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Struck Blind, Led By Grace

A Sermon of Encounter on the Damascus Road (Acts 9:1–19a)

(Note: Sermons can be heard in audio format at https://millersburgmennonite.org/worship/sermon-audio/)

Introduction

Last Sunday Rachelle talked about the disciples trembling in fear behind locked doors, only to have a surprise encounter with the risen Christ. As you may remember, last week I shared during the children’s story about a fearful encounter with a tornado from my childhood. Since I left you hanging at the end, and since there have been some inquiries about how things turned out, I wanted to finish the story.

I left the story with the windows of the school wide open, the skies dark and roiling with clouds, and we students and teachers sitting with our heads between our knees in the hallway, as I heard a teacher running from the office and the squawking Bearcat weather radio announcing that a tornado was heading right for us.

Well, unless I have somehow been replaced by a clone, you of course know I survived.

I did some research, and it seems the tornado in question was an F4—one step below the worst rating—that occurred on March 29, 1976. It started in central Mississippi and traveled 127 miles to Meridian. I was in third grade. I was scared.

If my memory serves me correctly, the tornado jumped over the school and tore the roof off a car dealership down the road. I learned that the tornado did kill three people. But it could have been much, much worse if the twister had landed on top of a bunch of scared children in Mt. Barton Elementary School that warm afternoon in March.

If we live on this earth very long, most of us will encounter forces greater than ourselves. Moments of terror. Moments of mystery. Moments when we are left trying to understand why we encountered what we encountered, why we lived while others died, why we had to face the experience at all. There are things that overtake us in this life—storms in the sky, storms in history, storms in the soul—and in those moments we feel very small indeed.

That is part of what makes Acts 9 such a powerful text.

Because Acts 9 is not just about a road.
It is about a man under orders.
It is about a collision with a force far greater than himself.

Scripture portrays Saul as overwhelmed by the terrifying nearness of the risen Christ—fallen to the earth, blinded by glory, and reduced from a man of force to one who must be led by the hand.

Let us pray,

 Que las palabras de mi boca y las meditaciones de nuestros corazones sean agradables a tus ojos, oh Dios, roca nuestra y redentor nuestro. Amén.

Homily

Saul begins the story as a man of certainty, a man of momentum, a man of religious fervor. He is not hesitant. He is not conflicted. He is “still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord.” Violence is in his lungs. Zeal is in his bones. He believes he knows exactly what he is doing.

And yet in one terrible and merciful moment, all of that certainty collapses.

Sometimes Christ meets us that way, by interrupting the life we thought we controlled. Sometimes grace arrives as disruption. Sometimes truth comes as collapse. A veces, Cristo resucitado nos encuentra no en nuestra fuerza, sino en nuestra debilidad. Sometimes the risen Christ meets us not in our strength, but in our weakness.

And so as we come to this story, we do not come merely to admire Saul’s conversion from a safe distance. We come as people who know what it is to be brought low, to have our certainties shaken, to ask what on earth just happened, and what do we do now.

Acts 9 is not only the story of Saul’s conversion. It is also the story of how Jesus interrupts violence, how blindness can become the beginning of true sight, and how the church is called to receive even the one it most fears.

“Meanwhile Saul, still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord, went to the high priest…”

That is how the story opens. Saul is not merely irritated. He is not simply mistaken.  He is a man so certain of his cause, so convinced of his righteousness, that he believes persecution is holy work.

That is one of the most unsettling truths in all of scripture: it is possible to be zealous for God and yet resistant to God. It is possible to be religious and wrong. It is possible to think we are defending truth while we are actually wounding Christ.

Saul is fervent. Focused. Devoted. He has official backing. He has a mission. He is going to Damascus to bind disciples and drag them away.

And then, on the road, everything changes.

A light from heaven flashes around him. He falls to the ground. And he hears a voice saying, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?”

That sentence is at the heart of the whole passage.

Jesus does not say, “Why do you persecute my people?”
He says, “Why do you persecute me?”

