In the synagogue of His hometown, Jesus stood up to read. It was a moment pregnant with expectation. The scroll of Isaiah was handed to Him. He unrolled it with purpose. This was no random selection.
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind,
to set at liberty those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor” (Luke 4:18-19 ESV).
Then He rolled up the scroll, handed it back to the attendant, and sat do
wn. All eyes were fixed on Him.
They knew this passage. They had heard it read before. But this time was different.
And then He said something that shattered the calm of that moment:
“Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing” (Luke 4:21 ESV).
It was like thunder on a cloudless day.
At first, they were amazed. Amazed at His confidence. Amazed at His voice. Amazed that Joseph’s son, the boy they had watched grow up, was claiming something so immense. But not for long. The amazement cracked under the weight of implication.
“Is not this Joseph’s son?” they asked.
And behind that question, other thoughts were surely stirring. Who does He think He is? What gives Him the right to say that? This was not just a hometown boy reading Scripture. He was claiming to be the fulfillment of prophecy. Not just a rabbi—they suspected He was claiming to be the Anointed One.
And Jesus knew exactly what they were thinking. He didn’t backpedal. He leaned in.
He said, “Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, ‘Physician, heal yourself.’ What we have heard you did at Capernaum, do here in your hometown as well” (Luke 4:23 ESV).
They wanted Him to prove Himself. To put on a show. But Jesus wasn’t interested in entertaining skeptics.
He reminded them of the days of Elijah—when a Gentile widow received the prophet’s help, while many in Israel were overlooked. He brought up Elisha, who healed Naaman the Syrian, while Israel’s own lepers remained untouched.
These weren’t just historical footnotes. They were spiritual diagnostics. And the message was clear: God’s blessings do not bend to national pride or religious entitlement.
The people understood exactly what Jesus was saying. And they were furious.
“When they heard these things, all in the synagogue were filled with wrath. And they rose up and drove him out of the town and brought him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they could throw him down the cliff” (Luke 4:28-29 ESV).
The same lips that marveled moments ago now spat in anger. The same eyes that looked on Him with wonder now burned with rage. All because Jesus would not conform to their idea of what the Messiah should be.
They wanted a Messiah who would exalt them. Jesus came to humble them.
They wanted liberation from Rome. Jesus offered freedom from sin.
They wanted miracles and affirmation. Jesus offered truth and repentance.
And while they were still bound by earthly expectations, Jesus was already proclaiming something greater: a kingdom not of this world.
This was no mere hometown controversy. This was the first unveiling of a king.
Jesus had come to proclaim liberty—but not political liberty.
He had come to give sight—but not just physical sight.
He had come to release the oppressed—but not from Roman chains.
He was announcing a cosmic jubilee—the arrival of the Kingdom of God, and His own role as its King.
They couldn’t see it. Their vision was too small. Their pride too strong.
And so, they tried to throw Him off a cliff.
But it wasn’t His time. Not yet. He walked right through the crowd and went on His way.
Because His throne would not be established by the applause of man or by signs to satisfy the curious. It would be established through obedience, suffering, and sacrifice.
Even death could not stop Him. Even when they mocked Him as an imposter. Even when they sealed His tomb and stationed guards to keep Him inside. The true Messiah could not be silenced. The true King could not be conquered.
He rose.
And it would end—not in rejection—but in exaltation.
“God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth” (Philippians 2:9-10 ESV).
This is the true climax of the Gospel message: Jesus is King.
And for those who give their allegiance to Him, He grants us citizenship in His kingdom.
Yes, we are redeemed. Yes, He gives us grace. Yes, He washes away our sins.
But all of these flow from one central truth: Jesus has been enthroned.
And He invites us to be part of His reign—not just for a moment, but for an eternity.
The boy from Nazareth was not just reading prophecy.
He was the One about whom it was written.
And He still is.
This moment in Nazareth forces us to ask: Are we drawn to Jesus for who He really is—or for what we hope He’ll do for us?
