Page 4 of 6

Posted on

Dirty Hands, Holy Ground

A meditation on Luke 10:25–37

So there’s this lawyer.
A Torah expert.
A person who knows the law inside and out…
Knows what’s written.
But isn’t quite sure how to live it.

“Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
It’s the question beneath all the questions.
How do I really live?
What does it mean to be alive in the way God intended?

And Jesus, in classic Jesus form,
Doesn’t answer.
He tosses the question right back.

“What’s written in the Law? How do you read it?”

The man answers:
“Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind…
And love your neighbor as yourself.”

Jesus says, “Yes. Do this and you will live.”

But the man wants clarity.
Actually, he wants control.
Because clarity is cleaner than compassion.
And control feels safer than proximity.

So he asks: “And who is my neighbor?”

That’s when Jesus tells a story.

A man…
Going from Jerusalem to Jericho.
Robbed.
Beaten.
Left half dead.

A priest passes by.
Sees him.
Moves to the other side.

A Levite.
Sees him.
Moves to the other side.

You know how this works.
You’ve felt it.
When compassion costs too much.
When helping might stain your robes.
Or ruin your schedule.
Or wreck your reputation.

And then…
A Samaritan.

Wait – what?

That’s not how the story’s supposed to go.
Jews and Samaritans…
They don’t mix.
They’re oil and water.
Romeo and Juliet.
Montagues and Capulets.

But this Samaritan…
Sees.
And stops.

He kneels down in the dust.
Touches wounds that aren’t his.
Pours out oil.
Binds up flesh.
Puts the broken man on his own animal.
Takes him to an inn.
Pays the bill.
Leaves a tab open.

The Samaritan doesn’t ask,
“Is this man part of my tribe?”
He doesn’t check for credentials or alignment.
He just loves.
Fully.
Freely.
Recklessly.

Jesus finishes the story.
Looks the lawyer in the eye and says,
“So… who was a neighbor?”

And the lawyer … who can’t even say “Samaritan”
Just mumbles,
“The one who had mercy.”

And Jesus says,
“Go and do likewise.”

See, we think the parable is about someone else.
The guy on the road.
The priest.
The Samaritan.

But maybe…
It’s about us.
All of us.
Because we are the ones who walk by.
And sometimes we’re the ones bleeding.
And sometimes…when grace grips us…
We’re the ones who stop.

The road to Jericho runs through our hearts.
Winding.
Dangerous.
Messy.

And this Jesus…
He keeps telling stories
That wreck our categories.
That flip the script.
That won’t let us settle for religion that avoids the wounded.

He keeps asking,
Not who is your neighbor…
But what kind of neighbor are you becoming?

So maybe today,
It’s not about what we know.
It’s about what we do.
And not just who we love,
But how far we’re willing to cross over
To love the ones we’d rather avoid.

Because that’s where eternal life lives.
In the dust.
On the road.
In the reach.

Go and do likewise.

Posted on

Letters From The Edge

A Meditation on Revelation 2

What do you say to a church that’s lost its love?

What do you say to a people who are doing all the right things… working hard, enduring suffering, spotting false teachers from a mile away… but their hearts have gone numb?

You say Revelation 2.

You say… remember.

There’s this moment, in the letter to the church in Ephesus, where the resurrected Jesus says:

“Yet I hold this against you: You have forsaken the love you had at first.” (Rev. 2:4)

Oof.

It’s not that they weren’t busy. They were doing a lot. They were active. Vigilant. Passionate about doctrine. But somewhere along the line, the fire that once drove them turned into mere coals. They had the form, but not the flame.

And maybe… maybe that’s not just their story.

Maybe it’s ours.

It starts out so beautifully, doesn’t it?

That first love. That rush. That wild awareness that this is real. That God is near. That grace is thick in the air and you can’t stop talking about it. You’re not working for God because you should… you’re doing it because you’re in love.

But slowly, quietly, the machinery kicks in.

Programs. Policies. Proficiency.

And that pulsating, reckless joy? It cools. Like coffee left on the counter too long. Still technically “coffee.” Just… not what it used to be.

So Jesus says:

“Consider how far you have fallen. Repent and do the things you did at first.” (2:5)

It’s not condemnation. It’s invitation. It’s a wake-up call, not a slap.

And that word… repent… so often wielded like a hammer… is really a whisper.

A turning.
A remembering.
A returning.

Back to the beginning.
Back to why you ever said yes.
Back to who this has always been about.

And did you notice? These letters… they aren’t written to individuals.