Christ so identifies with the church, with the suffering, hunted, trembling body of believers, that to strike them is to strike him. To wound them is to wound him. To terrorize them is to terrorize him.

This means the church is never merely a voluntary association or a club of like-minded people. The church is bound to Christ. The body belongs to the head. Jesús resucitado se toma como algo personal lo que se le hace a su pueblo. The risen Jesus takes personally what is done to his people.

And this also means something else. When anyone is trampled, degraded, humiliated, or brutalized, Christ is not distant from that suffering. The crucified and risen Jesus is the one who still says, in every age, “Why are you persecuting me?”

The voice of Christ echoes across history—across jail cells, lynching trees, prison camps, ghettos, slave ships, detention centers, ruined villages, and frightened homes. Christ is not neutral where human beings are crushed.

But notice: Jesus confronts Saul yet does not destroy him.

The first word Saul receives is judgment, yes—but judgment in the form of revelation. Saul is forced to see that the one he opposes is the Lord. The one he thought he was defending God against is, in fact, God’s Anointed One. The risen Christ unmasks Saul’s righteousness as rebellion.

But Jesus does not kill Saul on the road. He stops him.

The grace of God is often like that. It interrupts before it rebuilds. It knocks us down before it raises us up. It unmasks the disease before it heals.

And then comes the strange mercy of blindness.

Saul opens his eyes, but he can see nothing.

The man who thought he could see clearly turns out to be blind. The man who believed he had clarity, certainty, and theological precision is suddenly dependent on others to lead him by the hand.

He came to Damascus to take captives.
Instead, he enters Damascus a prisoner of his blindness.

He came with authority.
He arrives helpless.

He came breathing threats.
He arrives in silence.

For three days he neither eats nor drinks. Three days. A familiar length of time in the Christian story. It sounds like death, burial, waiting, undoing. Saul is in a kind of tomb. The old Saul—the self-assured, violent, self-justifying Saul—is being dismantled in darkness.

Sometimes we speak of conversion too lightly. As if it were merely changing one’s opinion or adjusting one’s beliefs. But in Acts, conversion is more like death and resurrection. It is not a tweak. It is a collapse of the old order. Saul’s world caves in on the Damascus road. As Paul later wrote to the church of Corinth, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: ¡Lo viejo se ha ido, lo nuevo ha llegado! The old has gone, the new is here!”

Some of us know what it is to have a world we trusted come apart. We know what it is to discover that our certainties were too certain, our judgments too sharp, our righteousness too self-protective, our religion too aligned with our fear.

Some of us know what it is to be brought low enough that we must be led by the hand.

But that is not the end of the story. Acts 9 is not only about Saul. It is also about Ananias.

The Lord comes to a disciple in Damascus and says, “Go.”

And Ananias rsponds with the facts: “Lord, I have heard from many about this man…”

In other words:
Lord, do you know who this is?
Lord, do you know what he has done?
Lord, do you know what he came here for?

Ananias is not faithless. He is honest. He knows the danger. He knows the stories. He knows the trauma Saul has caused. He knows that “welcome” is not cheap for people who have been hunted.

Pero el Señor dice: «Ve, porque él es un instrumento que yo he escogido…»

Yet the Lord says, “Go, for he is an instrument whom I have chosen…”

This is astonishing. God chooses the persecutor. Not because the persecution did not matter. Not because the harm was unreal. Not because God waves away the suffering Saul caused. No—God chooses Saul because grace is stronger than Saul’s past. La gracia es más fuerte que el pasado.

That does not minimize sin. It magnifies mercy.

Ananias goes.

This may be the hardest part of the text, honestly. Saul’s conversion is dramatic and memorable, but Ananias’s obedience is perhaps even more difficult.

Ananias must walk into the house where his enemy is staying. He must cross the threshold of fear. He must trust that Christ is already at work in someone he would never have trusted on his own.

And when he enters, his first words are breathtaking:

“Brother Saul.”

Brother.