Do we love the idea of Jesus, or the authority of Jesus?
Because when Jesus speaks truth that confronts us, do we still follow Him—or do we, like the crowd in Nazareth, try to push Him away?
On that day, they tried to silence Him. But Jesus walked right through the crowd and went on His way.
He still does. He keeps walking forward—inviting us to follow, not just when it’s comfortable, but when it’s convicting.
The Word made flesh is not here to flatter us. He’s here to free us.
And blessed is the one who is not offended by Him.
When everything feels uncertain, we can run to the one place that never shakes—His name. There’s a strength there we don’t have to muster on our own.
Still Learning to Walk
This year, I will be 56 years old. And the older I get, the more I study God’s Word, the more I realize something that humbles me deeply:
I’m still learning how to walk.
Not physically, of course. But spiritually—how to walk with God, how to walk in step with Jesus. And if I’m honest, the more I mature in faith, the more I recognize that walking well isn’t about having stronger legs or better direction—it’s about surrendering control altogether.
That’s what Jeremiah meant when he prayed,
“I know, O LORD, that the way of man is not in himself, that it is not in man who walks to direct his steps.” (Jeremiah 10:23 ESV).
That verse has taken hold of me lately. It’s become a quiet echo in my heart. I can walk, yes. But I cannot lead. I can move forward, but I don’t know the road. And I surely don’t know what lies around the next corner.
That’s where trust comes in. That’s where childlike faith takes root.
Maybe that’s what it really means to grow up in Jesus. We become more like children. Not childish—but childlike. Dependent. Trusting. Unconcerned with outcomes, only with holding the hand that leads us.
And maybe that’s how spiritual maturity works. It’s an oxymoron.
The weak will be strong.
The first will be last.
We lose our life to save it.
The greatest will be the servant.
Freedom comes through becoming a slave.
And now I’m learning another one:
Maturity means giving up control.
It means walking with Jesus… and letting Him guide every step.
“I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my eye upon you.” (Psalm 32:8 ESV).
When I try to guide my own steps—even with good intentions—I drift. I veer off course. I take shortcuts that don’t lead anywhere. I climb mountains He never asked me to climb, and I avoid valleys He intended to walk through with me.
But when I surrender—when I give up control and let Him lead—I discover that He’s not only ahead of me, but beside me, and even behind me, protecting and sustaining me every step of the way.
“The heart of man plans his way, but the LORD establishes his steps.” (Proverbs 16:9 ESV).
Maturity in Jesus doesn’t look like becoming the most independent believer in the room. It looks like the child who climbs up into the arms of the Father and says, “Wherever You go, I’ll go.”
“Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.” (Proverbs 3:5–6 ESV).
Immaturity wants control. It tries to read God’s will like a road map and outpace Him to the destination. But maturity? Maturity stops striving and starts listening.
It says, “I don’t have to know the way—I just need to know the One who walks with me.”
And that brings a peace I never knew I needed. It frees us to trust. It frees us to rest. It frees us to say, “Not my will, but Yours be done,” and actually mean it.
“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.” (John 10:27 ESV).
So we listen.
We follow.
We walk.
And maybe that’s the great irony of spiritual maturity—after all these years, we’re still learning how to walk… but now we do it with joy, because we finally know who’s leading.
God’s plan is greater than your panic.
I want to share something that happened after a recent post.
The post itself was simple. A reflection on Jesus. A call to behold the Man—to look upon the One who wore a crown of thorns, bore our shame, and stood silently while the world mocked Him.
Most of the comments were kind. Heartfelt. Encouraging. I read messages from people who were moved to tears. People who thanked Jesus. People who simply said, “Amen.” In total, over seventy-five people took a moment to respond with reverence, reflection, and gratitude.
And then came one.
A comment that stung. Not just words, but an image. A picture meant to mock. It showed Jesus bowed before a cartoon character—Fred Flintstone, of all people—who was patting Jesus on the head like a pet. The caption said:
“Not a nickel, conman!!”