They’re written to churches.

Communities.

Which means this isn’t just about you finding your first love again.
It’s about us.

Together.

Maybe the church isn’t dying. Maybe it’s just forgotten who it loves.
Maybe we don’t need to reinvent everything… maybe we just need to remember.

Remember when we cried together.
When we prayed like it mattered.
When we served not out of duty but delight.
When we sang until our voices cracked.

Remember when we didn’t care who got credit because we were just so grateful to be part of it?

Yeah. That.

So here we are, again.

A church.
A people.
With a letter.

From Jesus.

And he’s saying:

“I see you. I know what you’ve done.
But don’t forget why you started.”

Because if you remember that?

You just might find the fire again.

Reflection Question
What did your “first love” look like? Feel like?
What would it look like to return—not to what you did, but to why you did it?

Let’s go back.
So we can move forward.
In love.
Again.

Posted on

What If You’re The Treasure?

A Meditation on Matthew 13:44-46

44 “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. 45 “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. 46 When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.”

Jesus says,
the kingdom of heaven is like a man
who finds a treasure in a field…
and sells everything
to have it.

Or a merchant
who sees a pearl
and walks away
from everything else
because nothing compares.

And for years,
we’ve been told:
You’re the one who must give it all up.
You’re the one who has to surrender.
You’re the one who has to find the kingdom.
Seek harder.
Dig deeper.
Sell more.

But…
what if that’s not the only way to read this?

What if,
you’re the treasure in the field?

What if,
you’re the pearl of great price?

And God,
God is the one who goes looking.

God,
wandering the wild fields of humanity.
God,
searching the dusty markets of the world.

God,
not stumbling,
not rushing,
but with eyes full of knowing
and a heart full of longing…
sees you.

Hidden.
Overlooked.
Covered in dirt.
Pressed down by shame and stories that were never true.

And God says:
That one.

And sells everything.

Divinity wrapped in skin.
Infinite squeezed into an infant.
A cross.
A grave.
A resurrection.

Why?

Because you
are worth it.

Not someday.
Not when you clean yourself up.
Not once you prove yourself.
Now.
As you are.

That’s the twist.

The kingdom isn’t just something you find.
It’s something that finds you.
Because you’re the joy.
You’re the prize.
You’re the one worth everything
to the One who made everything.

So maybe the invitation
isn’t just to sell it all.
Maybe it’s to believe
you’re worth the cost
that’s already been paid.

Posted on

The Scroll and the Lamb

A Meditation on Revelation 5

There’s a scroll.

It’s sealed.
Seven seals deep.
In other words…completely locked, untouchable, unknowable.

This scroll holds the story.
The meaning.
The healing.
The justice.
The redemption.
The unraveling of everything that’s wrong
and the unveiling of what is right.

And the question is:
Who is worthy to open it?

And the room gets still.
All of heaven holds its breath.
Because this isn’t just any scroll.
This is the scroll.
The one that contains the purposes of God
for all of creation.

And no one can open it.

No one.

Not the mighty.
Not the religious.
Not the brilliant.
Not the morally perfect.
Not the ones with empires.
Not the ones with resumes.

So John weeps.

Because if no one can open it,
then nothing gets healed.
Nothing gets made right.
The ache stays.
The wound festers.
The longing lingers without hope.

But then…

An elder says,
“Do not weep.”

Because there is One.

And now the paradox.

You expect a lion.
Fierce. Powerful. Roaring.

But what appears?

A Lamb.
Slaughtered.
Yet standing.
Because this kingdom is upside-down.
And right-side up.

Power, not in domination,
but in surrender.
Victory, not in conquest,
but in sacrifice.

This Lamb walks right into the center.
Because that’s where He belongs.
The center of heaven.
The center of time.
The center of every story ever told.

He takes the scroll.
Because only Love
has the right to unfold the purposes of God.

And all of heaven erupts…
Angels, elders, creatures…
they sing a new song.
Because new songs always follow
when Love takes the scroll.

Worthy.
Worthy is the Lamb who was slain.

He doesn’t take the scroll by force.
He receives it by worth.

Because what changes the world
is not brute strength
or violent religion
or clever systems.

It’s a wounded Lamb.
Who bears the pain of the world
and still stands.

So today,
when the world feels sealed shut,
when the ache is loud,
when the tears come easily,
remember:

There is One.
He has taken the scroll.
And He is unfolding
everything
with wisdom, with power, with mercy.

The Lamb reigns.