.

When love requires it, willingly limit your own liberty.

Honor traditions that are beneficial without pretending they are Scripture.

And never confuse:

“God convicted me”

with:

“God commanded everyone.”

You can enforce rules.

You can enforce dress codes.

You can enforce institutional standards.

You can even enforce conformity.

But you cannot enforce holiness.

Only God can produce holiness.

And when He truly changes the inside, it will eventually show on the outside.

Maybe instead of spending so much time making sure everyone else looks like us, we should spend a little more time asking whether we look like Him.

Because holiness was never supposed to make us feel superior to our neighbor.

Holiness is supposed to make us more like Christ.

Those of you who have followed me for any length of time know that I rarely—almost never—use this space to address doctrinal controversies.

I’d much rather point people toward Christ than spend my time arguing about the things Christians disagree over.

But every once in a while, something happens.

A conversation.

A social media post.

A sermon that doesn’t quite sit right in my spirit.

And something begins to burn.

Not because I want an argument. Not because I believe everyone has to agree with me. And certainly not because I have everything figured out.

But because sometimes something needs to be said.

This is one of those times.

I recently encountered a meme criticizing churches that do not enforce certain “holiness standards.” It accused them of cherry-picking the Bible, called their worship “strange fire,” compared them to the Laodicean church, and ended with an admonition:

“Repent. Return to holiness. Preach the whole counsel of God.”

On that last point, I couldn’t agree more.

So let’s do exactly that.

I believe in holiness.

I believe Scripture when it says, “Pursue peace with all people, and holiness, without which no one will see the Lord” (Hebrews 12:14 NKJV).

I believe Christians are called to be different from the world. I believe our relationship with Christ should affect our conduct, our speech, our relationships, our entertainment, our priorities, our appearance, and ultimately every area of our lives.

This is not an argument against holiness.

It is an argument that holiness and enforced conformity are not the same thing.

A church can enforce a dress code.

A church can establish grooming requirements.

A church can make rules concerning jewelry, makeup, clothing, entertainment, or any number of other things.

Those rules may even have been established with sincere intentions and based upon someone’s earnest application of biblical principles.

But rules can only produce compliance.

They cannot produce holiness.

A person can look exactly right on Sunday morning while being filled with bitterness, pride, lust, dishonesty, hatred, unforgiveness, or self-righteousness.

Jesus addressed precisely that danger when He confronted the Pharisees:

“First cleanse the inside of the cup and dish, that the outside of them may be clean also.”
— Matthew 23:26 NKJV

Notice the order.

Inside first. Then outside.

Jesus wasn’t teaching that the outside doesn’t matter. He was teaching us where genuine transformation begins.

And that distinction matters.

Commandment, Conviction, and Tradition

I believe much of the confusion surrounding holiness disappears when we recognize three different categories that Christians sometimes unintentionally combine.

First, there are biblical commands.

Where Scripture clearly speaks, we obey.

Adultery isn’t a personal-conviction issue. Neither are dishonesty, drunkenness, hatred, sexual immorality, or the many other things Scripture plainly addresses.

We don’t get to dismiss God’s commandments by saying, “I don’t personally feel convicted about that.”

God has already spoken.

Second, there are personal convictions.

This is an area where I believe we desperately need to recover Paul’s teaching in Romans 14.

There may be things you cannot do with a clear conscience before God that another sincere Christian can.

If a woman sincerely believes cutting her hair would violate her conscience before God, she shouldn’t cut it.

If a man sincerely believes wearing facial hair would violate his conscience before God, he shouldn’t grow it.

If someone believes wearing shorts would violate his conviction before God, he shouldn’t wear them.

Paul writes:

“Happy is he who does not condemn himself in what he approves.”
— Romans 14:22 NKJV

And then:

“For whatever is not from faith is sin.”
— Romans 14:23 NKJV

We should never encourage someone to violate a sincere conviction simply because we don’t share it.

But Romans 14 goes both directions.

Paul also says:

“Let not him who eats despise him who does not eat, and let not him who does not eat judge him who eats; for God has received him.”
— Romans 14:3 NKJV

That’s a remarkable balance.

Don’t despise.

Don’t judge.

The Christian who possesses liberty shouldn’t mock someone whose conscience is more restrictive.

But the Christian with the restrictive conviction shouldn’t turn his personal conviction into God’s universal commandment.

