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Morning watch - 9.2.25 5:15 am - Discipline and belonging Hebrews 12:5–6, 10 The discipline of the Lord is not rejection. It is not punishment in the way we often imagine it—impersonal, reactive, or arbitrary. Scripture makes clear: it is love. Not indulgent love, not performative love, but love that refuses to leave me unchanged. I am not disciplined because I am outside His care, but because I am within it. Discipline is reserved for sons. It is not extended to those who do not belong. That boundary is sobering. It means that when I feel the weight of correction, I am not being cast off—I am being claimed. The goal is not behavior management. It is holiness. Not a distant ideal, but a shared nature. God disciplines so that His holiness might be manifest in me—not just believed, not just admired, but embodied. I resist discipline when I forget its purpose. When I interpret it as anger or distance. But He does not discipline out of frustration. He disciplines out of fidelity. He does not stop until His holiness is visible in me. This morning, I receive that truth without dramatizing it. I name the discomfort, but I do not confuse it with abandonment. I belong. And because I belong, I will be shaped.

Discipline and belonging

Matthew 6:3–4 “But when you give to those in need, don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your generosity remains hidden. Your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” This morning, I’m sitting with the contrast between two ways of giving. The world’s rhythm is loud—generosity becomes performance, inflated and broadcast. A hundred-dollar gift becomes a spectacle, its value measured by how many notice. But the kingdom invites a different posture. A hundred-dollar gift, whispered into the quiet, becomes a dime in rumor. The true weight of the offering is hidden, known only to the Father. I’m reminded that hiddenness isn’t instinctive. My body, my habits, my culture—they all lean toward recognition. Even in ministry, even in service, there’s a subtle pull to be seen. But the Father calls me into a quieter rhythm. One where obedience is enough. Where the reward isn’t applause, but presence. I think of those who’ve gone before—saints who served without spotlight. Their lives weren’t small; they were simply unadvertised. Their dignity wasn’t diminished by secrecy. It was protected by it. Today, I want to live inside that rhythm. To give, serve, and love without needing to be noticed. Not as a performance of humility, but as a practice of trust. The Father sees. That’s enough.

Hidden Generosity.

Morning Watch August 31, 2025 — 5:14 a.m. &nbsp; He Wrote It DownMy wife gave me her father’s journal. Not much in it—just a few entries, mostly following prompts. But he wrote in it. That’s what stays with me. He didn’t embellish. He didn’t explain. He showed up. A few names. A few feelings. A note about the weather. It’s not the content—it’s the act. He answered the questions. He marked the day. That tells me what mattered to him: presence, rhythm, care. There’s a kind of reverence in that. Not performance. Not legacy. Just quiet attention. He didn’t write to be remembered. He wrote because it was time to write. And now I’m holding it—not just the journal, but the rhythm he kept. The way he honored the day by naming it. Luke 16:10 comes to mind: “Whoever is faithful in a very little is faithful also in much.” He was faithful in little. And Proverbs 20:5—“The purpose in a man's heart is like deep water, but a man of understanding will draw it out.” I’m drawing it out now. Not by interpreting, but by listening. This journal isn’t a record of achievement. It’s a record of presence. And that’s enough. It reminds me that showing up matters. Even when there’s not much to say. Even when the page stays mostly blank.