Not “former enemy,”
not “dangerous man,”
not “suspect,”
not “problem,”
not even “convert.”

Brother.

Before the scales fall, Ananias speaks kinship. Before Saul has preached a sermon, planted a church, or written a letter, Ananias names him as family.

That is what the church is called to do—not cheaply, not foolishly, not without truth—but with the deep, trembling courage that believes Christ can make a new creation where we may only see a threat.

Ananias lays hands on Saul. Saul’s sight is restored. He is filled with the Holy Spirit. He rises and is baptized.

Maybe today some of us need the Saul word.
We have been too certain.
Too quick to call our own fear “conviction.”
Too ready to wound in the name of righteousness.
And the risen Christ is merciful enough to stop us.

Some need the Ananias word.
We are being asked to go where we do not want to go.
To cross a threshold we did not choose.
To trust that Christ may already be at work in the person we fear, avoid, or resent.
And obedience feels dangerous.

Some need the church word.
We are not merely individuals with private spiritual lives. We belong to one another in Christ. What is done to one member is done to all of us. The wounds of others are not somebody else’s problem. Christ says, “Why do you persecute me?”

And some need the resurrection word.
Our blindness is not the end.
Our darkness is not the end.
Our undone place is not the end.
God knows how to use even the tomb-like places that fill our souls.

Again and again in Scripture, God meets fearful, overwhelmed, disoriented people and makes a way where there seemed to be none. Paul himself will later admit that he came “in weakness and in fear and in much trembling.” La Biblia no oculta el miedo humano. Revela a un Dios que se encuentra con las personas en medio de él. The Bible does not hide human fear. It reveals a God who keeps meeting people in the middle of it.

We often think faith should remove fear entirely. But scripture is more honest than that. Faith is not always the absence of trembling. Often it is what happens when trembling people keep going because God has met them where they shiver and shake.

This means grace is not merely about making nice people a little nicer. Grace is about new creation. Grace does not simply smooth over rough edges. It raises the dead and rips off the grave clothes. It takes enemies and makes them kin. It takes what is curved inward on itself and bends it toward love.

The church, then, is called to be the place where this strange and difficult miracle keeps happening. Not that we become naive about harm. Not that we forget wounds. Not that accountability disappears. But that we refuse to believe anyone lies outside the reach of the risen Christ. Nos negamos a creer que alguien esté fuera del alcance de Cristo resucitado.

So perhaps part of the sermon today is this: someone else’s healing may depend on your willingness to go.

Your willingness to knock on the door.
Your willingness to enter the room.
Your willingness to pray.
Your willingness to trust that Christ has gone ahead of you.

And perhaps part of the sermon is this too: your own healing may depend on letting someone come to you.

Letting yourself be seen in your blindness.
Letting yourself be led.
Letting yourself receive touch, prayer, kindness, and naming.
Letting the community do for you what you cannot do for yourself.

So this morning, wherever you find yourself in the story, hear the good news.

If you are frightened, Christ speaks peace to frightened people.
If you are blind, Christ can open your eyes.
If you are ashamed of what you have done, Christ can heal you.
If you are reluctant like Ananias, Christ can still send you.
If you are wounded by what others have done, Christ sees that wound as his own.

The voice that spoke on the Damascus road still speaks today.

Still interrupts. Still confronts. Still blinds false vision. Still opens true eyes. Still joins himself to the wounded. Still sends disciples into difficult places. Still makes apostles out of enemies and saints out of the shattered.

So may the Lord who met Saul meet us. May the Lord who sent Ananias send us. May the Lord who restored sight restore our own. And may the scales fall from our eyes—whatever they are, however long they have clung—so that we may finally see Christ, and in seeing Christ, also rise with him in power, witness, and glory.

Amen

"Peter replied, 'Repent and be baptised, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.'"