“God convicted me” and “God commanded everyone” are not necessarily the same statement.

We need enough humility to recognize the difference.

Liberty Is Governed by Love

There’s another side of this that matters deeply to me.

Having Christian liberty doesn’t mean I have to exercise it everywhere simply because I can.

Paul writes:

“But beware lest somehow this liberty of yours become a stumbling block to those who are weak.”
— 1 Corinthians 8:9 NKJV

I wear shorts.

I have no personal conviction against them.

But if I’m going somewhere with a brother whom I know sincerely believes he shouldn’t wear shorts, I’m perfectly capable of putting on a pair of long pants.

Why?

Not because his conviction suddenly became mine.

Not because I’ve decided shorts are sinful.

And not because another Christian gets to dictate my convictions.

I do it because loving my brother matters more than proving my liberty.

Christian maturity isn’t demonstrated by seeing how much liberty we can exercise.

Sometimes it’s demonstrated by having liberty and voluntarily laying it aside for someone else’s sake.

But neither should the phrase “stumbling block” be used as a weapon to control other believers.

Being offended by another person’s liberty isn’t necessarily the same thing as stumbling.

Paul’s concern was that my exercise of liberty could encourage another believer to violate his own conscience.

There’s a difference between:

“I wouldn’t do that.”

and:

“Watching you do that is leading me to do something I believe is sin.”

Love requires us to understand the difference.

Then There Is Tradition

This is where the conversation becomes uncomfortable.

Tradition isn’t inherently evil.

Some traditions are beautiful.

Some church standards are wise.

Some applications of biblical principles have been passed down because generations before us learned lessons worth remembering.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with saying:

“This is how our church practices this principle.”

The danger begins when:

“This is how we practice it”

becomes:

“This is what holiness requires,”

and eventually:

“Anyone who doesn’t practice it exactly as we do is disobedient to God.”

Jesus confronted this problem directly.

Speaking to religious people who had elevated their traditions, He said:

“All too well you reject the commandment of God, that you may keep your tradition.”
— Mark 7:9 NKJV

Then, after discussing their tradition concerning Corban, Jesus said they were:

“making the word of God of no effect through your tradition which you have handed down.”
— Mark 7:13 NKJV

The problem wasn’t simply that they possessed traditions.

The problem was that human tradition had acquired an authority that belonged to God’s Word.

And that should make every one of us examine ourselves.

Not just Apostolics.

Not just Baptists.

Not just Catholics.

Not just Pentecostals.

Every one of us.

Because every Christian tradition is capable of confusing:

“This is how we’ve always done it”

with:

“Thus says the Lord.”

Those statements are not interchangeable.

Tradition becomes dangerous not when we practice it, but when we can no longer distinguish between what we have always taught and what God actually said.

Where Does Scripture Say It?

Scripture teaches modesty.

Absolutely.

Scripture teaches separation from sin.

Absolutely.

Scripture teaches holiness in our conduct and how we present ourselves.

Absolutely.

But once we begin creating specific applications of those principles, intellectual and spiritual honesty require us to distinguish the biblical principle from our application of it.

How long must a sleeve be?

Exactly where must a hemline fall?

May a man wear shorts?

May he have facial hair?

What constitutes jewelry?

What about a wedding band?

What constitutes makeup?

What exactly constitutes cutting one’s hair?

Christians have developed answers to questions like these.

Sometimes those answers represent deeply held and sincere convictions.

Respect them.

If that is your conviction before God, live it faithfully.

I have no desire whatsoever to talk you out of something you sincerely believe God has asked of you.

But before we tell another Christian that our particular application is required for holiness, we have an obligation to ask:

Where does Scripture say it?

Not merely:

Where is the biblical principle from which I derived it?

But:

Where does Scripture establish my particular application of that principle as the universal requirement for every believer?

If we cannot demonstrate that, perhaps the more humble statement is:

“This is how I believe God has called me to apply that biblical principle.”

There’s no shame in saying that.

There is wisdom in it.

You Can Look the Part and Still Miss the Point

For years, I told the young people in my Sunday School classes something I still believe today.

You can wear all the right clothes.

Girls, you can keep your hair long. You can wear sleeves to your fingertips and skirts to the floor.

Boys, you can keep your hair short. You can wear long sleeves and long pants.

You can look exactly like everyone expects an Apostolic young person to look.