He wrote it down

Morning watch - August 7 @3:37 amBeyond WordsThis morning, I found myself drawn into a kind of prayer that doesn’t begin with words. It wasn’t planned. I didn’t come with a list or a liturgy. Just a quiet ache and the sense that God was already waiting—not for my eloquence, but for my presence.There’s a communion that happens beneath language. A knowing that doesn’t need to be spoken. I’ve tasted it before, in moments of grief, in the hush after confession, in the stillness of early morning light. Today, it returned—not as a demand, but as an invitation.I’ve spent years approaching prayer as discipline, as duty, as warfare. And there’s a place for all of that. But lately, I’ve been asking: what if prayer is less about effort and more about intimacy? Less about saying the right things, more about being willing to be seen?I didn’t have much to offer today. No polished words. No spiritual insights. Just breath. Inhale: known. Exhale: by You. I let that rhythm carry me. Not upward, not outward—just deeper.There’s a weight to God’s presence that quiets me. Not in fear, but in reverence. It’s the kind of silence that feels full, not empty. Like the hush in a room where something sacred has just happened. I didn’t want to leave it. I still don’t.I’m beginning to believe that devotion isn’t something I perform—it’s something I enter. A space where God meets me not in my strength, but in my surrender. Where the holiest part of my morning might not be the prayer I speak, but the silence I allow.I want to live here more often. In the space beyond words. Where God isn’t a concept to explain, but a presence to dwell with. Where I don’t have to prove anything. Where being known is enough.

Beyond Words

Morning watch - 8.6.25 @ 5:40 am I've been thinking a lot about those verses in Matthew and Ephesians lately - the ones about mercy and how God deals with us. There's something I'm starting to understand about the connection between being hard on myself and being gracious with other people. I used to think being merciful meant just being easy on everyone, including myself. But I'm realizing that's not real mercy at all. When I let myself slide on things - like when I keep hitting snooze or making excuses for not following through on commitments - I notice I become oddly tolerant of the same behaviors in others. But it's not genuine compassion; it's more like we're both just settling for mediocrity together. The people I most respect, the ones who seem to have real wisdom about grace, are actually pretty disciplined with themselves. They don't make excuses for their own stuff, but when I mess up, they don't crush me for it either. There's something about their self-discipline that gives them the ability to be truly merciful. I think about how God operates - completely righteous in who He is, but incredibly merciful in how He deals with my constant failures. If He treated me with the same standard He holds Himself to, I'd be toast. But His mercy isn't cheap grace; it comes from a place of perfect righteousness. I want to learn this balance. To stop making excuses for myself when I fall short, but to extend real grace when others do. Not the fake kind that just overlooks everything, but the kind that comes from understanding my own need for mercy. This feels like it's more about what's happening in my heart than just changing my behavior. The attitude has to shift first - being honest about my own stuff while staying tender toward other people's struggles. It's harder than it sounds.

Learning to Be Hard on Myself, Soft on others

&nbsp; I remember the day they asked me to take it down. Not because what I wrote was false. Not because it was unkind. But because I had named the church. It wasn’t public scandal. No denomination-wide fallout. Just a small, tucked-away congregation. The only ones who knew I was speaking of that church were members of it. The place I had preached. The pulpit I had stood behind with love and gravity. And the question I had dared to ask: Is the pastor gone again? The post was measured. Honest. A reflection, not a rebuke. But it struck a nerve. Truth often does. The elder board, newly reassembled. The pastor, already drifting away. They demanded silence, framed it as care. But it wasn’t about protecting the sheep. It was about preserving appearances. I refused. Not to provoke. Not to punish. But because to erase what I wrote would be to erase what I saw—and what I saw mattered. Not to everyone. But to those who showed up expecting presence and found absence week after week. I had already stepped back from membership. Quietly. Cleanly. The threatened removal was redundant. What hurt most wasn’t the disconnection—it was the refusal to acknowledge why it had come. That pastor is gone now. And the associate—the one who stayed, who watched, who waited—has begun to lead with a different posture. There’s hope there. Quiet, unfinished, but unmistakable. The kind of change that doesn’t come from a post. It comes from presence. From someone choosing to stay, not out of obligation, but out of care. I still hold the memory. Of writing something true. Of being asked to disappear it. Of choosing instead to remain visible. Not for notoriety. Just for integrity. The church I named still breathes. And now, perhaps, it’s beginning to listen.

Fresh Manna: Reflections at First light

Discipline and belonging

Hidden Generosity.

He wrote it down

Beyond Words

Learning to Be Hard on Myself, Soft on others

The Power of Naming What Was