Acts 2:38 #Bible #repentance #HolySpirit

Remorse Must Be Demonstrated

Saying sorry is the prescription, but remorse is the medicine. #inspiration #remorse #repentance #repent #reconciliation #restitution #reconcile #getright #faith #wordofgod from Bishop Shammah Womack-El

https://bishopshammahwomackel.wordpress.com/2026/04/16/remorse-must-be-demonstrated/

The Unfinished Blueprint

2,160 words, 11 minutes read time.

The diesel engine of Marcus Read’s F-150 rumbled in the driveway at 5:15 AM, a low, rhythmic thrum that vibrated through the steering wheel and into his calloused palms. In the gray, pre-dawn light of a Tuesday in November, Marcus sat in the cab, his breath fogging the glass as he scrolled through a backlog of work orders. He was the lead foreman for Miller & Sons Residential, and he was currently three weeks out from finishing the “Ridgeview Estates” project—a luxury subdivision that had become his entire world.

If he brought this project in under budget and ahead of schedule, the year-end bonus wouldn’t just be a paycheck; it would be a rescue boat. It would wipe out the credit card debt from last Christmas, cover the rising property taxes, and finally put away enough for the kitchen remodel Sarah had been talking about for three years. He told himself this was his duty. A man works. A man provides. He held onto that mantra like a religious text, using it to shield himself from the quiet guilt that gnawed at him every time he saw his family through the rearview mirror.

If he wasn’t on-site by sunrise, the subcontractors slacked off, the framing stayed crooked, and the margins slipped. To Marcus, those margins were the measure of his worth. As he backed out of the driveway, his truck’s headlights swept across the garage door. He didn’t notice the “Good Luck, Dad” sign his daughter, Mia, had taped there. It was decorated with glitter and a drawing of a blue ribbon for her science fair. He was already miles away, calculating the board footage for the white oak flooring.

By 10:00 AM, the job site was a cacophony of circular saws and pneumatic nail guns. Marcus moved through the skeletal structures with a clipboard in one hand and a thermal carafe of black coffee in the other. He was a king in this kingdom of sawdust and mud. Here, people listened to him. Here, things made sense. If a beam was off, you shimmed it. If a pipe leaked, you tightened the fitting. There was a direct, satisfying correlation between his effort and the result.

“Read! We’ve got a problem in Unit 4,” shouted Miller, the owner’s son. “The inspector is saying the HVAC clearance isn’t up to code. If we don’t fix this by tomorrow, the whole closing schedule shifts. We’ll lose the Q4 window.”

Marcus felt the familiar surge of adrenaline—the “fixer” high. “I’ll handle it,” he snapped. “I’ll stay late and re-run the ducting myself if I have to.”

“Good man,” Miller said, clapping him on the shoulder. “This is why you’re the best we’ve got, Marcus. You’re a machine.”

Marcus felt a swell of pride that tasted like ash. A machine. It felt better than being a husband who couldn’t remember where the extra trash bags were kept. It felt better than being a father who didn’t know the names of his daughter’s teachers. He leaned into the work, the sweat stinging his eyes as he climbed into the cramped, sweltering attic space of Unit 4.

His phone buzzed in his pocket at 3:30 PM. It was Sarah. He ignored it. He was elbow-deep in galvanized metal and foil tape. It buzzed again at 4:00. Finally, he pulled it out, his thumb smearing drywall dust across the screen.

Marcus, the science fair starts at 5:00. Mia is asking if you’ll be there for the awards. She’s been crying because the volcano model is still gray. You promised you’d help her paint it tonight. Please.

He looked at the unfinished ductwork. If he left now, he’d lose the momentum. The inspector was coming at 7:00 AM. If he stayed, he could guarantee the win for the company. He could guarantee that bonus. He typed back: Stuck at the site. Emergency with the inspector. Tell her I’m so proud and I’ll make it up to her. I’m doing this for us.

He didn’t wait for a reply. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and picked up his snips. I’m doing this for us, he whispered to the empty attic. It was the lie he used to cauterize the wound of his own absence.