And then one word can reveal your heart.

One action can reveal your heart.

One moment of anger.

One cruel comment.

One lie.

One piece of gossip.

One arrogant response.

One act of dishonesty when telling the truth would cost you something.

The world already sees how you’re dressed.

They already recognize what you profess to believe.

Now they’re watching to see whether you live what you say you believe.

Jesus said:

“For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”
— Matthew 12:34 NKJV

That’s why I never wanted my students merely to learn how to look Apostolic.

I wanted them to become like Christ.

The clothing matters when it reflects a sincere conviction.

Modesty matters because Scripture teaches it.

Obedience matters.

Separation from sin matters.

But none of those things can substitute for a transformed heart.

You can dress modestly and treat the waitress terribly because your order is wrong.

You can never cut your hair and destroy someone’s reputation with gossip.

You can wear long sleeves and lie when telling the truth would cost you something.

You can remove every piece of jewelry and still adorn yourself with pride.

You can look unmistakably Christian and treat someone who doesn’t look like you as though they’re beneath you.

A holiness standard may tell the world something about our convictions. Our character tells the world something about our Christ.

And if our outward holiness announces that we belong to Jesus while our character tells the people around us something entirely different, the problem isn’t that our outward standard was too high.

The problem is that our transformation didn’t go deep enough.

The Pharisee Problem

This is precisely why Jesus’ confrontations with the Pharisees should make religious people uncomfortable.

His strongest confrontations were often not with people who cared nothing about righteousness.

They were with people who cared tremendously about religious observance.

He told the scribes and Pharisees:

“For you pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith.”
— Matthew 23:23 NKJV

But don’t miss what Jesus said next:

“These you ought to have done, without leaving the others undone.”

Jesus wasn’t advocating lawlessness.

The problem wasn’t that they were too obedient.

The problem was that they had become meticulous about things they could measure while neglecting things that revealed the condition of their hearts.

And religious people are still vulnerable to that.

It’s relatively easy to measure a hemline.

It’s considerably harder to measure humility.

It’s easy to see whether someone is wearing jewelry.

It’s harder to see bitterness.

It’s easy to enforce grooming standards.

It’s harder to confront pride.

It’s easy to determine whether somebody looks like us.

It’s considerably harder to ask whether we look like Christ.

That is why outward conformity can never become our primary measurement of holiness.

Paul gives us another measurement of what is happening inside a Spirit-led person:

“The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.”
— Galatians 5:22–23 NKJV

Those aren’t alternatives to holiness.

They are evidence of it.

So perhaps we should occasionally ask ourselves a harder question:

If everyone around us can see our standards, but they cannot see our love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control…

What exactly are we showing them?

And Yes—Preach the Whole Counsel of God

Preach modesty.

Preach purity.

Preach separation from sin.

Preach sobriety.

Preach obedience.

Preach repentance.

But if we’re going to preach the whole counsel of God, then let’s preach all of it.

Preach mercy.

Preach humility.

Preach compassion.

Preach patience.

Preach forgiveness.

Preach generosity.

Preach controlling the tongue.

Preach caring for the poor.

Preach loving our enemies.

Preach bearing with weaker believers.

Preach refusing to judge another man’s servant.

Preach the fruit of the Spirit.

Preach that knowledge without love makes us nothing.

Preach that the greatest among us is the servant.

Preach that God resists the proud but gives grace to the humble.

That’s holiness too.

And perhaps this is where we have sometimes failed people.

When Christianity becomes primarily a list of visible behaviors, people can learn how to look holy without ever learning how to be holy.

Worse, when our traditions are presented with the same authority as Scripture, someone who eventually discovers that a particular tradition cannot be established from the biblical text may begin questioning everything else we taught them.

And I believe this has contributed to some people walking away from churches—and, tragically, sometimes walking away from God altogether.

Not every person who leaves does so because of legalism. Not remotely. People leave churches and abandon faith for many reasons, and we shouldn’t rewrite every story to excuse individual choices.

But neither should we refuse to examine ourselves.

Because some people haven’t rejected Christ nearly as much as they’ve rejected a religious culture they were taught was indistinguishable from Christ.

That should concern us.

It should especially concern those of us entrusted with teaching the next generation.

We should want their faith anchored so deeply in Jesus Christ and the Word of God that when they encounter traditions, disagreements, failures in leadership, or Christians who practice their faith differently, their foundation remains secure.

