Tag: Faith

The Divine Conspiracy: The Beatitudes and the Blessed Life in God

.Reading time 13 minutes.

✨ Suggested by Dr Bobby Waite; Written by Lewis McLain & AI

A Study Edition Inspired by Dallas Willard

🌄 I. Setting the Scene — The Mountain and the Message

It was early in the ministry of Jesus. Word of His healings and authority had spread through Galilee. Crowds followed—farmers, fishermen, soldiers, widows, and scholars—all hungry for something more than spectacle.

When He saw them gathering by the Sea of Galilee, Jesus withdrew to a hillside. The slope formed a natural amphitheater where sound carried on the breeze. He sat down, the posture of a rabbi ready to teach, and His disciples drew near. Behind them stood the multitudes—hopeful, skeptical, wounded.

This is the setting of the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5–7), the heart of the Gospel story where the Teacher begins to describe life under the rule of God. Like Moses ascending Sinai, Jesus now delivers a new law—not on stone tablets, but upon human hearts. Yet this Lawgiver does not shout from thunderclouds; He speaks softly, face to face.

The sermon opens not with command but with blessing. The Master looks at His disciples—men and women of no special rank—and calls them the seed of a new creation.

“Seeing the crowds, He went up on a mountain, and when He sat down, His disciples came to Him. Then He began to teach them.” (Matthew 5:1–2)

Thus begins what Dallas Willard calls “the divine conspiracy”—the quiet, redemptive invasion of heaven into the ordinary world through those who choose to live as Christ’s apprentices.

🕊️ II. The Heart of the Divine Conspiracy

Willard writes that Jesus’ teaching unveils a simple but radical truth: the Kingdom of God is available now. It’s not about escape to heaven later, but participation with God in the present moment. The Sermon on the Mount is therefore the curriculum for life in the Kingdom—not rules for unreachable saints, but descriptions of ordinary people transformed by extraordinary grace.

“Jesus’ teaching about the kingdom is not an invitation to wait for heaven later; it’s a call to live under heaven’s rule now.” — Dallas Willard

📖 III. The Beatitudes — The Great Reversal

Each Beatitude opens with Blessed—the Greek makarios, meaning deeply happy, whole, or flourishing. Jesus pronounces God’s favor upon those the world overlooks or despises. Willard teaches that these are not virtues to attain, but conditions where grace appears. They describe what life looks like when heaven’s power meets human weakness.

1. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:3)

To be poor in spirit is to know your need of God.
The self-sufficient rely on their own strength; the poor in spirit rely on grace.

Willard’s Insight:

“The poor in spirit are those who have learned that their life is not manageable on their own. They stand ready to receive the Kingdom as a gift, not as a wage.”

Reflection:
When have you discovered that self-reliance is not enough?
How did that humility become a doorway to grace?

2. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” (Matthew 5:4)

Mourning is not weakness—it is sacred honesty.
Those who grieve over loss, sin, or injustice open their hearts to God’s healing compassion.

Willard’s Insight:
“The world says, ‘Get over it.’ Jesus says, ‘Bring it to Me.’ Mourning becomes holy when it leads us into the arms of divine comfort.”

Reflection:
What sorrow has drawn you closer to God?
How might you become an instrument of comfort to others?

3. “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.” (Matthew 5:5)

Meekness is not weakness but power under control.
The meek trust God’s care more than their own control.

Willard’s Insight:
“The meek live without the need to manage others. They inherit the earth because they are content to let God govern it.”

Reflection:
Where do you sense God calling you to release control and rest in His authority?

4. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” (Matthew 5:6)

This is the longing for the world to be set right—within and without.

Willard’s Insight:
“This hunger is evidence of life with God already stirring within you. He alone satisfies the appetite He awakens.”

Reflection:
What injustices make your spirit ache?
How can you channel that hunger into faithful prayer and action?

5. “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” (Matthew 5:7)

Mercy interrupts the world’s cycle of revenge.

Willard’s Insight:
“The merciful dwell in a rhythm of grace—they forgive because they live forgiven.”

Reflection:
Who in your life needs mercy from you today?
How can compassion replace resentment?

6. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.” (Matthew 5:8)

Purity of heart means singleness of desire—the will set wholly toward God.

Willard’s Insight:
“To be pure in heart is to will one thing: the good of God. When the eye of the soul is clear, everything becomes luminous with His presence.”

Reflection:
What distractions divide your heart?
How can simplicity of purpose restore your spiritual sight?

7. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.” (Matthew 5:9)

Peacemakers are builders of reconciliation, bearers of God’s family likeness.

Willard’s Insight:
“The peace of Christ is not the absence of conflict but the presence of creative goodwill.”

Reflection:
Where can you build bridges instead of walls?
How might you embody the Father’s peace in tense spaces?

8. “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:10)

Faithfulness invites friction with the world’s systems—but God’s presence sustains the faithful.

Willard’s Insight:
“Persecution is not failure; it is confirmation that the Kingdom has taken root.”

Reflection:
When has standing for truth cost you something?
What courage grows in hardship?

9. “Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of Me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven.” (Matthew 5:11–12)

Now the blessings become personal—addressed to every follower.

Willard’s Insight:
“Joy in persecution is not denial of pain but recognition of purpose. You are living from an eternal horizon.”

Reflection:
How can you keep joy alive when misunderstood or maligned?
What eternal perspective steadies your heart?

🧭 IV. Discipleship as Apprenticeship

To Willard, discipleship means apprenticeship—learning to live your actual life as Jesus would live it if He were you. It is not belief alone but training of the heart. He outlines three essentials:

  • Vision – seeing the Kingdom as real and desirable.
  • Intention – deciding to live as Christ’s student.
  • Means – practicing disciplines that reshape the inner life (prayer, solitude, service, study).

This “curriculum for Christlikeness” transforms not just conduct but character.

🌿 V. The Hidden Life in God

The “divine conspiracy” is that God’s revolution happens quietly—from the inside out.
It unfolds in unseen obedience, ordinary kindness, unseen faithfulness. It is “hidden” because the Kingdom’s greatest victories are inward: forgiveness over hatred, humility over pride, patience over fury.

“The revolution of Jesus is one of character, and it proceeds in secret until it transforms everything.” — Willard

Those who live this way already share in eternal life—the with-God life that begins now and never ends.

💬 VI. Discussion & Application

  1. Which Beatitude most challenges your current view of “success”?
  2. How might the Kingdom of God reshape your response to suffering or insult?
  3. What practice could you begin this week to strengthen mercy, purity, or peace in your daily routine?
  4. How does Jesus’ personal instruction of His disciples encourage your own apprenticeship today?

🕊️ VII. Poetic Reflection — The Quiet Kingdom

On a hill above the waters, where Galilee’s winds still sigh,
He sat upon the green earth, as heaven leaned close by.
No trumpet sounded His Kingdom, no banners caught the sun—
Yet love began its quiet reign, and the world was being won.

He spoke not to princes or scholars, but to hearts that barely stand,
To fishermen, widows, wanderers—the dust of a weary land.
He called them blessed, not broken; He named them heirs of grace,
And light began to shimmer on each upturned face.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, who bring nothing but their need;
For God will clothe their emptiness and sow His living seed.

Blessed are the mourners, whose tears the Father keeps;
For He will bend beside them, and comfort while they weep.

Blessed are the meek, whose strength is calm and mild;
The earth will bloom beneath their hands, the humble reconciled.

Blessed are the hungry hearts, that crave for what is right;
They’ll taste the bread of justice baked in heaven’s light.

Blessed are the merciful, who let forgiveness flow;
They drink the cup of kindness only mercy knows.

Blessed are the pure in heart, whose eyes are clean and still;
They’ll see the face of God in every field and hill.

Blessed are the peacemakers, who end the ancient fight;
Children of the Father, they walk in holy light.

Blessed are the persecuted, whose faith the world disowns;
Their crowns are forged of suffering; their thrones are living stones.

And still He whispers softly above the clash and din:
“My Kingdom is among you; it grows from deep within.”

Not built of force or empire, not won by sword or gain—
It rises where the heart surrenders, and love alone shall reign.

The crowd went home in silence, but heaven had begun;
The meek looked tall, the mourners sang, the poor outshone the sun.
And though the ages darken, His promise still is true—
The Kingdom’s quiet power still moves in me and you.

🌅 VIII. Closing Thought

The Divine Conspiracy is the Gospel’s hidden heartbeat:
God’s Kingdom is not far away—it is available now.
To live as Jesus’ apprentice is to walk daily in the light of that reality,
to join the ongoing miracle of heaven quietly transforming earth.

Morning Has Broken: The Song That Welcomed the Dawn

.Reading time 9 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

Oh, how I loved Cat Stevens from the first time I heard him. I saw him the first time when he performed in Fort Worth in the 1970s. It listened to his albums over and over. It was clear he was searching for spiritual clarity. He apparently found a solution for himself after his brother gave him a copy of the Quran. After his conversion, he gave away or destroyed all of his awards and guitars. He changed his name to Yusuf Islam. Decades later, his adult son found his guitar on the market and bought it. It is said that Yusuf immediately started playing. A few years ago, Linda and I flew to Washington, DC, where he played to an audience at the Kennedy Center. It was a wonderful trip back to hear his classics again. LFM

Morning Has Broken: The Song That Welcomed the Dawn

I. A Hymn Born in Simplicity (1931)

In 1931, British author Eleanor Farjeon was asked to craft new words for the traditional Scottish-Gaelic tune Bunessan (from the Isle of Mull). She wrote Morning Has Broken—three short stanzas that treat each sunrise as a fresh echo of Creation. Birds, dew, gardens, and “the Word” cast ordinary morning light as a sacrament of renewal. First printed in Songs of Praise (1931), the hymn traveled quietly through hymnals for decades.

II. Steven to Cat Stevens: Crisis, Silence, and Re-making (1968–1970)

Steven Demetre Georgiou—later known as Cat Stevens and today as Yusuf Islam—grew up over his father’s Greek-Cypriot restaurant in London, with a Swedish mother, a pencil and sketchpad never far from reach. By 18 he had a record deal; by 1967 he’d had pop hits and relentless touring. Then, in 1969, illness struck hard: tuberculosis with a collapsed lung. He was hospitalized for months and then sent into nearly a year of convalescence and isolation.

That enforced stillness became a hinge in his life. He read widely (mysticism, philosophy, scripture), sketched and wrote, questioned fame, and began composing the introspective songs that would define his second career: “Father and Son,” “Wild World,” “On the Road to Find Out,” “Into White.” When he returned, it was with a new sound—acoustic, intimate, spiritually searching—and a new partnership with producer Paul Samwell-Smith. The comeback albums followed in quick succession:

  • Mona Bone Jakon (1970): the quiet re-entry.
  • Tea for the Tillerman (1970): a masterpiece of spare folk-rock and spiritual longing.
  • Teaser and the Firecat (1971): the companion volume—gentler, sunlit, and home to “Moonshadow,” “Peace Train,” and “Morning Has Broken.”
    Stevens even painted the cover art—a child (Teaser) and a cat (Firecat)—an outward sign of the homemade sincerity of the era.