I read it twice, just to be sure I understood it.
And then the sting came.
It wasn’t just that someone disagreed. It wasn’t just a personal jab. It was the sharp contrast—the way one mocking voice tried to drown out seventy-five voices of praise. It was the flippant dismissal of the very One I had just lifted up. And for a moment, I felt it deeply.
Then I started thinking about what to do.
I could have responded with clarity and grace, something like:
“I can understand skepticism—there’s a lot of noise online. But I’m not selling anything or manipulating anyone. I write to encourage people in their walk with God. That’s it. If that’s not for you, that’s okay. I just ask for the same respect I try to show others.”
Or maybe I could have taken a more Scripture-centered approach, reminding both him and myself:
“Jesus said, ‘Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.’ (Matthew 5:11 ESV). I didn’t come here to argue or defend myself—I came to share hope. If this message isn’t for you, I get it. But I’ll keep pointing to Jesus anyway.”
Or maybe a direct but gentle reply would have been best:
“It seems like my post struck a nerve. I’m not here to scam or deceive—I’m here to help people reflect on faith, hope, and Jesus. If you see it differently, I respect your right to move along.”
All three are valid. All three could be spoken in truth and in love. But I chose none of them.
I quietly hid the comment.
Not because I was afraid of it. Not because I was ashamed. But because I didn’t want that one voice to rob others of the holy moment the post had created. I didn’t want to shift the focus from Jesus to a war of words.
And truth be told, I didn’t want to give bitterness a foothold in my own heart.
What helped me most in that moment was the very post I had written. Behold the Man. I had just finished describing Jesus standing before the crowd, bloody and humiliated, while Pilate pointed and the people shouted. And here I was—recoiling from a digital insult?
Jesus endured so much more.
And He did it willingly. Silently. Even lovingly.
It reminded me: if the world hated Him, it will hate those who follow Him too. And if insults come our way for lifting up His name, then we are in good company. That is a noble sting to bear.
There’s no one right way to respond to these moments. Personality plays a role. And sometimes we may second-guess ourselves later. But in that moment, we do the best we can with a heart set on honoring God.
And we remember this above all:
The person who insults us is still made in the image of God.
We are not called to return evil for evil. We are not called to wound because we were wounded. We are called to love our enemies. To bless those who curse us. To pray for those who persecute us.
That is the hard road. That is the Jesus road.
So if you ever face a comment like that—online or in real life—take a deep breath. Reflect before reacting. And remember, the sting doesn’t define the moment.
The Savior does.
God is not waiting on your perfection—just your surrender.
I am in 2 Corinthians in my daily Bible reading.
In 1 Corinthians, Paul called out a scandal in the church—someone was sleeping with his father’s wife, and the church wasn’t just tolerating it… they were boasting. Paul was clear: “Even the Gentiles don’t tolerate that kind of sin.” (See 1 Corinthians 5.) His counsel? Hand this man over to Satan—not to condemn him, but so that his soul might ultimately be saved.
And it worked. The man repented. But something else happened too.
The church pushed him out… and left him out. What began as soul-saving discipline became soul-crushing shame. Paul writes again in 2 Corinthians to set things right:
“For such a one, this punishment by the majority is enough,
so you should rather turn to forgive and comfort him, or he may be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow.
So I beg you to reaffirm your love for him.” (2 Corinthians 2:6–8 ESV)
This is grace.
This man, who had done something even the pagans found revolting, was now to be welcomed back into the family of Jesus.
That’s the kind of grace that should bring every one of us comfort.
Not just because it tells us how to treat each other—but because it reminds us of what’s true about us. There’s no sin too great, no shame too deep, no past too broken to disqualify us from God’s love or God’s people.
If I’m honest, I know there are things in my past that could have gotten me expelled forever if this were up to human judgment. If it were based on the wisdom of man, I probably wouldn’t be doing anything like Tuesdays With Tony.