So yes.

Preach the whole counsel of God.

Teach what Scripture commands.

Preach the principles Scripture establishes.

Allow the Holy Spirit room to develop personal convictions.

Respect the conscience of your brother or sister.

Never encourage someone to violate a sincere conviction.

When love requires it, willingly limit your own liberty.

Honor traditions that are beneficial without pretending they are Scripture.

And never confuse:

“God convicted me”

with:

“God commanded everyone.”

You can enforce rules.

You can enforce dress codes.

You can enforce institutional standards.

You can even enforce conformity.

But you cannot enforce holiness.

Only God can produce holiness.

And when He truly changes the inside, it will eventually show on the outside.

Maybe instead of spending so much time making sure everyone else looks like us, we should spend a little more time asking whether we look like Him.

Because holiness was never supposed to make us feel superior to our neighbor.

Holiness is supposed to make us more like Christ.

“Arise, and go down to the potter’s house, and there I will cause thee to hear my words.” — Jeremiah 18:2 (NKJV)

When I was a kid, I had the opportunity to spend time at Philbrook Art Museum in Tulsa participating in art programs centered around Native American culture and craftsmanship.

One of those projects was pottery.

I have to admit…

I wasn’t very good at it.

My “vessels” usually ended up looking more like lopsided bowls than anything useful.

But while I don’t remember much about what I made, I’ve never forgotten watching an experienced potter work.

Years later, Jeremiah 18 gave those memories an entirely new meaning.

God didn’t send Jeremiah to hear another sermon.

He sent him to watch.

The first thing I remember learning was that nothing happened until the clay was centered on the wheel.

If it wasn’t perfectly centered, every attempt to shape it would fail. The faster the wheel turned, the more obvious the wobble became.

Life can feel that way sometimes.

As responsibilities increase… as trials come… as life begins spinning faster… whatever is at the center of our lives becomes impossible to hide.

Before the Potter shapes the vessel…

He centers the clay.

Before God changes our circumstances…

He often changes our hearts.

Then came the pressure.

Watching the potter’s hands almost looked uncomfortable.

He wasn’t simply smoothing the surface.

He pressed.

He stretched.

He shaped.

One hand supported the outside while the other worked from within.

Without both hands, the vessel would collapse.

Isn’t that often how God works in us?

We notice the pressures around us.

The disappointments.

The delays.

The unanswered prayers.

But while circumstances are shaping us from the outside, God is quietly doing an even deeper work within us.

The pressure isn’t always punishment.

Sometimes it’s preparation.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of all was this:

The clay never shaped itself.

Its responsibility wasn’t to decide what kind of vessel it wanted to become.

It simply remained in the potter’s hands.

That may be one of the hardest lessons for us to learn.

We want to control the process.

We want to choose the timing.

We want to understand every turn of the wheel.

But faith often means trusting the Potter more than understanding the process.

Jeremiah watched as the vessel became marred in the potter’s hand.

It wasn’t what the potter intended.

Yet he didn’t throw the clay away.

Scripture says,

“So he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.”

He made it again.

What a beautiful picture of redemption.

If you’ve ever felt like your life is just going in circles…

Maybe you’re not wandering.

Maybe you’re still on the wheel.

The wheel keeps turning because the Potter isn’t finished.

The clay only feels the pressure.

The Potter sees the finished vessel.

Trust the hands more than the motion.

“Arise, and go down to the potter’s house, and there I will cause thee to hear my words.” — Jeremiah 18:2 (NKJV)

When I was a kid, I had the opportunity to spend time at Philbrook Art Museum in Tulsa participating in art programs centered around Native American culture and craftsmanship.

One of those projects was pottery.

I have to admit…

I wasn’t very good at it.

My “vessels” usually ended up looking more like lopsided bowls than anything useful.

But while I don’t remember much about what I made, I’ve never forgotten watching an experienced potter work.

Years later, Jeremiah 18 gave those memories an entirely new meaning.

God didn’t send Jeremiah to hear another sermon.

He sent him to watch.

The first thing I remember learning was that nothing happened until the clay was centered on the wheel.

If it wasn’t perfectly centered, every attempt to shape it would fail. The faster the wheel turned, the more obvious the wobble became.

Life can feel that way sometimes.