III. Finding a Hymn in a Hymnal (1971)

As Teaser and the Firecat neared completion, Stevens and Samwell-Smith wanted one more track that sounded like gratitude. Leafing through a hymnbook, Stevens found Farjeon’s Morning Has Broken. The text was brief, without a pop chorus, but it said exactly what his convalescent soul had learned: each day is a divine fresh start. “It fell into my lap,” he later said—less an idea than a gift arriving right on time.

IV. The Recording: Piano Like First Light

The arrangement needed light. Enter Rick Wakeman, a young session pianist (soon to join Yes). He improvised the now-famous piano prelude and interlude—those flowing, ascending figures that feel like sun lifting fog. Acoustic guitar, a modest rhythm bed, and Stevens’ hushed vocal kept the hymn’s humility while giving it living warmth. (Wakeman was initially uncredited, a footnote he’s mentioned ever since—ironically fitting for a song about unadorned grace.)

V. Release, Reception, and Reach (1971–present)

Issued late in 1971, the single bloomed slowly and then everywhere—Top-10 in the U.K., No. 6 on the U.S. Hot 100, and No. 1 on Adult Contemporary radio. It became a rare bridge between sacred hymnody and popular song, sung at school assemblies and charting on secular stations; used at weddings, dedications, and memorials; and re-introducing Farjeon’s text to churches that had forgotten it. For Stevens, the song sits on the arc that runs from illness → inward search → art as gratitude → later faith commitments and humanitarian work. For listeners, it proved a pop song can simply be thank you and still move the world.

VI. What the Verses Say (Paraphrased and Interpreted)

Verse 1 — The first morning, again
Morning opens like the world’s first dawn; birds break the silence like that first bird. Let all our singing and this very dawn become praise—new life springing from God’s speaking.

Verse 2 — Rain, light, and the garden
New rain gleams in sun; first dew pearls on fresh grass. Praise for sweetness in the watered garden—made whole where the Holy One has walked.

Verse 3 — Light we share, life we begin
Sunlight is ours; morning is ours—children of the same Light seen in Eden. So let joy rise with each dawn: every morning is God’s re-creation of the day.

Coda (Stevens’ reprise on record)
The album performance circles back to the opening stanza—musically and theologically saying: the first morning returns with every sunrise.

VII. Why It Endures

  • Simplicity that shelters depth: Three small verses, vast theology—creation as ongoing gift.
  • A voice recovered from silence: After TB and a season of doubt, Stevens chose wonder. You can hear recovery in the restraint.
  • Piano that paints light: Wakeman’s intro has become the sound of “daybreak” for multiple generations.
  • Common grace: It belongs equally to church pews and kitchen radios, to choirs and children.

VIII. Closing

Morning Has Broken is the sound of someone who nearly lost breath learning to love breath again. Farjeon’s parish hymn found its pilgrim singer; Stevens’ long quiet found its prayer. And the rest of us found a way to say, with the first bird and the last chord: thank You for today.

Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world

Sweet the rains new fall, sunlit from Heaven
Like the first dewfall on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God’s recreation of the new day

Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world

Come to Me as a Child: The Invitation from Christ and Its Meaning Today

.Reading time 8 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

Introduction: The Most Disarming Invitation

Of all the invitations Jesus ever gave, none is more tender or more revealing than His call to “Let the little children come to Me.” In a world that prized power, rank, and age, Jesus placed a child in the midst of grown men and declared that the way into His Kingdom was not through merit, intellect, or strength—but through simplicity of heart. The Gospels record this lesson several times (Matthew 18:1-5; 19:13-15; Mark 10:13-16; Luke 18:15-17), which tells us how central it is to the heart of the Christian life.

The Scene: Greatness Redefined

In Matthew 18, the disciples were debating who would be greatest in heaven. Their conversation revealed an adult obsession with comparison and hierarchy. Jesus interrupted their ambitions by calling over a small child—someone overlooked, unranked, and powerless.

“Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 18:3)

In one sentence, Jesus inverted the value system of His listeners. Greatness, He said, begins with humility. To “become like children” is to admit dependence and trust rather than display status. The Kingdom of God is not climbed into; it is received with open hands.

Reflection Questions

  1. What ambitions or comparisons most distract you from a childlike faith?
  2. How do humility and dependence challenge our culture’s idea of success?
  3. In what ways might “becoming smaller” actually enlarge your soul?

The Heart of the Matter: Childlike, Not Childish

Jesus did not praise immaturity, ignorance, or naivety. He praised childlikeness—qualities of heart that adults tend to lose: trust, wonder, forgiveness, curiosity, and the ability to be taught. A child depends without shame, asks without hesitation, and forgives without keeping score. These traits mirror the faith that connects us to God.

When He said, “Anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it” (Mark 10:15), Jesus was describing an approach, not an age. The requirement is not to remain small but to remain soft—humble enough to receive grace instead of earning it.

Reflection Questions

  1. Which childlike quality—trust, wonder, forgiveness, curiosity—do you find hardest to retain?
  2. How can you cultivate teachability before God this week?
  3. What would your worship look like if you came with that childlike heart?

The Blessing: His Hands on the Children

In both Mark 10 and Matthew 19, people brought children to Jesus, and the disciples tried to push them away. Perhaps they thought He had more important work to do. But Jesus became indignant—a rare word for His righteous anger. He insisted, “Do not hinder them.” He gathered the children into His arms, laid His hands on them, and blessed them.

That gesture still defines the heart of Christian ministry. To hinder a child—by neglect, cynicism, or hardness—is to obstruct the very image of faith God desires. Every time the Church welcomes the least, protects the vulnerable, or teaches with gentleness, it reenacts that moment of blessing.

Reflection Questions

  1. Who in your life might be “hindered” from coming to Jesus by neglect or discouragement?
  2. How can your words or presence become an open invitation instead?
  3. What practical steps could your church take to bless children and the childlike?

The Application: What It Means Today

1. Trust Over Control

Modern life prizes control—plans, schedules, data, mastery. Yet the Gospel calls us to trust. A child steps forward because the parent’s voice is enough. To follow Jesus is to release the illusion of control and to rest in His character.

2. Wonder Over Cynicism

Children see beauty where adults see routine. Faith flourishes when we regain our sense of wonder—when sunrise, Scripture, and song awaken gratitude instead of fatigue. Cynicism may sound sophisticated, but it cannot worship.

3. Relationship Over Performance

Children do not earn their place at the table; they belong by birth and love. In the same way, believers are accepted not by performance but by adoption into God’s family. Our worth is not negotiated—it is bestowed.

4. Presence Over Hurry

A child notices the moment; an adult is often elsewhere. Jesus invited children to come to Him—a call to be present. Prayer and worship are not tasks but encounters. To come as a child is to arrive unhurried, eager, and attentive.

Reflection Questions

  1. Where in your life are you trying to control what only God can direct?
  2. When was the last time you paused to experience pure wonder before God?
  3. How can you practice “presence over hurry” in your daily prayer or worship?

The Challenge: Becoming Small in a Big World

It is striking that Jesus did not tell the children to become like the disciples, but the disciples to become like the children. In every generation, the Church is tempted to mirror worldly hierarchies—titles, influence, eloquence, size. But the Kingdom belongs to those who kneel, not to those who climb. To be childlike is not to be weak but to be free from pretense. It is the posture that allows grace to enter.

Reflection Questions

  1. Where might pride or performance still keep you from kneeling?
  2. How does God invite you to rest in grace rather than achievement?
  3. What would your leadership, parenting, or ministry look like if shaped by childlike humility?
I love you, Ben, and will always be by your side.

Conclusion: The Open Arms of Christ

When Jesus said, “Let the little children come to Me,” He was not limiting His invitation to a specific age. He was revealing the doorway of heaven. The arms that once cradled children on a Galilean hillside would soon stretch open on a cross to welcome all of God’s children home.

To come as a child is to come with empty hands, honest eyes, and an open heart. In that humility, we find not only the entrance to the Kingdom—but the embrace of the King Himself.

A Prayer of Childlike Faith

Lord Jesus,
Teach me to come to You not with pride but with peace,
not with credentials but with curiosity.
Make my heart soft again—able to wonder, to trust, to forgive.
Strip away the layers of cynicism that I have called wisdom,
and restore to me the joy of simple belief.
As a child finds rest in a father’s arms,
let me find rest in Yours.
Amen.

The Hands That Speak: The Ministry of Those Who Serve the Deaf

.Reading time 6 minutes.

Based on a letter from Lewis McLain to Pastor Sam One Year Ago Today.

Jenna Glory

Across sanctuaries, classrooms, and living rooms, there are remarkable people whose work often goes unnoticed yet speaks as loud as any sermon. They are the ones who serve the deaf — interpreters, teachers, and companions who translate not only words but compassion, joy, and the very movement of the Holy Spirit into a living language of hands and heart.

These servants of God live in a world where communication is not limited to sound but expanded by sight, rhythm, and spirit. Their hands become instruments of connection, conducting a symphony of faith that transcends the barriers of silence. In every gesture and facial expression, they proclaim that God’s voice cannot be confined to a single sense. They embody the truth that faith comes not only by hearing, but by believing — and by seeing love made visible.

Those who minister to the deaf practice a form of worship that requires complete presence. To interpret a sermon, a hymn, or a prayer is to listen deeply and respond with the whole body. It is worship in motion. Each word must be felt, understood, and then released through graceful precision. That requires more than technical skill — it takes empathy, reverence, and a heart completely surrendered to the Spirit.

Many of us in church may not realize that while we experience the service through sound, others around us are experiencing the same Spirit through light, touch, and motion. The same gospel is preached in two languages — voice and hand — yet both point to the same God who speaks to every heart.

A Living Example: My Church in McKinney

I have seen this truth with my own eyes. We often sit behind the deaf seating section. The Holy Spirit is all over, in, around, and through our church in McKinney. You can’t listen to the musicians play and the choir and worship leaders sing without being moved by the Holy Spirit. You can’t listen to Pastor Sam preach, or to any of our ministry staff speak, without feeling that the words of the Holy Spirit are flowing through them. The genuineness is visible.

There is no doubt in my heart — He’s real. He is a Spirit made tangible through our gifted leaders. Almost touchable, and certainly able to be breathed in.

But if there ever were a doubt, that doubt would disappear the moment you looked over at the Living Spirit working through the special people like Jenna Glory, signing for the deaf. They glow with a light not often seen in this world. They move with a rhythm that surpasses even the songs and words. It is God alive — vibrant, warm, and powerful.