By 9:00 PM, the job site was a graveyard of discarded lumber and silence. Marcus was the last soul there, his headlamp cutting a lonely arc through the dark as he packed his tools into the gang box. He was exhausted, his lower back screaming, but the ductwork was perfect. He had won. He had saved the schedule. He climbed into his truck, the heater blasting against the November chill, and headed home.

As he pulled into the driveway, he noticed the house was unnaturally dark. Usually, the porch light was on, or the glow of the television flickered through the living room curtains. Tonight, the windows looked like empty sockets.

He unlocked the front door, the click of the deadbolt echoing in the foyer. “Sarah? Mia?”

Silence greeted him. It wasn’t the peaceful silence of a sleeping household; it was the heavy, hollow silence of a vacuum. He walked into the kitchen. The air felt cold. There was no smell of dinner, no stray shoes by the door, no hum of the dishwasher.

He saw a stack of papers sitting on the granite island, held down by his wedding ring.

Marcus picked up the top sheet. His hands, thick and steady enough to frame a skyscraper, began to shake. At the top, in stark, formal lettering, were the words: PETITION FOR LEGAL SEPARATION.

His eyes skipped down the lines, catching fragments that felt like shards of glass. Irreconcilable differences… habitual absence… abandonment of emotional duties. He looked toward the stairs, his boots thudding heavily on the hardwood as he ran up to the master bedroom. He threw open the closet doors. Sarah’s side was a cavern of empty hangers. Her jewelry box was gone. The photo of them on their honeymoon in Cabo was missing from the nightstand.

He sprinted to Mia’s room. Her bed was made with a chilling, final precision. He looked toward the corner where the science fair project had sat for weeks. The volcano was there, but it wasn’t gray anymore. It was painted a vibrant, fiery red—but the brushstrokes were all wrong. They weren’t the careful, guided strokes he had promised to teach her. Beside it, the presentation board was filled out in a neat, feminine script that wasn’t Sarah’s. It was the neighbor’s handwriting. Someone else had stepped in to be the father he refused to be. Someone else had held the brush. Someone else had heard her excitement.

He stumbled back down to the kitchen and collapsed onto a barstool, the legal papers crinkling under his weight. He looked at the high-end appliances he had worked eighty-hour weeks to afford. He looked at the designer backsplash he’d stayed up until midnight installing. He looked at the vaulted ceilings and the expensive flooring.

He had built a palace of “stuff,” convinced that every hour of overtime was a brick in the wall of his family’s security. He had justified his pride, his workaholism, and his avoidance of the messy, vulnerable parts of being a man by calling it “sacrifice.” He had gained the whole world—the Ridgeview project was a masterpiece, the bonus was coming, his reputation was ironclad.

But as he sat in the dark, clutching the document that signaled the end of his life, Marcus Read finally understood the math of his own soul. He had traded the only people who actually loved him for the approval of men who would replace him by Monday.

He reached for his phone to call her, but he realized he didn’t even know where they had gone. He didn’t know the name of Mia’s science teacher. He didn’t know what Sarah needed when she was lonely. He knew how to build a house, but he had no idea how to live in one.

The “machine” was finally alone. Marcus put his head in his dust-covered hands and let out a sound that wasn’t a foreman’s command or a provider’s boast. It was the sound of a man standing in the ruins of a kingdom he had built for nobody. He had won the promotion, but in the silence of the empty house, he realized he had lost everything else.

Author’s Note

The story of Marcus Read is not a cautionary tale about a “bad” man. In fact, by the world’s standards, Marcus is an exemplary man. He is disciplined, a “top performer,” and a high-income, good provider driven by a desire to give his family the life he never had. He isn’t out at bars or chasing scandals; he is exactly what society tells a man to be: a tireless engine of success.

But Marcus fell into a dual trap that claims thousands of well-meaning men every year. The first is the internal trap: the belief that our provision is a valid substitute for our presence. The second is the external trap: a modern culture—and sometimes even those closest to us—that demands a lifestyle well above our means, silently encouraging a man to work himself into the grave to fund a standard of living that no paycheck can truly satisfy.