As responsibilities increase… as trials come… as life begins spinning faster… whatever is at the center of our lives becomes impossible to hide.

Before the Potter shapes the vessel…

He centers the clay.

Before God changes our circumstances…

He often changes our hearts.

Then came the pressure.

Watching the potter’s hands almost looked uncomfortable.

He wasn’t simply smoothing the surface.

He pressed.

He stretched.

He shaped.

One hand supported the outside while the other worked from within.

Without both hands, the vessel would collapse.

Isn’t that often how God works in us?

We notice the pressures around us.

The disappointments.

The delays.

The unanswered prayers.

But while circumstances are shaping us from the outside, God is quietly doing an even deeper work within us.

The pressure isn’t always punishment.

Sometimes it’s preparation.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of all was this:

The clay never shaped itself.

Its responsibility wasn’t to decide what kind of vessel it wanted to become.

It simply remained in the potter’s hands.

That may be one of the hardest lessons for us to learn.

We want to control the process.

We want to choose the timing.

We want to understand every turn of the wheel.

But faith often means trusting the Potter more than understanding the process.

Jeremiah watched as the vessel became marred in the potter’s hand.

It wasn’t what the potter intended.

Yet he didn’t throw the clay away.

Scripture says,

“So he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.”

He made it again.

What a beautiful picture of redemption.

If you’ve ever felt like your life is just going in circles…

Maybe you’re not wandering.

Maybe you’re still on the wheel.

The wheel keeps turning because the Potter isn’t finished.

The clay only feels the pressure.

The Potter sees the finished vessel.

Trust the hands more than the motion.

“Arise, and go down to the potter’s house, and there I will cause thee to hear my words.” — Jeremiah 18:2 (NKJV)

When I was a kid, I had the opportunity to spend time at Philbrook Art Museum in Tulsa participating in art programs centered around Native American culture and craftsmanship.

One of those projects was pottery.

I have to admit…

I wasn’t very good at it.

My “vessels” usually ended up looking more like lopsided bowls than anything useful.

But while I don’t remember much about what I made, I’ve never forgotten watching an experienced potter work.

Years later, Jeremiah 18 gave those memories an entirely new meaning.

God didn’t send Jeremiah to hear another sermon.

He sent him to watch.

The first thing I remember learning was that nothing happened until the clay was centered on the wheel.

If it wasn’t perfectly centered, every attempt to shape it would fail. The faster the wheel turned, the more obvious the wobble became.

Life can feel that way sometimes.

As responsibilities increase… as trials come… as life begins spinning faster… whatever is at the center of our lives becomes impossible to hide.

Before the Potter shapes the vessel…

He centers the clay.

Before God changes our circumstances…

He often changes our hearts.

Then came the pressure.

Watching the potter’s hands almost looked uncomfortable.

He wasn’t simply smoothing the surface.

He pressed.

He stretched.

He shaped.

One hand supported the outside while the other worked from within.

Without both hands, the vessel would collapse.

Isn’t that often how God works in us?

We notice the pressures around us.

The disappointments.

The delays.

The unanswered prayers.

But while circumstances are shaping us from the outside, God is quietly doing an even deeper work within us.

The pressure isn’t always punishment.

Sometimes it’s preparation.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of all was this:

The clay never shaped itself.

Its responsibility wasn’t to decide what kind of vessel it wanted to become.

It simply remained in the potter’s hands.

That may be one of the hardest lessons for us to learn.

We want to control the process.

We want to choose the timing.

We want to understand every turn of the wheel.

But faith often means trusting the Potter more than understanding the process.

Jeremiah watched as the vessel became marred in the potter’s hand.

It wasn’t what the potter intended.

Yet he didn’t throw the clay away.

Scripture says,

“So he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.”

He made it again.

What a beautiful picture of redemption.

If you’ve ever felt like your life is just going in circles…

Maybe you’re not wandering.

Maybe you’re still on the wheel.

The wheel keeps turning because the Potter isn’t finished.

The clay only feels the pressure.

The Potter sees the finished vessel.

Trust the hands more than the motion.

I was washing dishes a while back when one greasy bowl reminded me of something Jesus said in Matthew 23.

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you cleanse the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of extortion and self-indulgence… First cleanse the inside of the cup and dish, that the outside of them may be clean also.”

If I had washed only the outside of the bowl, it would have looked clean sitting upside down in the dish rack. But I would never have trusted it to hold food. The inside would still have been coated with grease, contaminating everything placed into it.