A Conversation with Luella

Just yesterday, I sat next to a wonderful person named Luella Funderburg at an afternoon church gathering while we watched the Cowboys play. I asked her a few questions, and before long, I learned something extraordinary. She and her husband Ken drive in from Sherman, about thirty miles away. Their former church didn’t have a deaf ministry — but ours does.

Louella told me she teaches a Sunday school class for deaf members of our congregation, ranging from teenagers to senior adults. She even earned a college degree in ministering to the deaf. Truly amazing!

As she shared her story, I couldn’t help but see how her quiet faithfulness mirrors the Spirit I see every Sunday on the stage — hands alive with meaning, faces radiant with joy. Through her, and through all who serve like her, the Spirit continues to speak. The experience is a blessing. I was enriched by our conversation.

A Prayer of Gratitude

Lord, bless Your servants — Sam, Justin, Hollye, the choir, the musicians, and especially those wonderful signers who bring Your Word to life in ways that transcend hearing.

Thank You for people like Louella, who devote their lives to ensuring that every person, regardless of hearing, can feel Your presence fully.

Their ministry reminds me that worship is not limited to sound waves — it’s about Spirit waves. The Holy Spirit doesn’t just fill the air; He fills the heart.

Poem: “The Hands That Praise”

They do not shout, yet mountains move,
Their silence hums a holy groove.
Each motion breathes what words can’t say,
The gospel seen in hands that pray.

They catch the rhythm of unseen choirs,
Their fingers blaze like tongues of fire.
Each sign a psalm, each glance a hymn,
Each movement light, not shadow, dim.

For where we hear, they see the song,
And teach us where our hearts belong.
Through them, the Spirit softly sings,
With holy breath upon their wings.

O ministers whose hands reveal
The love no voice could e’er conceal,
May God renew your strength each day—
The world is blessed by what you say.

Genuine Goodness: The Quiet Strength of a Christian Life

.Reading time 9 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.” — Matthew 5:16

There are people whose very presence calms a room. They do not demand attention, yet they seem to fill every space they enter with warmth. Their strength is not loud; their influence is not forced. They lead not through speeches or titles, but through the steady rhythm of goodness that flows from a heart aligned with God.

One such man is Harvey Oaxaca — a teacher, coach, administrator, mentor, and friend whose life continues to remind us that genuine goodness still has a face.

Roots of Character

Long before Harvey led Sunday school at First Baptist Church of McKinney, he was a young man in cleats, running plays on the fields of McMurry University in Abilene, Texas. There he earned his degree in education and became a record-setting running back and team captain.

After graduation, Harvey poured that same discipline into a lifetime of service in education. He spent more than four decades as a teacher, coach, and administrator, including twenty-three years in the McKinney Independent School District. He taught in classrooms, guided student-athletes, and eventually helped lead schools with the same calm faith and fairness that have always defined him.

Harvey wasn’t just fast — he was faithful. Teammates recall how he helped others up before celebrating his own touchdown. By graduation he had earned a place among McMurry’s top rushers and, years later, induction into the McMurry Athletic Hall of Honor.

But his greatest victories weren’t measured in yards gained — they were measured in character formed. The discipline of the athlete became the discipline of the servant; the humility of the player who lifted others became the humility of the man who now lifts spirits.

“Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize.” — 1 Corinthians 9:24

Harvey’s race never ended at the goal line — it became a lifelong run toward goodness, guided by faith.

Faith That Speaks Softly

At First Baptist McKinney, Harvey leads his Sunday school class with that same steady resolve. He doesn’t dominate the room; he shepherds it. His teaching and demeanor are more conversation than lecture — he listens, nods, and draws wisdom even from the quietest voice in the circle.

“Who is wise and understanding among you? Let them show it by their good life, by deeds done in the humility that comes from wisdom.” — James 3:13

There is no pretense in Harvey’s faith. It’s as real as the man himself — genuine, unguarded, and shaped by decades of walking with the Lord.

Goodness in Action

When Harvey extends his hand, it’s never just a handshake — it’s a blessing. I’ll never forget watching him greet my three grandchildren as each graduated from high school over the recent years. One by one, he congratulated them with a personal acknowledgment, offering encouragement as if they were his own.

That’s Harvey: goodness not as ceremony but as instinct — quiet, consistent, sincere.

His close friend and co-leader of the class, Dr. Bobby Waite, put it best:

“Harvey’s only fault is he can’t say no to a request or a need. It breaks his heart if he’s double-booked. One way or another, he makes things happen to be there to serve.”

That truth showed itself again recently when Harvey returned to class after a hospital stay for a hip issue. As he stood before his friends, tears filled his eyes. Overcome with gratitude for every prayer and note of concern, he said he could not imagine a world without his church and his class. In that moment — unguarded, grateful, and full of grace — his true goodness was once again on display for all to see. One does not have to guess where his heart is.

Loved by All

To know Harvey is to be drawn to him. His life has touched countless others — students, church members, colleagues, and neighbors.

As one friend said, “You can’t be around Harvey and not believe in goodness again.”

In a world that rewards charisma, Harvey’s quiet strength stands apart. He reminds us that greatness is not about being seen — it’s about being genuine.

The Spirit of Goodness

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” — Galatians 5:22-23

Harvey lives those words as naturally as breathing — steady as his steps once were on the football field, steady as his walk now is with God.

His life testifies that Christian goodness is not dramatic or loud; it’s faithful, consistent, and full of quiet joy.

A Legacy of Grace

When people speak of Harvey, they don’t recall titles or positions; they recall presence — his smile, his kindness, his reliability. He’s the kind of man whose example lingers long after he’s left the room.

“Well done, good and faithful servant… Enter into the joy of your master.” — Matthew 25:21

That’s the prize Harvey has always been running toward — not fame, not applause, but faithfulness.

What More Can We Say About True Goodness

True goodness is one of the simplest virtues to describe and the hardest to live. It doesn’t draw attention to itself, and that’s what makes it powerful. In a culture that confuses being nice with being good, Harvey reminds us that goodness is not mere politeness — it is holiness expressed in kindness. One looks at Harvey’s face and sees Christ looking back.

Goodness is love with feet on the ground.
It’s compassion that costs something.
It’s humility that refuses to quit.

The truly good person doesn’t act good to be admired; he acts good because his heart has been changed. Goodness is what happens when a man allows God’s Spirit to shape his motives, reactions, and tone. It’s not performance — it’s transformation.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.” — Psalm 23:6

Goodness follows those who walk with God — it’s the fragrance left behind by faith.

A Benediction of Goodness

Goodness walks softly, without sound,
Its footsteps holy, sure, and bound
To hearts that serve and hands that mend,
To lives that love until the end.

It does not shout, it does not shine,
It whispers of a grace divine.
It bends to lift, it waits, it prays,
It lives the truth it dares to praise.

No crowd applauds, no trumpet rings,
Yet Heaven knows such quiet things.
The smile that steadies, the prayer unheard,
The faithful deed, the gentle word.

And when life’s race is nearly run,
And shadows fade before the Son,
The voice of God will softly say —
“Well done, good heart, you showed the way.”

In Harvey Oaxaca, we glimpse what true goodness looks like — not distant, not impossible, but alive, humble, and quietly shining in McKinney, Texas, every Sunday morning.

Concentric Circles of Concern

.Reading time 18 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

Revisiting an influential book for me, fitting into the primary theme of my recent posts. LFM

Introduction: The Man Behind the Circles

William Oscar Thompson Jr. (1918–1980) lived a life that testified to the power of relationship. He was not a man of grand celebrity or global fame; rather, he was a pastor and evangelist whose impact spread quietly through students, parishioners, and colleagues who absorbed his conviction that the Christian life must be lived relationally, not institutionally.
After two decades of faithful pastoral work, Thompson became a professor of evangelism at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth, Texas. It was there, during his own physical suffering and eventual battle with cancer, that he refined the model that would outlive him — a model that connected spiritual authenticity with human connection.

Thompson’s health declined even as his insight deepened. He realized that the gospel was never meant to travel primarily by microphone or mass event, but through people whose lives touched one another’s every day — in kitchens, workplaces, front porches, and hospital rooms. After his death in 1980, his wife, Carolyn Thompson Ritzmann, edited his unfinished manuscript, and evangelism teacher Claude V. King (best known for Experiencing God) later helped expand and republish it. The revised edition, Concentric Circles of Concern: Seven Stages for Making Disciples, was released in 1999 by Broadman & Holman, nearly two decades after the original 1981 publication.

The phrase “concentric circles” is not just a metaphor in Thompson’s hands; it is a theology of life. His belief was that the Christian’s influence for Christ begins not in distant mission fields but within the very relationships already entrusted to them. Evangelism, he argued, must ripple outward from the integrity of the inner life — from the soul that has been made right with God — until it touches every layer of community, from family to stranger. His framework provides a vision of discipleship that is both deeply personal and expansively missional, a reminder that faith spreads through people who love well.

The Concentric Circles and Their Living Logic

At the heart of the book lies a simple, unforgettable diagram: seven circles, each one nested inside the next, radiating outward from a center. The image, though deceptively modest, reshapes how one thinks about spiritual responsibility.

1. Self

The innermost circle, labeled Self, represents one’s own soul — the center of all relational and spiritual life. For Thompson, self-examination and humility before God are not indulgent acts but sacred ones. A Christian must first cultivate honesty with themselves and communion with their Creator. Spiritual neglect at this level produces hypocrisy; spiritual health here produces authenticity that naturally flows outward. He reminds his readers that “the most important word in the English language, apart from proper nouns, is relationship.” That relationship begins vertically — between oneself and God — and then extends horizontally into every human connection. Evangelism without integrity is noise; discipleship without inner renewal is hollow ritual.

2. Family

The second circle embraces one’s immediate family. It is easy, Thompson observed, to romanticize missions across oceans while ignoring ministry across the dinner table. The home is the first proving ground of grace. Faith that cannot be lived out among those who know us best will rarely stand in the wider world. A Christian who learns to forgive within marriage, to listen to their children, or to extend patience to aging parents is already practicing evangelism of the highest order. Family is the first “field” of discipleship, where love is tested daily and faith becomes tangible.

3. Relatives

The third circle includes extended family — the kin network that may stretch across states, generations, and emotional boundaries. These relationships are often complicated by history, misunderstanding, or absence. Thompson urges believers not to abandon these connections but to redeem them. The gospel’s reconciling power, he writes, often begins when a believer takes the initiative to heal an old wound or rekindle a neglected bond. A letter of apology, a phone call of encouragement, or an unexpected act of service within the extended family can become the spark of redemption.

4. Friends

Friends form the fourth circle — those we choose to walk beside in life. Unlike family, friendship is elective; it is built on mutual trust and shared affection. Thompson views friendship as one of the most powerful conduits of witness. Friends already see us unfiltered; they know our habits, hopes, and contradictions. When they witness genuine spiritual transformation in our character, they often feel it before they hear it. To live faithfully among friends is to let the gospel speak through laughter, loyalty, and long conversation.