We see this play out in the wreckage of divorce cases every day. A man is cheered for his “hustle” and his ability to provide luxuries, only to be vilified for his absence once the relationship withers. It is a hollow cycle. We tell ourselves we are building a kingdom for our families, but as Jesus warned in Matthew 16:26, “What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?”

For Marcus, his “soul” wasn’t just his eternal destination; it was the essence of his life—his connection to his wife, the heart of his daughter, and his identity as a man of God rather than a “machine” of industry. He traded the irreplaceable for the replaceable. He forgot that while Miller & Sons would have a new foreman listed on a job board within forty-eight hours of his departure, he was the only man on earth designed to be Mia’s father and Sarah’s husband.

Workaholism is often just pride in a high-visibility vest. It is the refusal to be vulnerable and the misplaced hope that our value is found in the size of our bank account rather than the depth of our character. We hide in our offices and on our job sites because, in those places, we are in control and we are “valued” for our output. But God does not call us to be “top performers” at the expense of our homes; He calls us to be faithful.

If you find yourself sitting in a truck at 5:00 AM or staring at a laptop at midnight, ask yourself: Who am I really doing this for? Is it for the family, or is it to satisfy an insatiable appetite for more “stuff” that the world—or even your household—tells you that you need? Remember that your family would rather have a father who is present for the “gray volcano” moments than a father who provides a luxury house that feels like a tomb.

Don’t wait for the silence of an empty house to realize that your greatest “win” isn’t waiting for you at the office. It’s waiting for you at the front door.

Call to Action

If this story struck a chord, don’t just scroll on. Join the brotherhood—men learning to build, not borrow, their strength. Subscribe for more stories like this, drop a comment about where you’re growing, or reach out and tell me what you’re working toward. Let’s grow together.

D. Bryan King

Sources

• Genesis 11:1-9 NIV – The Tower of Babel – Bible Gateway
• What does the Bible say about workaholism? – GotQuestions.org
• An Admonition to Workaholics – Desiring God
• The Pride of Babel and the Praise of Christ – Desiring God
• Psalm 127: A Word for Workaholics – Bible.org
• The Perils of Pride and Self-Sufficiency – Tower of Babel – NIV Bible Blog
• Tower of Babel – Answers in Genesis
• Luke 12:13-21 NIV – The Parable of the Rich Fool – Bible Gateway
• Matthew 6:19-34 NIV – Do Not Worry – Bible Gateway
• Ecclesiastes 2:17-26 NIV – Toil Is Meaningless – Bible Gateway
• Colossians 3:23-24 NIV – Instructions for Christian Households – Bible Gateway
• Too Many Christian Workaholics – Paul Tripp
• How Can I Know If I’m Working Too Much? – The Gospel Coalition
• Towering Pride: What the Story of the Tower of Babel Can Teach Us – Archdiocese of Washington Blog
• Beware Our Tower of Babel – Christianity Today

Disclaimer:

The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.

When Sin Returns Home

“Adonibezek said, Threescore and ten kings, having their thumbs and their great toes cut off, gathered their meat under my table; as I have done, so God hath requited me.” — Judges 1:7

As I move through the early chapters of Judges, I encounter a sobering moment that feels almost unsettling in its clarity. Adonibezek, a king known for cruelty, finds himself on the receiving end of the very violence he once inflicted on others. His confession is not forced; it rises from a sudden awareness that what has happened to him is not random. “As I have done, so God hath requited me.” In that moment, a man who once wielded power without restraint comes face to face with a truth that Scripture consistently affirms—sin does not disappear; it returns home.

There is something deeply revealing about the awareness expressed in his words. The text implies that God was not distant from Adonibezek’s actions. Every act of cruelty, every display of dominance, every moment of disregard for human dignity was seen. The Hebrew understanding of God as רֹאֶה (ro’eh), “the One who sees,” reminds me that nothing escapes His notice. We may hide things from others, and even convince ourselves that our actions are justified or unnoticed, but before God, all things are laid bare. The writer of Hebrews echoes this when he says, “all things are naked and opened unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do” (Hebrews 4:13). This awareness is not meant to paralyze us with fear, but to awaken us to reality. When I live with the understanding that God sees all, my choices begin to reflect a deeper reverence.