But I was forgiven.
My brothers and sisters reaffirmed their love for me.
And I wasn’t overwhelmed by excessive sorrow—I was restored.
In a world that cancels people and never lets them back in, we belong to a Kingdom where discipline is never the end of the story. Restoration is. Jesus keeps the door open. And He calls His people to do the same.
1 Corinthians shows us the need for discipline.
2 Corinthians reminds us to follow it with grace.
Let’s be a people who do both.
Let’s be a church that opens the door wide—especially when someone is ready to come home.
I am in the book of 2 Chronicles in my daily Bible reading.
In chapter 6, the Temple is finally complete and King Solomon prays a beautiful prayer of dedication. This is the same Solomon to whom God gave extraordinary wisdom—and we get to hear that wisdom pour out as he talks with God.
He says,
“If your people Israel are defeated before the enemy because they have sinned against you, and they turn again and acknowledge your name and pray and plead with you in this house,
then hear from heaven and forgive the sin of your people Israel and bring them again to the land that you gave to them and to their fathers.” (2 Chronicles 6:24–25 ESV)
And again,
“When heaven is shut up and there is no rain because they have sinned against you, if they pray toward this place and acknowledge your name and turn from their sin, when you afflict them,
then hear in heaven and forgive the sin of your servants, your people Israel, when you teach them the good way in which they should walk, and grant rain upon your land, which you have given to your people as an inheritance.” (2 Chronicles 6:26–27 ESV)
It’s a prayer soaked in humility. Solomon—the richest, wisest man on earth—kneels before the Lord and confesses that Israel will sin, but pleads for mercy when they repent. He appeals not to human effort, but to God’s sovereignty and grace.
This echoes what God would later say through Jeremiah: He is the Potter. He has authority over nations. He can build up or tear down, and He reserves the right to relent when hearts turn back to Him.
And right here—this is a picture of kingdom living.
Solomon shows us what it looks like to live under the rule of a holy God. He doesn’t demand. He doesn’t presume. He acknowledges that God is King, that He is just, and that He is merciful. That posture—reverent, humble, submitted—is what life in God’s kingdom is all about.
Kingdom living means we recognize God’s sovereignty and align our lives accordingly. It means confessing when we fall short, turning our hearts back to Him, and trusting that His ways are good. It means seeking wisdom not for our glory, but so we can walk rightly before our King.
Here’s the heart of the matter: Solomon understood something we must not forget. Wisdom begins with reverence. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Proverbs 9:10 ESV), and Solomon models that reverence in how he approaches God.
So what about us?
Do we come to God with that same awe? Or do we rush in with our list of requests, treating Him more like a cosmic vending machine than the holy, sovereign King He is?
Solomon had every earthly reason to feel important. Yet in prayer, he bowed low before the only One who truly holds power. If he could humble himself that way, surely we can too.
Let’s ask God to give us the humility of Solomon and the reverence that invites true wisdom into our lives. When we do, we won’t just say we trust God’s sovereignty—we’ll actually live like it.
And that is what kingdom living really looks like.
The tomb is still empty--hope us still alive.
I am in the book of 2 Chronicles in my daily Bible reading.
In chapter 10, we meet Rehoboam, Solomon’s son, stepping into kingship after his father’s death. The people gathered at Shechem with a simple request: lighten the heavy load Solomon had placed on them.
Rehoboam asked for three days to consider it. First, he went to the elders who had served his father. Their advice was wise and seasoned:
“If you will be good to this people and please them and speak good words to them, then they will be your servants forever.” (2 Chronicles 10:7 ESV).
But Rehoboam didn’t listen. Instead,
“he abandoned the counsel that the old men gave him, and took counsel with the young men who had grown up with him and stood before him.” (2 Chronicles 10:8 ESV).
Their advice? Be harsher. Be tougher. Be louder. They said,
“My little finger is thicker than my father’s thighs… My father disciplined you with whips, but I will discipline you with scorpions.” (2 Chronicles 10:10–11 ESV).