5. Neighbors and Associates

Next come Neighbors and Associates — the people who share our routines but not necessarily our intimacy: colleagues, classmates, teammates, or the barista who knows our order by heart. Thompson believed these daily intersections were fertile soil for spiritual conversation, if approached with humility and care. Instead of seeing such relationships as mundane, he taught his students to see them as providential appointments. Every encounter, no matter how ordinary, carries the potential of divine significance.

6. Acquaintances

The sixth circle widens to include those we know only loosely — the casual relationships of community life. Here, evangelism takes the form of kindness and presence more than speech. Thompson often told his students that “you may be the only gospel someone ever reads,” meaning that one’s demeanor and compassion can preach where words cannot. Consistency — being gracious over time — often speaks louder than any tract or slogan.

7. Person X

Finally comes Person X — the unknown stranger, the person with no prior connection. Most evangelistic training begins here, teaching believers how to witness to strangers. Thompson deliberately places it last. He argues that the credibility built in inner circles prepares believers to approach outer ones with sincerity rather than anxiety. When a life already radiates peace and love, even a stranger senses authenticity. Evangelism to “Person X,” then, is not a special performance; it is the natural overflow of a life already aligned with God.

Thompson captured the urgency of this relational approach when he wrote, “Most of our lives are crucified between two thieves, yesterday and tomorrow. We never live today. But the time to live is now.” The concentric circles remind us that the mission field is not someday or somewhere else — it is here, in the people who already populate our lives.

The Seven Stages of Making Disciples

Thompson’s circles describe who we are called to influence; his seven stages explain how. The stages form a dynamic rhythm — not a rigid checklist but a living cycle of growth that repeats again and again.

Stage 1: Get Right

Spiritual influence begins with moral clarity. To “get right” is to confront sin, mend broken relationships, and align one’s will with God’s. Thompson likens unreconciled relationships to blockages in a pipe: until they are cleared, the Spirit’s flow is obstructed. Getting right means making amends, confessing pride, forgiving debts, and letting the Holy Spirit cleanse the inner life. This stage humbles the believer before they presume to guide another.

Stage 2: Survey

Once reconciled, the believer must “survey” their relational field — a prayerful mapping of the people God has already placed within reach. Thompson encouraged writing names in each circle, not as a project list but as a sacred responsibility list. The act of seeing these names laid out visually reawakens compassion. We begin to see that our lives are already mission fields bursting with divine opportunity.

Stage 3: Pray

Prayer, for Thompson, is the lifeblood of evangelism. He calls it “a guided missile — it always hits its target.” Prayer aligns the heart with God’s timing and opens doors that human persuasion cannot. The believer prays not only for conversion but for understanding, patience, and divine orchestration — that conversations will arise naturally, that the Spirit will prepare both speaker and listener. Without prayer, evangelism degenerates into salesmanship; with prayer, it becomes partnership with God.

Stage 4: Build Bridges

Bridge-building is the practical art of connection. It may involve hospitality, listening, volunteering, or sharing a meal. Thompson viewed every bridge as an act of incarnation — stepping into another’s world as Christ stepped into ours. Bridges require humility, empathy, and time. They often begin with small acts: remembering a name, showing up at a funeral, sending a card. Over time, these gestures form trust strong enough to carry the weight of truth.

Stage 5: Show Love

The fifth stage deepens bridge-building into tangible service. “Love that is not demonstrated is not credible,” Thompson warns. To show love means to meet needs: to feed the hungry, comfort the grieving, or simply listen without agenda. Genuine love expects nothing in return. When people experience that kind of care, they become open not merely to a message but to a Messenger. Thompson’s famous illustration of a student returning a stolen motorcycle mirror captures this stage perfectly: confession and restitution became a living sermon that words alone could not match.

Stage 6: Make Disciples

Having earned trust and demonstrated love, the believer can now share the gospel sincerely. But Thompson insists this is not the finish line — it is the midpoint. True discipleship involves walking with new believers as they learn to obey Christ, discover Scripture, and find community. Evangelism divorced from discipleship, he warned, produces orphans; discipleship joined with love produces heirs. Making disciples means nurturing growth until the new believer can, in turn, disciple others.

Stage 7: Begin Again

The cycle ends where it began — and then continues. The new disciple becomes a new center of concentric influence, applying the same seven stages to their own relationships. Thus, the gospel spreads organically, not by mass production but by multiplication — one circle at a time. Thompson’s model mirrors nature itself: seeds producing fruit that carries new seeds. Discipleship is the divine geometry of multiplication through love.

Theology and Heartbeat of the Model

At its core, Concentric Circles of Concern is a theology of incarnation. It declares that God’s mission moves through human relationships — not in spite of them. Christ entered history relationally, dwelling among us; His followers must do the same. The model ties spiritual maturity to relational responsibility. To be “right with God” without being reconciled to others is an illusion.

Thompson’s vision also bridges two great biblical commands: the Great Commission (“Go and make disciples”) and the Great Commandment (“Love your neighbor as yourself”). The circles remind believers that these are not separate mandates but two halves of the same calling. Evangelism divorced from love becomes manipulation; love without truth becomes sentimentality. The mature Christian practices both — speaking truth through relationships of genuine care.

Prayer anchors this balance. Thompson’s metaphor of prayer as a “guided missile” conveys both power and precision: prayer can reach where presence cannot. It can travel across distance, culture, and even hostility. When believers pray for those within each circle, their hearts become attuned to God’s compassion, and they see people not as projects but as souls.

Strengths, Challenges, and Contemporary Relevance

The enduring strength of Thompson’s model lies in its simplicity. It does not require technology, programs, or budgets — only attentiveness, humility, and perseverance. Yet its simplicity hides profound depth. The circles create a lifelong map for Christian influence, reminding believers that evangelism is less about campaigns and more about consistency.

In today’s world of fractured relationships and digital disconnection, Concentric Circles of Concern feels prophetic. Our social networks may have expanded, but our intimacy has shrunk. Thompson’s framework invites believers to slow down, notice, and invest. Modern adaptation can include digital circles — online friends, social followers, professional networks — but the principle remains unchanged: spiritual credibility flows through relationship.

Still, Thompson’s model demands balance. One must not become so inwardly focused that the outer circle, Person X, is forgotten. Nor should believers treat relationships as strategies for conversion. The goal is love, not leverage. When love is real, evangelism follows naturally. As Thompson might say, evangelism is not a project to complete but a person to become.

Memorable Quotations

“The most important word in the English language, apart from proper nouns, is relationship.”
“Intercessory prayer is like a guided missile — it always hits its target.”
“Most of our lives are crucified between two thieves, yesterday and tomorrow. We never live today.”
“Love that is not demonstrated is not credible.”
“You cannot lead someone closer to the Lord than you are yourself.”

These words capture his conviction that relational faith is both the method and the message of the gospel.

Reflective Poem — Ripples of Concern

I stand within the quiet center,
A soul restored, the heart made whole;
From this still place the circles widen,
Grace flows outward, soul to soul.

My home becomes the first frontier,
Where love must bloom before it’s taught;
And every quarrel, every silence,
Is soil where mercy must be sought.

Through friendship’s bridge and neighbor’s need,
Through acts of care that speak, not plead,
The gospel walks on human feet,
Love’s language stronger than a creed.

Beyond the known, to stranger’s face,
The ripples travel, still by grace;
Till every heart, in widening span,
Feels heaven’s pulse through human hands.

And when another life takes flame,
A new set of circles starts again;
From self to world, from love to light,
The pattern echoes Christ’s design.

Concentric Circles of Concern remains one of the clearest blueprints ever written for living out the Great Commission through the Great Commandment. Thompson’s wisdom continues to challenge believers to think relationally, act prayerfully, love tangibly, and live authentically — one circle at a time

Here Am I, Lord: The Call and Commission in Today’s World

.Reading time 15 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

I. Introduction: The Prophet Who Heard the Voice

Among the great figures of the Old Testament, Isaiah stands tall as one of the most profound and poetic prophets ever called by God. Living and writing in the eighth century before Christ, during the reigns of Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah—four kings of Judah—Isaiah witnessed both the spiritual decline of his nation and the political upheavals that threatened its very survival. His name, Yeshayahu, means “The Lord is salvation,” and indeed, his entire message weaves together judgment and redemption, despair and hope, sin and grace.

Isaiah’s writings form one of the most theologically rich books in all of Scripture—sixty-six chapters that stretch from visions of God’s holiness to prophecies of the coming Messiah. Scholars have called Isaiah “the fifth gospel” because it so vividly anticipates the life, suffering, and triumph of Christ centuries before His birth. Unlike many prophets who simply declared oracles of doom, Isaiah combined poetic beauty, moral clarity, and divine vision. He saw beyond the immediate history of Israel to the sweeping purposes of God for all nations.

What sets Isaiah apart is not only the grandeur of his language but the intimacy of his calling. His ministry begins not with action but with awe—with a vision that breaks and remakes him. In the year that King Uzziah died, Isaiah saw “the Lord, high and lifted up, and His train filled the temple.” He hears angelic voices crying, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of His glory.” Overwhelmed by divine holiness, Isaiah cries out, “Woe is me, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell among a people of unclean lips.” Then, in a moment of grace, a seraph touches his lips with a live coal from the altar, saying, “Your guilt is taken away, and your sin atoned for.” Only then does Isaiah hear the divine question: “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” His response—simple, immediate, and wholehearted—has echoed through millennia: “Here am I; send me.”

II. The Original Moment: From Vision to Vocation

Isaiah’s encounter in the temple is one of the most profound calling narratives in Scripture because it reveals the entire arc of spiritual transformation—conviction, cleansing, and commission. Before Isaiah can speak for God, he must be purified by God. The coal that touches his lips symbolizes both pain and purification; it burns away unworthiness and ignites a new fire of purpose. Isaiah learns that divine service is not earned by merit but granted through mercy.

This moment defines prophetic ministry for all who follow. Isaiah does not volunteer because he feels capable; he volunteers because he has been forgiven. His “send me” is not a boast of strength but a surrender of will. It shows that readiness in God’s kingdom comes not from talent or position but from humility and obedience. The prophet’s call reminds every believer that God does not ask for perfection, only availability. He does not seek the qualified; He qualifies the willing.

III. The Voice That Still Calls: Modern Applications of “Send Me”

Though centuries separate us from Isaiah’s temple vision, the same question still echoes: “Whom shall I send?” The call of God is not a relic of ancient prophecy—it is a living summons to every generation. In every time and place, men and women hear this question in the quiet chambers of conscience and the crowded corridors of daily life. The divine call may not come through visions of angels, but it comes through needs that cry out to be met, through injustices that demand courage, through moments of compassion that ask for response.