Then another thought struck me.

While I could wash the outside without ever touching the inside, I couldn’t wash the inside without also washing the outside.

As I scrubbed the inside of the bowl, it turned continuously in my hand. The soap covered both surfaces. The water rinsed both clean.

Jesus said our lives can be much the same.

We spend enormous effort polishing the outward parts of our lives—what people see, what people hear, and what people think about us. Yet God isn’t fooled by a clean exterior wrapped around an unchanged heart.

Real transformation doesn’t begin on the outside.

It begins within.

We cannot cleanse our own hearts any more than a dirty bowl can wash itself. But when we surrender ourselves to Christ, He does what we could never do for ourselves.

He doesn’t simply improve the old life.

He makes us new.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

That is the difference between reputation and character.

Reputation is what other people believe about us.

Character is who we are when no one else is watching.

And integrity is choosing to do what is right, even when it costs us something.

The Pharisees spent their lives polishing their reputation while neglecting their character.

Jesus wasn’t calling them to improve their public image.
He was calling them to receive a transformed heart.

A clean bowl isn’t pretending to be clean. It is clean.

And because it is clean, everything about it changes.

As Christ changes the heart…

Our attitudes begin to change.

Our words begin to change.

Our priorities begin to change.

Our actions begin to change.

The outside becomes different because the inside has been made new.

God never intended Christianity to be spiritual cosmetics—a cleaner version of the old person. His purpose is transformation. The life that reflects Christ outwardly is the life He has first transformed inwardly.

Thought for Today:

Don’t spend your life polishing the outside while neglecting the heart. Bring the whole vessel to Christ. When He makes you new on the inside, the change will become evident on the outside.

I was washing dishes a while back when one greasy bowl reminded me of something Jesus said in Matthew 23.

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you cleanse the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of extortion and self-indulgence… First cleanse the inside of the cup and dish, that the outside of them may be clean also.”

If I had washed only the outside of the bowl, it would have looked clean sitting upside down in the dish rack. But I would never have trusted it to hold food. The inside would still have been coated with grease, contaminating everything placed into it.

Then another thought struck me.

While I could wash the outside without ever touching the inside, I couldn’t wash the inside without also washing the outside.

As I scrubbed the inside of the bowl, it turned continuously in my hand. The soap covered both surfaces. The water rinsed both clean.

Jesus said our lives can be much the same.

We spend enormous effort polishing the outward parts of our lives—what people see, what people hear, and what people think about us. Yet God isn’t fooled by a clean exterior wrapped around an unchanged heart.

Real transformation doesn’t begin on the outside.

It begins within.

We cannot cleanse our own hearts any more than a dirty bowl can wash itself. But when we surrender ourselves to Christ, He does what we could never do for ourselves.

He doesn’t simply improve the old life.

He makes us new.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

That is the difference between reputation and character.

Reputation is what other people believe about us.

Character is who we are when no one else is watching.

And integrity is choosing to do what is right, even when it costs us something.

The Pharisees spent their lives polishing their reputation while neglecting their character.

Jesus wasn’t calling them to improve their public image.
He was calling them to receive a transformed heart.

A clean bowl isn’t pretending to be clean. It is clean.

And because it is clean, everything about it changes.

As Christ changes the heart…

Our attitudes begin to change.

Our words begin to change.

Our priorities begin to change.

Our actions begin to change.

The outside becomes different because the inside has been made new.

God never intended Christianity to be spiritual cosmetics—a cleaner version of the old person. His purpose is transformation. The life that reflects Christ outwardly is the life He has first transformed inwardly.

Thought for Today:

Don’t spend your life polishing the outside while neglecting the heart. Bring the whole vessel to Christ. When He makes you new on the inside, the change will become evident on the outside.

One of my favorite stories in Scripture isn’t about a battle.

It isn’t about a miracle.

It isn’t even about David’s greatest victory.

It’s about a promise.

Years earlier, David and Jonathan had entered into a covenant with one another. They pledged loyalty that would outlive them both.

Then life happened.

Jonathan was killed in battle.

Saul died.

David became king.

Years passed.

The kingdom was established.

The promise could have quietly faded into history.

No one would have questioned David if it had.

There was no public pressure to fulfill it.

No one was reminding him of his obligation.