Adonibezek’s experience also confronts me with the affliction of sin. He recognizes that his suffering is not arbitrary—it is just. The phrase “God hath requited me” reflects a principle woven throughout Scripture: what is sown will eventually be reaped. Paul later articulates this clearly in Galatians 6:7, “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” There is both certainty and character in divine judgment. It is certain in that it will come, regardless of whether it is acknowledged or denied. It is specific in that it often mirrors the nature of the sin itself. The very method Adonibezek used to humiliate others becomes the instrument of his own humiliation. Sin carries within it the seeds of its own consequence.

Yet there is another layer here that draws me into reflection—the acknowledgement of sin. Adonibezek does something that many resist until it is too late: he admits the truth about himself. There is no excuse offered, no attempt to shift blame. He simply recognizes the reality of what he has done. This moment, though late, reveals a universal truth. Every person will ultimately acknowledge their sin. The question is not if, but when. Will it be in this life, where confession opens the door to grace? Or will it be at the final judgment, where acknowledgement comes without remedy? Augustine once wrote, “The confession of evil works is the first beginning of good works.” There is a turning point when the soul stops defending itself and begins to surrender.

This is where the broader promise of Scripture brings both warning and hope into focus. In Hebrews 8:11, we are told, “They shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest.” That knowledge includes not only an awareness of God’s holiness but also an encounter with His mercy. The Greek word γινώσκω (ginōskō) again speaks of relational knowing. To know God rightly is to see both His justice and His grace. The tragedy of Adonibezek is not merely that he sinned, but that his recognition came too late to alter his path. The invitation of the Gospel is that we do not have to wait until judgment to come to that realization.

As I reflect on this passage, I find myself examining my own life more carefully. Are there attitudes, habits, or actions that I have minimized or justified? Have I assumed that because there has been no immediate consequence, there will be none at all? Scripture gently but firmly reminds me that God’s timeline is not my own. His justice is patient, but it is never absent. At the same time, His grace is available now. The same God who sees all also invites all to come to Him. Through Christ, what would have been requited is instead forgiven.

Charles Spurgeon once said, “Sin and hell are married unless repentance proclaims the divorce.” That statement carries weight, but it also carries hope. Repentance breaks the cycle. It interrupts the return of sin’s consequences and replaces judgment with mercy. This is the gift offered to every believer—the opportunity to acknowledge sin now, to receive forgiveness, and to walk in a restored relationship with God.

So as I continue this journey through Scripture, I do not simply read these accounts as history. I receive them as instruction. The story of Adonibezek is not just about a king long gone; it is a mirror held up to the human heart. And in that reflection, I am reminded that while sin may come home, grace meets me at the door.

For further study, consider this resource: https://www.ligonier.org/learn/devotionals/the-justice-of-god

FEEL FREE TO COMMENT, SUBSCRIBE, AND REPOST, SO OTHERS MAY KNOW

At times I wonder if I upbraid my readers too much. Even if usually not overtly.

But then I check out what the great WEATHER IS HAPPENING Weather Man is (always) telling his readers. Overtly. Reminding me how maybe we all should be upbraided more, not less...

Yeah, it's a fine mess we've made! And no, I don't think Weather Man is only joking around. Not truly.

#repentance
#WeatherIsHappening

https://weatherishappening.network/@WEATHERISHAPPENING/116256146311230496

A quotation from Ben Franklin

Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) American statesman, scientist, philosopher, aphorist
Poor Richard (1745 ed.)

More about this quote: wist.info/franklin-benjamin/82…

#quote #quotes #quotation #qotd #benfranklin #benjaminfranklin #poorrichard #poorrichardsalmanac #repentance #compensation #correction #delay #later #present #procrastination #reform #remorse #resolution