A. The Personal Call: Faith in the Ordinary
In a world that prizes self-assertion, Isaiah’s answer is radical: availability over ability. “Here am I” means being present before God—before the noise of ambition or distraction drowns out His voice. For the modern believer, this call begins in small, faithful acts: showing kindness when it’s inconvenient, forgiving when it’s undeserved, speaking truth when it’s unpopular. It may mean teaching a Sunday school class, visiting the sick, mentoring a child, or simply standing up for integrity in one’s profession.
The modern application of Isaiah’s “send me” is less about geography and more about posture. You may never cross an ocean, but you can cross the street. You may not go into a pulpit, but you can live the Gospel at your desk, in your classroom, or around your dinner table. In every generation, God asks not “Who is talented?” but “Who is willing?”

B. The Public Call: Faith in the Civic and Professional Realm
Isaiah was not just a preacher in the temple; he was an adviser to kings and a voice in national affairs. His message reached palaces and public squares alike. Likewise, today’s disciples are called to bring righteousness into their professions—to be prophetic voices in civic life. Whether one serves in government, finance, education, or healthcare, the “send me” spirit calls for moral clarity amid compromise.
In municipal councils, corporate meetings, or courtrooms, there is still a need for those who say, “Here am I” not to their own advancement but to the cause of truth and justice. The Isaiah spirit is the courage to stand for what is right even when it costs reputation or comfort—to call nations back to integrity, to defend the vulnerable, to remind leaders that power must serve people. In every public servant who leads with humility, in every teacher who shapes conscience, in every judge who loves mercy, the voice of Isaiah lives on.

C. The Global Call: Faith Beyond Borders
Isaiah’s vision of God’s glory filling the whole earth anticipates the Great Commission of Christ. “Send me” is a global phrase—it transcends race, nation, and time. In our interconnected world, the mission field is both next door and around the globe. It includes the refugee, the orphan, the imprisoned, the forgotten. To say “send me” today is to accept the responsibility of love in a wounded world.
It might mean serving on a mission trip, supporting a humanitarian cause, or developing technology that uplifts rather than exploits. It can mean using one’s influence, wealth, or voice for those who have none. The modern missionary is not only the preacher or doctor abroad, but also the scientist working for sustainable solutions, the artist telling redemptive stories, and the citizen advocating for peace and dignity.

IV. The Obstacles to Saying “Send Me”

Many never reach Isaiah’s moment of surrender because they stop at his first confession: “Woe is me.” Fear, inadequacy, and distraction paralyze potential prophets. The world today offers endless reasons to delay obedience—busyness, cynicism, self-doubt, or the illusion that someone else will go. The modern heart is often over-informed but under-committed.

Yet the secret of Isaiah’s response lies in trust. He did not know where he would be sent, what he would face, or whether he would succeed. God revealed only the call, not the destination. And still he said yes. The modern disciple must learn this same holy courage—the faith to say “yes” before knowing the cost. Real obedience precedes full understanding.

We also face cultural barriers. The age of irony mocks conviction; the age of comfort avoids sacrifice. But God still calls amid the noise. Every generation must rediscover the sacred simplicity of Isaiah’s answer: to stand up when called, to speak when it’s easier to stay silent, to go when it’s safer to stay home.

V. The Transformation of the Willing Heart

The power of Isaiah’s response lies in transformation. He entered the temple burdened by guilt and left commissioned by grace. The same God who cleansed his lips also shaped his life. Service becomes the fruit of forgiveness. Every believer who says “send me” enters this same pattern: encounter, cleansing, and calling.

Modern discipleship is not a part-time endeavor but a lifelong response. When we offer ourselves to God’s purposes, He transforms both us and the world around us. A single “send me” can ripple through generations. One teacher who sees their classroom as a mission field, one civic leader who governs with justice, one artist who creates with reverence—each becomes a vessel through which God’s light reaches others.

In this way, Isaiah’s call is not a moment but a movement. It is the continual surrender of the heart that says, “Use me, Lord, wherever You will.”

VI. Conclusion: The Call Continues

Isaiah’s cry, “Here am I, Lord; send me,” remains one of the purest expressions of faith in all of Scripture. It is both an answer and a challenge. Across the centuries, prophets, apostles, and saints have echoed it in their own tongues—Moses before Pharaoh, Mary before the angel, Peter beside the sea, Paul on the Damascus road. And still the question comes: “Whom shall I send?”

Every believer must decide whether to remain a spectator in the temple or to become a servant in the field. The call may come through Scripture, through conscience, or through the cry of human need. The answer must come from the heart: “Here am I.” In those three words lies the essence of Christian discipleship—the surrender of self to the will of God.

In a fractured world that hungers for hope, the echo of Isaiah’s voice is needed more than ever. The Lord still seeks those who will go—into classrooms, hospitals, city halls, neighborhoods, and nations—to live out His message of redemption. To every willing soul, He still asks the ancient question. And to every heart brave enough to respond, He still gives divine purpose.

“Here am I, Lord; send me.” May it not be only Isaiah’s prayer—but ours.

Reflective Prayer: “Here Am I, Lord”

O Lord, high and lifted up,
whose glory fills the earth and whose mercy touches even the most unworthy lips,
we come before You with humbled hearts.

We have heard Your question echo through the ages —
“Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?”
And though the world grows noisy with fear and distraction,
still Your voice breaks through.

Touch our lips as You touched Isaiah’s,
burn away our pride, our hesitation, our excuses.
Cleanse what is unclean,
renew what is weary,
and make our hearts burn again with holy purpose.

When the needs of the world seem too vast, remind us:
You do not ask us to save the world, only to serve in it.
You do not need our strength, only our surrender.
You do not require our perfection, only our presence.

So here we stand, O Lord —
in our cities, our classrooms, our homes, our workplaces.
Here we are, with our small voices and open hands.
Send us where love is lacking.
Send us where truth is silenced.
Send us where hope has grown dim.

And when we go, go with us —
that every act may carry the mark of Your grace,
and every word may bear the weight of Your holiness.

We pray this not in our own name,
but in the name of Jesus Christ,
the One who was sent and who sends us still.

Amen.

Searching for God’s Plan Is Part of God’s Plan

.Reading time 19 minutes.

🕯️ A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

🕯️ Searching for God’s Plan Is Part of God’s Plan

A meditation on divine purpose, patience, and the gentle guidance of the Holy Spirit

✨ Introduction — The God Who Is Three in One

When we speak of God’s plan, we must first understand who God is.
All of Scripture — and every whisper of divine purpose — flows from the mystery of the Holy Trinity, the eternal truth that God is One in essence and Three in person: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.

From the first pages of the Bible, God reveals Himself not as solitary but as relational. In Genesis 1:26, the Creator declares, “Let Us make mankind in Our image, in Our likeness.” This “Us” is not the language of royalty but of communion — a glimpse into the fellowship that has always existed within the Godhead.

God the Father is the Creator and Sustainer of all things, the One who spoke light into being and still speaks purpose into creation. He is the source from which all love, justice, and wisdom flow.

God the Son, Jesus Christ, is the Word made flesh — “the image of the invisible God” (Colossians 1:15). Fully divine and fully human, He entered time so that eternity could enter us. Through His life, death, and resurrection, He revealed the Father’s heart and opened the way for humanity to live in communion with God once more.

God the Holy Spirit is the living presence of God with us — the Comforter Jesus promised in John 14:26, the One who guides, convicts, empowers, and renews. The Spirit does not simply move around us but dwells within us, breathing life where there was none and transforming belief into becoming.

Together, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are one God — distinct in person, united in essence, perfect in love. The Father wills, the Son reveals, the Spirit indwells. This divine harmony is not a concept to be solved but a communion to be entered — the eternal dance of love that invites us to join.

To seek God’s plan, then, is to be drawn into the life of the Holy Trinity itself — to hear the Father’s call, to follow the Son’s example, and to walk in the Spirit’s guidance. Every act of faith, every search for purpose, begins and ends within that holy fellowship of love.

🌅 I. The Longing to Know

Every soul, at some quiet moment, comes to the edge of its own mystery and whispers,
Why am I here?
What am I meant to do?
How will I know when I’ve found it?

These are not small questions, nor are they unspiritual ones. They are the pulse of eternity within human clay — the proof that we were made by a purposeful God who designed us to long for Him. As the writer of Ecclesiastes says, “He has set eternity in the human heart.” (Ecclesiastes 3:11). That longing, that inward ache for meaning, is not a flaw in the system — it is the invitation itself.

Before we ever lift our eyes toward heaven, the Holy Spirit has already stirred the waters of our hearts. It is He who awakens the desire to seek, to question, to yearn for direction. We imagine that we begin the search, but in truth, we are responding to One who has already begun calling our name. “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you,” says the Lord (Jeremiah 1:5). The search is not the beginning of God’s plan — it is the awakening to it.

We live in a world that tells us to chase identity through productivity — to define purpose by what we do. Yet the Spirit teaches us to begin with who we are: beloved, chosen, formed for good works prepared in advance (Ephesians 2:10). When we start from belovedness, direction becomes less about achievement and more about alignment. The question shifts from “What is my plan for my life?” to “What is God’s life doing through me?”

There are times the longing feels like a burden — like a hunger that won’t be filled. But that hunger is holy. It is the echo of Eden within us, the part of the soul that still remembers walking with God in the cool of the day. Every time we ask “Why am I here?” we are really asking, “Lord, where are You?” And the Spirit answers softly in the dark: “Closer than you think.”

The longing to know is not a sign that we are lost; it is proof that we are loved. God hides His purposes not to frustrate us but to form us. Like a sunrise that slowly brightens the horizon, His plan is not a flash of lightning but a gentle unveiling. And as we watch for the light, we come to see — the search itself is sacred. The seeking heart is already standing within the circle of His will.

🌾 II. The Restless Heart

“As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for You, my God.” — Psalm 42 : 1
“It is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill His good purpose.” — Philippians 2 : 13

There is a restlessness that runs through the human spirit — a holy discomfort that keeps us from settling for less than what God intended. We call it anxiety, ambition, or uncertainty, but beneath those names lies a deeper truth: the soul was not designed for stagnation. The Spirit keeps us moving because life in Christ is a pilgrimage, not permanence.

The restlessness of the heart is a divine stirring. It is what moved Abraham to leave Ur without a map, Moses to wander through desert silence, and Paul to cross seas with only the Spirit’s whisper, “Go.” None of them saw the full plan, but each trusted that the One who called would lead.

When the Holy Spirit “woos” the soul, He does not always comfort first; sometimes He unsettles. He loosens our grip on comfort so that we might reach for calling. The Spirit’s invitation is often disguised as discomfort — not to harm us, but to stretch us toward holiness.

We often mistake that tension as something to escape. But restlessness can be sacred ground if we let it drive us to prayer instead of panic. The heart that refuses to grow numb, that dares to ask “Is there more?” is already being moved by the Breath of God.

If you feel restless today, take courage. The ache itself is evidence that the Spirit is alive within you — awakening desire, stirring purpose, leading you toward something truer than you can yet name.