There was nothing politically or personally to gain by honoring it.

In fact, the last surviving heir of Saul’s house represented the former royal family. In many kingdoms of the ancient world, such a person would have been viewed as a threat to the throne, not welcomed into the palace.

Yet one day David asked a remarkable question:

“Is there still anyone who is left of the house of Saul, that I may show him kindness for Jonathan’s sake?”
— 2 Samuel 9:1 (NKJV)

That single question reveals more about David’s character than almost any battlefield victory.

He wasn’t remembering a debt.

He was remembering a covenant.

And he wasn’t merely remembering it.

He was looking for an opportunity to keep it.

David sent for Mephibosheth.

He called him by name.

Mephibosheth came expecting judgment.

Instead, David’s first words were,

“Do not fear…”

He restored his family’s inheritance.

He gave him a permanent place at the king’s table.

David kept his word long after everyone else had forgotten it.

That is faithfulness.

Faithfulness is keeping your word when there is no longer any earthly advantage in doing so.

I’ve often said that character is doing the right thing when no one is watching.

I’ve also come to believe that integrity is doing the right thing even when it may cost you.

David displayed both.

But as beautiful as this story is, it was never meant to end with David.

It points us to a greater King.

Before we ever remembered God, God remembered His covenant.

He did not forget us in our Lo-debar.

The King came because the King is faithful.

Like David, the King came looking for those who had nothing to offer Him.

He called us by name.

He spoke peace where we expected judgment.

He restored what sin had stolen.

And then…

He invited us to His table.

That is the gospel.

We were separated from God by sin.

We had no claim upon His mercy.

We brought nothing that could earn His favor.

Yet because of the covenant established through Jesus Christ, mercy triumphed over judgment.

The King sought us before we ever sought Him.

He remembered us before we ever remembered Him.

He remained faithful even when we were not.

Faith begins by trusting God’s promises.

But as faith matures, it produces something beautiful.

Faithfulness.

Not merely believing when it’s easy…

…but becoming people whose lives reflect the unwavering faithfulness of the King we serve.

⸻

“If we are faithless, He remains faithful; He cannot deny Himself.”
— 2 Timothy 2:13 (NKJV)

⸻

One of my favorite stories in Scripture isn’t about a battle.

It isn’t about a miracle.

It isn’t even about David’s greatest victory.

It’s about a promise.

Years earlier, David and Jonathan had entered into a covenant with one another. They pledged loyalty that would outlive them both.

Then life happened.

Jonathan was killed in battle.

Saul died.

David became king.

Years passed.

The kingdom was established.

The promise could have quietly faded into history.

No one would have questioned David if it had.

There was no public pressure to fulfill it.

No one was reminding him of his obligation.

There was nothing politically or personally to gain by honoring it.

In fact, the last surviving heir of Saul’s house represented the former royal family. In many kingdoms of the ancient world, such a person would have been viewed as a threat to the throne, not welcomed into the palace.

Yet one day David asked a remarkable question:

“Is there still anyone who is left of the house of Saul, that I may show him kindness for Jonathan’s sake?”
— 2 Samuel 9:1 (NKJV)

That single question reveals more about David’s character than almost any battlefield victory.

He wasn’t remembering a debt.

He was remembering a covenant.

And he wasn’t merely remembering it.

He was looking for an opportunity to keep it.

David sent for Mephibosheth.

He called him by name.

Mephibosheth came expecting judgment.

Instead, David’s first words were,

“Do not fear…”

He restored his family’s inheritance.

He gave him a permanent place at the king’s table.

David kept his word long after everyone else had forgotten it.

That is faithfulness.

Faithfulness is keeping your word when there is no longer any earthly advantage in doing so.

I’ve often said that character is doing the right thing when no one is watching.

I’ve also come to believe that integrity is doing the right thing even when it may cost you.

David displayed both.

But as beautiful as this story is, it was never meant to end with David.

It points us to a greater King.

Before we ever remembered God, God remembered His covenant.

He did not forget us in our Lo-debar.

The King came because the King is faithful.

Like David, the King came looking for those who had nothing to offer Him.

He called us by name.

He spoke peace where we expected judgment.

He restored what sin had stolen.

And then…

He invited us to His table.

That is the gospel.

We were separated from God by sin.

We had no claim upon His mercy.

We brought nothing that could earn His favor.