And that’s the story we usually focus on—bad advice from inexperienced men. But maybe we should ask a deeper question:
Why did these young men give such selfish advice in the first place?
They were Rehoboam’s childhood friends, raised in the palace, likely living lives of privilege. They didn’t have to carry the burdens of the people. They didn’t have to suffer under the king’s harsh policies. So they advised him from a place of insulation, not empathy.
Would their counsel have changed if they had to live under that yoke too? If they had to feel the sting of those scorpions?
Empathy changes everything.
That’s why Jesus gave us the Golden Rule:
“So whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them.” (Matthew 7:12 ESV).
And why Paul reminds us to:
“Bear one another’s burdens…” (Galatians 6:2 ESV).
“Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” (Romans 12:15 ESV).
When people come to us for advice, let’s not only think of what they want to hear. Let’s consider everyone their decision might affect. Wise counsel always carries a dose of compassion.
Because sometimes, folks aren’t really looking for wisdom—they’re shopping for permission. But when we speak with empathy, when we slow down and see others through the lens of grace, we become echoes of the Kingdom.
This is how we help God’s will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
Right here. Right now. In every conversation.
Do you have a simple prayer that you say all the time? Not from rote, but because it bursts forth and cannot be contained?
I do. Several times throughout the day, I utter this four-word prayer: “God, I love You.”
Sometimes, that’s all that needs to be said.
I am in the book of 1 Chronicles in my daily Bible reading.
In Chapter 19, we see a picture of leadership that honors God—a rare gem in any age.
King Jehoshaphat set up judges in all the fortified cities of Judah. But more than appointing officials, he gave them instructions soaked in reverence and accountability:
“He appointed judges in the land in all the fortified cities of Judah, city by city, and said to the judges, ‘Consider what you do, for you judge not for man but for the LORD. He is with you in giving judgment. Now then, let the fear of the LORD be upon you. Be careful what you do, for there is no injustice with the LORD our God, or partiality or taking bribes.” (2 Chronicles 19:5–7 ESV)
This is the kind of leadership we long for—free from political games, favoritism, or corruption. God is a God of justice, and He expects leaders on earth to reflect His heart.
“You judge not for man but for the LORD.” What a humble, clear-eyed statement from a king! Jehoshaphat understood something we desperately need in our world today: that justice isn’t merely a civil matter—it’s a spiritual one.
Jehoshaphat then extended this call for integrity to the Levites, priests, and family leaders:
“Moreover, in Jerusalem Jehoshaphat appointed certain Levites and priests and heads of families of Israel, to give judgment for the LORD and to decide disputed cases… And he charged them: ‘Thus you shall do in the fear of the LORD, in faithfulness, and with your whole heart… Deal courageously, and may the LORD be with the upright!” (2 Chronicles 19:8–11 ESV)
We can see the spiritual health of a nation by how it handles judgment and justice. When a society begins to confuse light for darkness, bitter for sweet, good for evil—when it trades clarity for confusion and conviction for compromise—it doesn’t just have a legal problem. It has a heart problem.
When a people defend the guilty and stand against the innocent, when truth is dismissed and evil is excused, the problem goes deeper than policy. It reveals a nation out of step with the character of God.
The truth is, we still have many good judges and leaders. But more and more, leaders are being placed who serve man instead of God—those who celebrate darkness and punish light, who honor the corrupt and silence the upright.
So what can we do?
We follow the example of Peter and Paul. We pray for our leaders. We live lives marked by justice and integrity. We show no favoritism—not to our friends, not to our family—when truth and righteousness are on the line.
We model kingdom living, knowing that we too “judge not for man but for the LORD.”
And let this be our prayer—not only for our leaders but for ourselves:
“He walked in the way of Asa his father and did not turn aside from it, doing what was right in the sight of the LORD.” (2 Chronicles 20:32 ESV)
Even if the world drifts, may that be said of us.