🌊 III. The Hidden Path

“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path.” — Psalm 119 : 105
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.” — Proverbs 3 : 5–6

We wish God would hand us the map. Instead, He gives us a lamp.

Faith does not come with a blueprint; it comes with a Person. The Holy Spirit does not reveal the entire road — He reveals the next step. That is why the lamp is at our feet, not miles ahead. If God showed us everything at once, we would no longer need faith; we would manage life by sight.

The hidden path is the training ground of trust. We take one obedient step, and the next is revealed. Guidance in Scripture always comes to those who are already moving: Abraham stepping out, Peter stepping onto the water, Paul stepping toward Macedonia. Divine direction is discovered in motion.

Discernment grows in stillness and obedience. God speaks through His Word, through the peace that follows prayer, through the wise voices He plants around us. The Holy Spirit confirms through alignment — when Scripture, conscience, and peace all point in the same direction.

We are not asked to see far, only to walk faithfully where the light falls. The Spirit’s guidance often turns like a lighthouse beam — rhythmic, partial, but consistent. The light always returns.

⚓ IV. The Stillness of Trust

“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46 : 10
“Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay.” — Habakkuk 2 : 3

The hardest obedience is not movement — it is stillness.
We can act, plan, or work; but to be still and trust feels like doing nothing. Yet Scripture reveals that stillness is not inactivity; it is surrender.

Stillness says, “God, You do not need my panic to accomplish Your promise.”
It is a holy resting of the soul, a decision to stop wrestling for control.

When Elijah fled to the cave, God was not in the wind, earthquake, or fire, but in the gentle whisper (1 Kings 19:12). Jesus, too, embodied that peace — sleeping through a storm that terrified seasoned fishermen. Both moments show the same truth: the presence of chaos does not mean the absence of God.

In a world that rewards busyness and noise, stillness is an act of rebellion. It is spiritual warfare against hurry, fear, and self-sufficiency. To be still is to declare that God’s timing is trustworthy, His sovereignty complete.

Waiting is not wasted time. It is the slow shaping of faith into maturity. What we think is delay is often design. And while we wait, the Holy Spirit breathes courage into our quiet — a courage that does not demand proof, only Presence.

🌤 V. The Mystery of Hindsight

“You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” — John 13 : 7
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him.” — Romans 8 : 28

God’s handwriting is easiest to read backwards.

Joseph understood his suffering only after the famine was over. Ruth saw redemption only after returning from Moab. Peter grasped the grace of denial only after resurrection morning. Each could have cried in the middle, “What possible good could come of this?” — yet each found that God had been writing something beautiful in invisible ink.

The Spirit is the Interpreter of the Past. He helps us re-read our pain through the lens of providence. What once looked like abandonment becomes preparation. What once felt like punishment becomes protection.

When hindsight meets humility, gratitude is born. We begin to thank God not only for what He gave but for what He withheld. The fog clears, and we realize that every step, even the missteps, were guided by mercy.

In time, revelation becomes remembrance — and remembrance becomes worship.

🕯️ VI. Living Inside the Plan

“He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” — Micah 6 : 8
“You will seek Me and find Me when you seek Me with all your heart.” — Jeremiah 29 : 13

To live inside God’s plan is not to solve a puzzle; it is to live in relationship.
We seek His will not as detectives chasing clues but as children trusting a Father.

The will of God is not a distant treasure buried under mystery; it is the life of Christ formed in us through faith. Every decision, every act of love, every moment of humility becomes the shaping of divine purpose.

When we walk in love, we are already in the center of His will. When we forgive, serve, give, and trust — we are fulfilling His design more than we realize.

Faith is not a destination but a direction. The Spirit leads not by shouting orders but by indwelling presence. To live “in the plan” is to live with the Planner — daily, presently, obediently.

We spend so much time asking, “Am I in God’s will?”
Perhaps heaven’s better question is, “Am I walking with God?”

The seeker who walks with God is never off the map.

🕊️ VII. The Seeker’s Prayer

Lord of the journey,
You who shape the tides and light the stars,
teach me to trust the mystery of Your plan.
When I cannot see the shoreline,
let me rest in the rhythm of Your waves.

When my heart cries, “Why am I here?”
whisper back, “You are Mine.”
When I ask, “What should I do?”
remind me to keep the lamp trimmed,
to walk one faithful step at a time.

Holy Spirit, gentle Companion,
thank You for stirring my questions
and for meeting me inside them.
Let Your whisper rise above the wind,
Your peace outshine my fear.

I do not ask for the full map —
only the courage to follow the next light.
For even my searching belongs to You.
Every longing, every delay, every unanswered prayer
is already written in Your design.

Keep me seeking.
Keep me trusting.
And when the dawn finally breaks,
may I find that the path I wandered
was the one You planned all along.

Amen.

🌅 VIII. Epilogue — The Morning of Understanding

The first light slips across the sea. The storm has passed. Whether one stands on a balcony or kneels beside a bed, there comes a moment when striving ceases and trust begins.

The questions that once pressed hard against the heart grow quiet.
We do not have every answer—only peace. The waiting, the wondering, the wandering — all reveal themselves as the Spirit’s slow choreography toward surrender.

Below us, life continues — tides rise and fall, plans shift and change. Yet above all, God remains steady. His plan, mysterious and merciful, unfolds with perfect rhythm.

In that awareness the soul finds rest.
The search, it turns out, was never about discovering a destination but discovering Him.

The Spirit still whispers over the waters:
Be still and know that I am God.

And the heart that listens understands at last —
to search for God’s plan was always to walk within it.
The light was never lost;
it was leading all along.

Reverence: Renewing a Forgotten Virtue

.Reading time 21 minutes.

Suggested by Dan Johnson, Written by Lewis McLain & AI

Based on the book by Paul Woodruff (Oxford University Press, 2001; Revised Edition 2022)

Author Introduction: Paul B. Woodruff (1943–2023)

Paul Woodruff was a philosopher, classicist, educator, soldier, and moral thinker whose half-century career at the University of Texas at Austin left an enduring legacy of both wisdom and warmth.
Born in New Jersey in 1943, he graduated from Princeton University in Classics in 1965, earned a B.A. in Literae Humaniores at Oxford University as a Marshall Scholar, and then served as a U.S. Army captain in Vietnam (1969–1971). After the war, he returned to Princeton for his Ph.D. in Philosophy under Gregory Vlastos, one of the century’s greatest interpreters of Socrates.

When Woodruff joined the faculty of UT Austin in 1973, he brought with him not only academic brilliance but a passion for conversation. As Chair of Philosophy, Director of the Plan II Honors Program, and later Dean of Undergraduate Studies, he embodied his own teaching: that truth begins with humility. In the Joynes Reading Room, he designed and personally crafted the oval seminar table—ensuring that no student would ever sit at the “head.”

His books—including Reverence: Renewing a Forgotten Virtue (2001), First Democracy (2005), The Necessity of Theater (2008), and The Ajax Dilemma (2011)—blend classical insight with moral urgency. In Reverence, he observed a spiritual crisis spreading through modern institutions: the loss of humility and awe. His motivation was not religious nostalgia but civic concern—he feared that a culture which forgets reverence will also forget restraint, gratitude, and love.

Woodruff passed away in 2023, but his life’s work still asks us a timeless question: What do we revere—and what happens to us when we stop?

Chapter-by-Chapter Overview

1. Introducing Reverence

Woodruff opens with a question as ancient as philosophy itself: how do humans live well together? His answer is that societies depend upon a virtue older than law—reverence. It is, he writes, “the well-developed capacity to have the feelings of awe, respect, and shame when these are the right feelings to have.” Reverence keeps us aware of limits: of mortality, of mystery, of the dignity of others. It is the opposite of hubris, the blindness that afflicts both tyrants and mobs.

He insists that reverence is not superstition, nor mere etiquette. It is a cultivated sensitivity to what deserves honor. The truly reverent person feels shame not because others condemn him, but because he recognizes the distance between what is and what ought to be. Reverence protects moral imagination—it reminds us that even our best intentions are small before the vastness of truth.

2. Without Reverence

The second chapter is a mirror held up to modern life. What happens, Woodruff asks, when reverence fades? The result is not freedom but fragmentation. He describes families that eat together without speaking, governments driven by ego, and public speech that mocks rather than listens. When nothing is held sacred, everything becomes disposable.

He uses the metaphor of “hollow ritual”: ceremonies repeated without meaning—graduations, inaugurations, marriages, even prayers—lose their power to shape character. Without reverence, power becomes arrogance and criticism becomes contempt. A civilization that laughs at reverence may enjoy temporary freedom but ultimately loses coherence; its citizens forget how to live with limits or gratitude.

3. Music and a Funeral

Woodruff then paints a scene nearly everyone understands: a funeral. Amid grief, music plays, silence falls, people stand together. No words can explain death, yet ritual gives shape to feeling. In that space of mourning, reverence is reborn. It is not belief that holds mourners together, but shared awe before mystery.

The funeral becomes a parable for all human art. Just as a requiem gathers pain into harmony, so art itself gives reverence form. Reverence, he concludes, is not an idea but a rhythm of the soul—it is learned through gestures, tones, pauses, and attention. In an irreverent age, art may be our last surviving temple.

4. Bare Reverence

This chapter asks: what remains if you strip reverence of religion, nation, or tradition? Woodruff identifies three universal threads. First, reverence requires humility—a recognition of limits. Second, it requires awe—the awareness of something greater. Third, it requires discernment—the ability to distinguish what truly deserves respect from what merely demands it.

He compares reverence to courage: both are habits of the heart rather than doctrines of the mind. Bare reverence can unite believers and skeptics, ancient and modern, because it answers a need rooted in our shared humanity. But he cautions against its counterfeits: fear mistaken for reverence, or idolatry disguised as devotion. True reverence always enlarges; false reverence enslaves.

5. Ancient Greece — The Way of Being Human

Turning to his scholarly home, Woodruff explores how the Greeks made reverence the cornerstone of moral life. In Homer, hubris brings ruin; in Sophocles, the gods teach humility through tragedy. Greek drama, public ritual, and law were all infused with reverence for the unseen order that sustains the city.

He explains how Greek theater itself was an act of civic reverence—performed at religious festivals to remind citizens of their fragility and interdependence. From this, Woodruff extracts a political warning for the present: democracy cannot survive without reverence. When leaders forget limits and citizens scorn the sacred, the state decays from within. The Athenian tragedies, far from relics, are mirrors of modern pride.

6. Ancient China — The Way of Power

Moving east, Woodruff finds in Confucianism a practical school of reverence. Confucius taught that virtue begins in li—ritual propriety. Ritual is not empty ceremony but the training of feeling. Bowing to elders, observing moments of silence, following forms of greeting—all shape humility. Reverence, for Confucius, is embodied before it is understood.