Yet because of the covenant established through Jesus Christ, mercy triumphed over judgment.

The King sought us before we ever sought Him.

He remembered us before we ever remembered Him.

He remained faithful even when we were not.

Faith begins by trusting God’s promises.

But as faith matures, it produces something beautiful.

Faithfulness.

Not merely believing when it’s easy…

…but becoming people whose lives reflect the unwavering faithfulness of the King we serve.

⸻

“If we are faithless, He remains faithful; He cannot deny Himself.”
— 2 Timothy 2:13 (NKJV)

⸻

Fourteen years ago I wrote this line:

“The forest is never so invisible as to those who are lost within.”

At the time, I was thinking mostly about politics.

Looking back now, I think I missed the bigger lesson.

Politics isn’t the forest.

It’s just one tree.

The forest is anything that becomes so large in our minds that we lose sight of Christ.

For some people it’s politics.

For others it’s career, finances, family struggles, health, ministry, fear, or even good things that slowly become ultimate things.

It struck me that Peter didn’t begin sinking because the storm suddenly became stronger.

He began sinking because his attention shifted away from Jesus.

Martha wasn’t rebuked because she served. She was corrected because she became so occupied with serving that she missed the One she was serving.

Meanwhile, Paul could write with joy from prison because prison wasn’t the defining reality of his life. Christ was.

Hebrews 12:2 seems to summarize the whole principle:

“…looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith…” (NKJV)

I’m convinced one of Satan’s most effective strategies isn’t always pulling us away from God.

Sometimes he only has to keep us looking everywhere except toward God.

Maybe that’s why Scripture so often tells us to “lift up your eyes.”

Often the greatest miracle God performs isn’t changing our circumstances.

It’s lifting our eyes and changing our perspective.

Discussion: Have you ever found yourself so focused on one “tree” in life that you temporarily lost sight of the bigger picture God was showing you?

Fourteen years ago I wrote this line:

“The forest is never so invisible as to those who are lost within.”

At the time, I was thinking mostly about politics.

Looking back now, I think I missed the bigger lesson.

Politics isn’t the forest.

It’s just one tree.

The forest is anything that becomes so large in our minds that we lose sight of Christ.

For some people it’s politics.

For others it’s career, finances, family struggles, health, ministry, fear, or even good things that slowly become ultimate things.

It struck me that Peter didn’t begin sinking because the storm suddenly became stronger.

He began sinking because his attention shifted away from Jesus.

Martha wasn’t rebuked because she served. She was corrected because she became so occupied with serving that she missed the One she was serving.

Meanwhile, Paul could write with joy from prison because prison wasn’t the defining reality of his life. Christ was.

Hebrews 12:2 seems to summarize the whole principle:

“…looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith…” (NKJV)

I’m convinced one of Satan’s most effective strategies isn’t always pulling us away from God.

Sometimes he only has to keep us looking everywhere except toward God.

Maybe that’s why Scripture so often tells us to “lift up your eyes.”

Often the greatest miracle God performs isn’t changing our circumstances.

It’s lifting our eyes and changing our perspective.

Discussion: Have you ever found yourself so focused on one “tree” in life that you temporarily lost sight of the bigger picture God was showing you?

Jesus’ words about the plow make more sense after you’ve actually plowed a field.

When I was young, my grandfather taught me to make garden furrows.

It didn’t take long to learn that if I watched the plow, my rows wandered.

If I kept looking behind me to see how straight I was doing, they wandered even more.

The only way to make a straight furrow was to pick something in the distance—a tree, a fence post, anything that wouldn’t move—and keep my eyes fixed on it.

Years later I discovered the same thing mowing lawns.

Later still, playing football.

You don’t move accurately by staring at what’s immediately in front of you.

You move accurately by fixing your attention on where you’re headed.

Then I reread Luke 9:62.

“No one, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.”

Jesus wasn’t teaching agriculture.

He was teaching discipleship.

Paul says we’re to forget what lies behind and press toward what lies ahead (Philippians 3:13).

Hebrews tells us exactly where our eyes belong:

”…looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith.” (Hebrews 12:2)

Reflection has value. Scripture often calls us to remember God’s faithfulness.

But there’s a difference between remembering and remaining.

Looking back should increase our gratitude.

It should never become the direction we’re facing.

Keep your eyes on Christ.

The furrow will follow.