The Jerry-Rigged Life: Why God's Wrath is Actually Good News

We've all done it. That makeshift repair job that wasn't quite right but got us by. The antenna positioned at just the right angle, held in place by sheer willpower and prayer. The password borrowed from a friend to avoid another subscription. The quick fix that becomes permanent because, well, it works well enough.

We call it jerry-rigging—that art of making something function in a way it was never intended to work.

But what if we've been doing the same thing with our lives?

When the Apostle Paul Drops a Bomb

In his letter to the church in Rome, the Apostle Paul doesn't ease into uncomfortable topics. After declaring his confidence in the gospel's power, he immediately pivots to one of scripture's most challenging passages: "The wrath of God is being revealed from heaven against all the godlessness and wickedness of people who suppress the truth by their wickedness."

Wrath. It's not a word we like. It doesn't fit on decorative home goods plaques. We prefer "God is love"—which appears only twice in scripture, both in the same letter. Meanwhile, the Bible has volumes to say about divine wrath.

But here's the paradigm shift we need: You cannot have love without wrath.

Think about it in human terms. If someone you love is betrayed or harmed, and you feel nothing—no protective anger, no jealous rage against the injustice—do you really love them? Love without boundaries isn't love at all. A parent who enables destructive behavior until their child is 45 isn't being loving; they're preventing growth.

God's wrath isn't about smiting humanity. It's His last word against evil. It's His relentless pursuit to eradicate the darkness that corrupts His creation. Paul writes that God's wrath is revealed against the godlessness and wickedness of people—not against people themselves. The distinction matters.

The Timeline of Misplaced Worship

To understand what Paul is really saying, we need to zoom out and see the entire story. Imagine trying to explain American history using only the last ten days of news. You'd get a distorted, incomplete picture that would confuse anyone trying to understand the culture.

The biblical narrative begins in Eden—that perfect space where God and humanity existed in shameless relationship. God wanted worship and relationship, and because He's not a tyrannical dictator, He gave humans free will. The only way to have genuine love is through choice.

Then came the tree. The choice. The fall.

Sin entered the picture, and everything changed. But here's what we often miss: this is where the redemption arc begins. From that moment forward, God has been working to bring humanity back to that original intent.

What followed was chaos. Cain murdered Abel. The world became so corrupt that God started over with Noah—only to have Noah stumble immediately after the flood. The Israelites were freed from Egypt, and within hours of Moses leaving them alone, they melted down their jewelry to worship a golden calf.

Israel demanded kings "like everyone else," rejecting God's unique leadership. They cycled through dozens of rulers, most of them disastrous. All through this timeline, one pattern emerges: misplaced worship.

The Holes in Our Souls

This is where it gets personal. Each of us carries a life that's been punctured by sin—sometimes our own choices, sometimes the terrible things others have done to us. Success becomes our god, and when it disappoints, we feel the life draining out. We make idols of education, family, relationships, substances—anything to fill the void.

We know the holes are there. We feel our souls leaking. So we become experts at patching them up. We use duct tape and wood planks and whatever else we can find to make our existence look presentable. We take a deep breath in the church parking lot and put on the smile. We hold hands during worship to prove everything's fine. Then we get home and finally exhale because maintaining the facade is exhausting.

God never intended for us to live this way. He didn't design us to jury-rig our existence, finding creative ways to make life make sense when it fundamentally doesn't.

The Only One Who Rose

Throughout human history, our instinct has been to cover shame. Adam and Eve grabbed fig leaves. Noah's sons covered their father's nakedness. We've been hiding ever since.

But Jesus is the only person in history who not only took on the sin and shame of the world—naked on a cross—but actually rose from the dead. He is the new Adam, the one who can restore what was broken from the beginning.

This is why Paul wrote Romans. He knew humans have a propensity to misplace their worship. He also knew that through Jesus, there's a better way.

The Invitation

Jesus offers something radical: "Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

He's not offering a problem-free life. Evil still exists. We'll still mess up. But He promises peace through the storms, hope in the chaos, and the complete eradication of shame. He offers a brand new identity—not one you have to maintain through endless self-justification, but one He maintains for you.

God is relentlessly pursuing your soul. He looks at our broken world and longs for people to capture the essence of how good, how kind, and how patient He is. He wants to heal open wounds and turn them into scars that tell the story of His goodness.

The wrath of God isn't bad news. It's the promise that God takes evil seriously enough to do something about it. And what He did was send Jesus.

Stop jerry-rigging your life. Stop duct-taping the holes. There's a God in heaven who can handle more than you think, who wants to give you life to the fullest, who promises that for those in Christ Jesus, there is no condemnation.

That's not just good news. That's the best news possible.

The Power of Belonging: Finding Your True Master

We live in a world obsessed with belonging. From exclusive memberships to secret clubs, from social media circles to workplace hierarchies, humans are wired to seek connection and community. Marketing experts know this well—they've built entire empires on our desire to be "in" on something special, to feel like we're part of the inner circle.

Think about the brands that create cult-like followings. They don't just sell products; they sell identity and belonging. They make us feel like we're part of something bigger than ourselves. And we buy in—sometimes literally—because the alternative feels like isolation.

But what if our deepest longing for belonging isn't ultimately about finding the right group, achieving the right status, or purchasing the right membership? What if that persistent feeling we can't quite shake—that sense of searching, that quiet loneliness even in a crowd—is actually pointing us toward something far more profound?

The Divine Separation

There's a possibility that what we call loneliness might actually be divine separation. Our souls may be searching not just for human connection, but for divine connection. This isn't about adding religion to our already busy lives or finding another self-help strategy. This is about recognizing that the foundation of all human belonging is found in something—or rather, someone—beyond ourselves.