Woodruff contrasts this with the modern West’s suspicion of formality. We think authenticity means spontaneity, yet unrestrained spontaneity often produces disrespect. The Confucian model teaches that form can cultivate freedom: discipline precedes grace. In rediscovering reverent habits—ceremony, gratitude, patience—we recover moral rhythm in an age of improvisation.

7. Reverence Without a Creed

Woodruff now addresses the modern secular conscience. Can reverence survive in a disenchanted world? His answer is yes. Reverence is possible wherever people honor truth or beauty without claiming to own them. The scientist who feels awe before the laws of nature, the judge who bows to justice, or the artist who respects the mystery of creation—all live reverently.

He acknowledges that secularism often drains language of sacred meaning, leaving irony where reverence once stood. Yet he insists that reverence does not require faith; it requires attention. The posture of the astronomer gazing into the night sky or the nurse watching over a dying patient can be as reverent as the monk at prayer.

8. Reverence Across Religions

Here Woodruff becomes anthropologist and theologian. He finds reverence at the heart of all major faiths: in Christian worship, Buddhist mindfulness, Muslim submission, Jewish remembrance, and Confucian order. Across these differences, a common pattern emerges—ritual, humility, silence, and gratitude.

But he also exposes the danger: religion without reverence becomes idolatry of power. When faith is used to dominate rather than to serve, it betrays itself. The cure, he says, is empathy—the capacity to “feel what is sacred to another.” That practice of reverent curiosity could, in his view, do more for peace than any treaty.

9. Relativism

In one of his most philosophically subtle chapters, Woodruff tackles relativism. If reverence takes many forms, does that mean anything can be revered? He answers no. Reverence requires moral judgment. To revere cruelty, wealth, or ideology is to pervert the virtue. Reverence must always be joined to truth and justice.

He calls this “critical reverence”—respect without surrender. It keeps us from both arrogance and moral paralysis. Reverence does not freeze values; it tests them. Thus, Woodruff offers reverence as a moral compass for pluralism: we can honor different paths without denying that some lead nowhere.

10. The Reverent Leader

Leadership, he writes, is the public face of reverence. The leader’s task is not to command worship but to model restraint. In ancient societies, kings performed sacrifices not to feed gods but to remind themselves of dependence. The wise leader still performs symbolic acts of humility—listening, apologizing, serving.

Woodruff contrasts this with the “pageantry of ego” that fills modern politics and business. Ceremony, when genuine, steadies authority by binding it to shared values. Reverence, not charisma, gives leaders legitimacy. The reverent leader measures success not by control but by the flourishing of those they serve.

11. The Silent Teacher

Few sections reveal Woodruff’s heart more than this one. As a lifelong educator, he believed that the classroom is a temple of truth. Reverent teaching begins in silence—the pause that honors the student and the subject. The teacher, like Socrates, must be humble before wisdom itself.

He contrasts two styles of education: one that seeks victory, the other that seeks understanding. The first breeds arrogance; the second breeds reverence. A reverent teacher listens, models curiosity, and treats every question as sacred. For Woodruff, education is the moral rehearsal of democracy—an arena where reverence for truth and for one another coexist.

12. Home

Reverence, Woodruff reminds us, must be domestic as well as civic. The home is the first moral school, and its rituals—shared meals, greetings, bedtime prayers—are the small liturgies of love. They teach gratitude and patience, grounding children in respect for one another and for life itself.

Drawing on The Odyssey, he contrasts Odysseus’s restless striving with Telemachus’s steadiness and Penelope’s faithfulness. Reverence, he suggests, keeps home sacred even in absence or struggle. When families abandon ritual for convenience, they lose the grammar of love. But even a simple grace before dinner can restore proportion and gratitude.

13. Sacred Things (Added in the Revised Edition)

In the revised edition, Woodruff asks: what counts as sacred in a secular age? For some it is God; for others, justice, the planet, or human rights. Sacred things are those beyond price—objects or values that must not be exploited or mocked. Reverence protects them, not through coercion but through care.

He distinguishes reverence from idolatry. To idolize is to possess; to revere is to approach gently. When societies lose reverence for the sacred—whether for nature, life, or truth—they begin to desecrate. Reverence thus becomes an ecological and moral safeguard, reminding us that the world itself is worthy of awe.

14. Compassion (Added in the Revised Edition)

Compassion, Woodruff writes, is reverence in motion—the outward expression of inner humility. Compassion honors suffering as something sacred. Yet he warns that compassion without reverence can become self-righteous, the vanity of those who feel virtuous for caring. Reverence disciplines compassion by keeping it humble and alert to dignity rather than pity.

He illustrates this through failures of compassion: bureaucratic cruelty, ideological purity, and the cold efficiency of systems that forget people. Reverence corrects these by re-humanizing vision. To treat each person as sacred is to unite compassion with justice.

15. Epilogue — Renewing Reverence

The closing chapter is not theoretical but practical. Reverence cannot be commanded; it must be cultivated through daily acts—silence before speech, gratitude before demand, reflection before judgment. These habits, he says, are like seeds that restore moral soil.

Woodruff’s final claim—“Reverence can save lives”—is both literal and prophetic. In war, reverence prevents atrocity; in politics, it tempers pride; in family life, it heals cruelty. The measure of a culture is not its wealth or innovation but its capacity for reverence. Without it, progress itself becomes dangerous.

Appendix: Reflection & Discussion Guide

This appendix offers core questions and reflection prompts for readers, classes, and study groups.

1. Introducing Reverence

Core Questions:

  • How is reverence different from politeness or worship?
  • Why does humility form its foundation?
    Reflection:
  • Recall a moment when awe or shame guided you toward respect. What did it teach you?

2. Without Reverence

Core Questions:

  • What happens to a community when reverence disappears?
    Reflection:
  • Identify one modern sphere—politics, education, family—where reverence has eroded. What replaced it?

3. Music and a Funeral

Core Questions:

  • Why does art succeed where argument fails in teaching reverence?
    Reflection:
  • When has music or ceremony helped you face loss or meaning beyond words?

4. Bare Reverence

Core Questions:

  • What elements make reverence universal?
    Reflection:
  • What idols—wealth, ideology, pride—most threaten true reverence today?

5. Ancient Greece

Core Questions:

  • What lessons about leadership and humility do Greek tragedies offer?
    Reflection:
  • Where do modern leaders exhibit hubris similar to classical heroes?

6. Ancient China

Core Questions:

  • How does ritual shape moral character?
    Reflection:
  • Which small daily gestures could become rituals of gratitude in your life?

7. Reverence Without a Creed

Core Questions:

  • Can a secular person be genuinely reverent?
    Reflection:
  • What do you personally revere—truth, beauty, conscience, or faith?

8. Reverence Across Religions

Core Questions:

  • How can reverence create bridges between faiths?
    Reflection:
  • Have you ever honored another tradition’s sacred space? What did it teach you?

9. Relativism

Core Questions:

  • How does reverence differ from moral relativism?
    Reflection:
  • How do you discern what is worthy of reverence and what is not?

10. The Reverent Leader

Core Questions:

  • What distinguishes reverent leadership from authoritarian command?
    Reflection:
  • Identify a leader—historical or personal—who modeled reverence. What habits define them?

11. The Silent Teacher

Core Questions:

  • What does silence teach that speech cannot?
    Reflection:
  • How could reverence change the way we teach, mentor, or learn?

12. Home

Core Questions:

  • What makes home a sacred space?
    Reflection:
  • Which family traditions or rituals nurture gratitude and respect in your home?

13. Sacred Things

Core Questions:

  • How should a pluralistic society treat what different people hold sacred?
    Reflection:
  • How can we defend others’ sacred values without surrendering our own?

14. Compassion

Core Questions:

  • Why does Woodruff say compassion is reverence in action?
    Reflection:
  • How might reverent compassion transform public discourse or leadership?

15. Epilogue: Renewing Reverence

Core Questions:

  • How can reverence be practiced rather than merely admired?
    Reflection:
  • What one habit—silence, gratitude, listening, humility—could you begin today to renew reverence in your life?

Why Reverence Still Matters in 2025

In an age defined by speed, outrage, and self-promotion, Paul Woodruff’s call for reverence feels prophetic. He warned that societies crumble when they lose awe for what transcends them. In 2025—when technology races ahead, discourse grows coarse, and power outpaces restraint—reverence remains not a luxury but a necessity.

Reverence is the quiet art of perspective. It begins with humility: the awareness that we are small and that truth, justice, and beauty are larger than our ambitions. Progress without humility becomes peril; freedom without restraint becomes chaos. Reverence restores proportion—it reminds leaders that authority is stewardship, teachers that learning is sacred, and citizens that freedom must bow to responsibility.

Woodruff’s insight was not nostalgic but urgent. Reverence, he wrote, “can save lives.” It anchors moral balance in a time of excess. It softens rhetoric, steadies conscience, and revives community. To live reverently in 2025 is therefore an act of resistance against arrogance and noise. It means pausing before judgment, listening before speaking, and honoring what deserves honor—whether God, truth, or the dignity of others.

Paul Woodruff’s passing in 2023 closed a life spent teaching that the highest form of wisdom is humility. His legacy endures in every classroom, household, and public square where people remember that greatness lies not in control but in what we revere. If we can again stand in awe before truth and kindness, reverence will not be forgotten—it will live anew.

Forgiveness and Redemption in Scripture, Life, and Literature

.Reading time 18 minutes.

By Lewis McLain & AI

I. Biblical Foundation: Forgiveness First, Redemption Next

Erika Kirk forgave Charlie’s killer, pointing to Christ’s words from the cross: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” Her act of mercy embodied the heart of the Gospel—entrusting justice to God, rejecting bitterness, and opening the door to redemption.

The Bible presents forgiveness and redemption as inseparable. Forgiveness cancels the debt; redemption restores life and dignity. Paul wrote, “In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins” (Ephesians 1:7). Forgiveness is not weakness or excusing evil—it is entrusting vengeance to God and releasing hatred. Redemption then builds on that foundation, transforming what was broken into something new.

This is the theme W. A. Criswell called The Scarlet Thread Through the Bible. From Genesis to Revelation, the story of Scripture is the story of redemption through the blood of Christ. The animal slain to clothe Adam and Eve, the Passover lamb in Egypt, the sacrifices in Leviticus, the prophecies of Isaiah, the cross of Calvary, and the redeemed multitudes in Revelation—all are tied together by one scarlet thread: forgiveness by blood, redemption by grace.

II. What This Means Today: Living Forgiveness in Modern Life

In the Home

Families are the first classrooms of forgiveness. A husband and wife who refuse to forgive calcify around resentments. Parents who forgive rebellious children model the father in the parable of the prodigal son, who ran to embrace his returning child.

A teenager who totals the family car may face consequences, repayment, or loss of privileges. Yet when the parent says, “I love you. We will get through this together,” forgiveness restores trust where anger alone would sever it. Families that practice forgiveness learn resilience; those that don’t fracture under the weight of accumulated grievances.

In the Community

Communities unravel when grudges fester. They are healed when forgiveness is practiced. The Amish of Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania, in 2006 forgave the man who murdered their children, visiting his widow to comfort her and even contributing to her support. Their forgiveness stunned the watching world.

In daily life, forgiveness might take the form of neighbors ending a property-line feud with a handshake, or a school board reconciling after heated conflict. Communities cannot legislate love, but they can embody it. Forgiveness prevents bitterness from defining the neighborhood and replaces hostility with shared peace.

In the Workplace

Workplaces thrive or rot on whether people forgive. A forgiven mistake can become a growth story; an unforgiven one can poison culture. A financial firm once forgave a young broker after a costly trading error, retrained him, and gave him another chance. He later became one of the company’s top leaders. Forgiveness became an investment, not a liability.

When leaders practice forgiveness, accountability does not disappear, but it is coupled with dignity. Employees learn that mistakes can be addressed without humiliation, and culture shifts from fear to resilience. Forgiveness builds loyalty; unforgiveness breeds turnover and distrust.

In Government and Public Life

Forgiveness in government never erases justice, but it tempers it. After apartheid, South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission created space for confession, repentance, and conditional amnesty. Victims spoke, perpetrators admitted crimes, and some measure of national healing began. In the United States, President Gerald Ford pardoned Richard Nixon to spare the country endless bitterness over Watergate.

In some American cities, restorative-justice programs allow offenders and victims to meet face-to-face. Offenders confess, victims voice pain, and restitution is required. Forgiveness then becomes more than sentiment—it takes on civic power, reducing recidivism and building safer communities. Mercy and justice, long at odds, begin to work together.

III. Forgiveness and Redemption in Literature

Les Misérables — Victor Hugo (1862)

Jean Valjean, imprisoned for stealing bread, emerges from prison hardened and bitter. When Bishop Myriel forgives him for stealing silver and even gifts him more, Valjean’s life changes course. He devotes himself to mercy, raising Cosette, protecting Marius, and showing compassion to the poor. His lifelong nemesis, Inspector Javert, hunts him relentlessly but cannot comprehend mercy.

The contrast between Valjean and Javert is the contrast between forgiveness and unforgiveness. Valjean finds redemption in grace; Javert cannot accept it and perishes. Hugo suggests that forgiveness not only transforms individuals but has the potential to reshape an unjust society.

The Count of Monte Cristo — Alexandre Dumas (1844)

Edmond Dantès is betrayed by false friends, falsely imprisoned, and robbed of years of his life. Escaping from prison, he discovers a treasure and reinvents himself as the Count of Monte Cristo. He systematically destroys his betrayers, one by one, savoring their ruin. For years, revenge consumes him.

Yet vengeance leaves him empty. He eventually spares some of his enemies and recognizes that only mercy can give him peace. Forgiveness becomes his redemption, liberating him from hatred. Dumas shows that vengeance enslaves the avenger, while forgiveness frees both offender and victim.

The Brothers Karamazov — Fyodor Dostoevsky (1880)

This Russian epic explores forgiveness as a communal duty rather than a private choice. Father Zosima insists that each person is responsible for all others’ sins, binding humanity together in shared guilt and mercy. Dmitri, the eldest brother, learns to repent and seek forgiveness. Ivan, the intellectual skeptic, despairs over a world of suffering that seems to defy forgiveness. Alyosha, the youngest, becomes the living embodiment of mercy.

Dostoevsky portrays forgiveness as agonizing, costly, and communal. Redemption does not emerge from philosophy or law but from grace lived out in flesh and blood. The novel insists that forgiveness is humanity’s only hope for breaking cycles of despair.

Cry, the Beloved Country — Alan Paton (1948)

Set in apartheid South Africa, this novel follows Stephen Kumalo, a black pastor who discovers his son has killed the son of James Jarvis, a wealthy white landowner. All seems set for permanent hatred. Yet the fathers meet and, through grief, discover forgiveness.

Their fragile reconciliation becomes a symbol of what South Africa desperately needed: mercy that could lead to national redemption. Paton does not romanticize forgiveness; he shows its difficulty. Yet he insists it is the only way to heal deep racial divides and to build a shared future.

The Hiding Place — Corrie ten Boom (1971)

Corrie ten Boom’s family hid Jews during World War II, were arrested, and suffered terribly in Ravensbrück concentration camp. After the war, Corrie spoke widely on forgiveness. One day, she was approached by a former prison guard who had repented and asked for her pardon.

In that moment, Corrie wrestled with rage and weakness. Yet she extended her hand and forgave him, later writing that it was not her strength but Christ’s. Forgiveness freed both guard and survivor, redeeming not only his guilt but her pain. Corrie’s story shows that forgiveness can seem impossible—yet with God, redemption is possible even in the darkest places.

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe — C. S. Lewis (1950)

Edmund betrays his siblings for Turkish delight and the White Witch’s false promises. His treachery condemns him to death by law. Aslan, the great lion, offers himself in Edmund’s place, dies, and rises again. Edmund is forgiven and restored to his family.

Lewis uses children’s fantasy to portray profound theology. Forgiveness costs sacrifice; redemption transforms the forgiven into someone new. Edmund becomes courageous and loyal, his betrayal redeemed by grace. Forgiveness and redemption here are not abstract—they are embodied in blood, sacrifice, and renewal.

A Tale of Two Cities — Charles Dickens (1859)

Sydney Carton begins as a bitter, wasted man—drunk, cynical, and purposeless. Yet through his love for Lucie, he discovers the possibility of redemption. In the climax, Carton takes another man’s place at the guillotine during the French Revolution, offering his life in sacrifice.

His final words—“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done”—mark his transformation. Carton forgives himself for wasted years, redeems his life through death, and shows that even the most broken person can end in glory. Forgiveness clears his shame; redemption crowns his story.

Great Expectations — Charles Dickens (1861)

Pip, a poor boy suddenly elevated by wealth, becomes ashamed of his upbringing and mistreats Joe, the blacksmith who raised him with kindness. He pursues false dreams of gentility, only to watch them collapse. Humbled, he returns to Joe in repentance.

Joe forgives him without hesitation, restoring their relationship. Redemption comes not through wealth but through forgiveness and humility. Pip matures, learning that love and loyalty matter more than status. Dickens portrays forgiveness as the foundation for personal redemption and moral growth.

East of Eden — John Steinbeck (1952)

Steinbeck reimagines the biblical story of Cain and Abel across generations in California’s Salinas Valley. Families repeat cycles of sin, betrayal, and vengeance. Yet the novel hinges on one word: timshel—“thou mayest.”

“Timshel” insists that each person can choose forgiveness instead of vengeance. Redemption is never fated, but always possible. Forgiveness breaks the cycle, and redemption emerges when people seize their freedom to choose mercy. Steinbeck offers hope in the midst of human brokenness.

Uncle Tom’s Cabin — Harriet Beecher Stowe (1852)

Uncle Tom suffers under slavery’s cruelty yet refuses to hate his oppressors. Even when beaten to death, he prays for his tormentors. His forgiveness becomes a moral witness that redeems others, piercing even hardened hearts.

Stowe uses Tom’s forgiveness to expose slavery’s evil and to show mercy as resistance. Forgiveness redeems not only individuals but can move the conscience of a nation. The novel helped spark movements that changed history, suggesting that forgiveness can be a force for social redemption.

The Secret Garden — Frances Hodgson Burnett (1911)

Mary Lennox and Colin Craven begin as bitter, selfish, and isolated children. Through friendship, care, and the willingness to forgive themselves and others, they begin to heal. The hidden, barren garden comes alive again as they change.

Forgiveness transforms their relationships, and the garden becomes a metaphor for redemption. What was neglected and dead blooms with life. Burnett shows that forgiveness can soften hearts, restore families, and redeem what seemed lost.

Heidi — Johanna Spyri (1881)

Heidi, an orphan girl, goes to live with her embittered grandfather in the Swiss Alps. At first cold and harsh, he is gradually melted by Heidi’s innocence, love, and forgiveness. She brings joy not only to him but to all she meets.

Her grandfather’s transformation is redemption born of forgiveness. Their home, once joyless, becomes full of warmth and light. Spyri portrays childlike love and mercy as powers that heal and redeem the hardest hearts.

To Kill a Mockingbird — Harper Lee (1960)

Set in the American South, the novel explores justice and prejudice. Atticus Finch teaches his children to forgive insults and hostility. Scout learns to see life from Boo Radley’s perspective, realizing he is not a monster but a protector.

Boo’s redemption—from feared recluse to guardian—depends on the town’s willingness to see him differently and forgive past misunderstandings. Forgiveness reshapes perception, and redemption restores dignity. Lee shows that mercy changes how we see—and how we live.

The Kite Runner — Khaled Hosseini (2003)

Amir betrays his loyal friend Hassan as a child, and the guilt haunts him for decades. Hassan dies before forgiveness can be spoken. Yet Amir seeks redemption by rescuing Hassan’s son from Afghanistan, risking his life to give the boy a future.

The journey is dangerous, painful, and costly, but it redeems Amir’s betrayal. Hosseini shows that even when forgiveness cannot be received directly, redemption remains possible through courage and sacrifice. Forgiveness opens the way; redemption completes it.

IV. Conclusion: Release and Renewal

When Erika Kirk forgave Charlie’s killer, she bore witness to the scarlet thread Criswell described—the flow of forgiveness and redemption running through history and through human hearts. Her words echoed Christ’s from the cross, proving that mercy is not weakness but power, and that redemption begins wherever forgiveness is given.

(Erika Kirk video here — click or paste this line: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9OUj_Hzgnjs)

Two years after an assassin’s bullet nearly took his life in St. Peter’s Square, Pope John Paul II offered one of the most public and profound examples of that same mercy. On May 13, 1981, the Pope was shot at close range by a Turkish gunman, Mehmet Ali Ağca, and nearly died. While recovering, he announced that he forgave his attacker. Then, on December 27, 1983, he visited Ağca in prison. In a small cell in Rome’s Rebibbia Prison, the Pope sat face-to-face with the man who had tried to kill him, held his hand, and spoke to him quietly as a brother. That image—the white-robed pontiff leaning toward his assailant in a gesture of peace—became one of the defining portraits of forgiveness in the modern world. John Paul II’s mercy embodied the truth he preached: that forgiveness is stronger than fear, and redemption can reach even into the darkest corners of human intent.

From Scripture to Hugo, Dickens, Dostoevsky, Paton, Ten Boom, Lewis, and Hosseini, the pattern is clear: forgiveness releases, redemption restores. Forgiveness ends cycles of bitterness; redemption gives new purpose. Together, they are humanity’s deepest hope—for individuals, families, communities, and nations.

The Bible declares it; life demands it; literature dramatizes it. Revenge destroys. Forgiveness liberates. Redemption renews.