The Apostle Paul understood this deeply. In his letter to the church in Rome, he made an audacious claim right from the start: he called himself a slave of Jesus Christ. Not a casual follower. Not someone who occasionally checked in with spiritual matters. A slave—someone whose entire existence was owned by another.

This is jarring language. We don't like to think about slavery in any context. But Paul wasn't describing oppression; he was expressing liberation. He had tried everything else—religious achievement, cultural status, intellectual prowess—and found them all wanting. Only when he surrendered to Christ as his master did he finally find what his soul had been searching for.

The Gospel: Good News from God

Paul's letter to Rome centers on what he calls "the gospel"—literally, "good news." But this isn't just any good news. This is the good news of God, from God, embodied in Jesus Christ.

Here's the revolutionary claim: this good news belongs to God. It didn't originate from human imagination or religious innovation. It was promised through prophets for thousands of years, and it centers on Jesus—a descendant of David who was appointed the Son of God through his resurrection from the dead.

The early Roman church was a fascinating melting pot. Unlike other churches Paul wrote to, he hadn't founded this one. It had grown organically, becoming a culturally diverse community that included both Jews and Gentiles (non-Jews). This created tension. The Jewish believers had centuries of religious tradition, cultural practices, and rituals that defined what it meant to be righteous before God. Then here came these Gentile believers who didn't follow any of those customs, yet claimed the same faith.

Paul had to set the record straight.

Righteousness: Not a Feeling, But a Status

One of the most important concepts Paul addresses is righteousness. In our modern context, we often think of righteousness as a feeling—that warm sense of being a good person, the satisfaction of doing kind deeds, the comfort of living morally.

But Paul uses righteousness as a legal term. It's not about feelings; it's about status. It's about standing. And here's the uncomfortable truth: apart from Christ, no one has righteous status before God. You can feel as good as you want, do as many kind acts as possible, but separated from God, the legal standing remains unchanged.

This is where Paul drops the bombshell that changed human history: "The righteous will live by faith."

Not by cultural expression. Not by following the right rituals. Not by eating the right foods or observing the right festivals. Not by working harder or being nicer or achieving more. The righteous—those in right standing with God—live by faith in Jesus.

Faith: The Great Equalizer

Paul was leveling the playing field. To the Jewish believers who thought righteousness came through cultural and religious practice, he said: it's faith. To the Gentile believers who might have felt like second-class citizens in God's kingdom, he said: it's faith. To all of us who think we need to earn our way to God through good works and moral achievement, he says: it's faith.

This is why Paul declares, "I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God that brings salvation to everyone who believes."

Salvation isn't earned through striving. Peace isn't achieved through grinding. Belonging doesn't come from working harder at being better. The only way to find true peace, genuine joy, lasting hope, and soul-deep rest is through faith in Jesus.

Who Is Your Master?

This brings us to the critical question: who is your master?

We all serve something. We all belong to something. The question isn't whether we have a master, but which master we've chosen. Is it your career? Your relationships? Your pursuit of success? Your need for approval? Your desire for control?

All of human history has been searching in the dark for relief—from anxiety, from chaos, from that gnawing sense that something is missing. We've looked everywhere: achievement, pleasure, relationships, status, knowledge. And while these things aren't inherently bad, they cannot satisfy the deepest longing of the human soul.

The gospel isn't just an invitation; it's a command that demands our attention. It calls us to surrender our hearts, souls, minds, and strength to Jesus. Will this make all your problems disappear? No. Will parts of your life have to change? Of course. But will you find grace and peace on the other side of surrender? Absolutely.

The Only Place to Look

If you're looking for peace that surpasses understanding, look no further than Jesus. If you want hope that doesn't disappoint, look no further than Jesus. If you're sick of the endless rat race, look no further than Jesus. If you finally want rest for your soul, look no further than Jesus.

The good news is that this message is for everyone. The gospel is available to all who believe. It's not about your background, your achievements, or your failures. It's about faith—simple, transformative faith in the one who lived, died, and rose again.

The resurrection of Jesus changed human history because it gives us access to the goodness of God. It provides the righteousness we could never achieve on our own. It offers belonging that goes deeper than any club membership or social circle.

So the question remains: who will you allow to be the master of your existence? Will you continue searching in all the wrong places, or will you finally look to the one place where your soul can truly find rest?

The righteous live by faith. Everything else can fail, but faith in Jesus remains. That's not just good news—that's the best news humanity has ever received.

Advent: Joy

The Christmas season brings with it a familiar rhythm—twinkling lights, family gatherings, gift exchanges, and festive decorations. Yet beneath all the cultural trappings lies a revolutionary story that has the power to transform how we understand joy itself. The biblical account of Jesus' birth isn't just a heartwarming tale; it's a radical reimagining of where true joy is found and how it's cultivated in our lives.

When Good News Feels Terrifying

There's something profoundly human about the reactions we find in the Christmas story. When divine messengers appeared with what should have been the best news imaginable, the consistent response was fear. Zechariah, a seasoned priest performing his sacred duties, was "gripped with fear" when an angel appeared. Mary, a young woman going about her life, was "greatly troubled." The shepherds were "terrified" when the glory of the Lord shone around them.

This pattern reveals something important: sometimes the greatest news we could receive catches us so off guard that our initial response is anxiety rather than celebration. We become so accustomed to life's disappointments and limitations that we've stopped expecting miracles. We've learned to protect ourselves by lowering our expectations, and in doing so, we've inadvertently closed ourselves off to wonder.

The Professional Who Lost His Wonder

Zechariah's story is particularly striking. Here was a man who had spent his entire life in religious service. He was a descendant of Aaron, observing all the Lord's commands and regulations blamelessly. He was the consummate professional—the person everyone looked to for spiritual guidance and answers. Yet when confronted with a miraculous promise, his response was doubt: "How can this be?"

God's response to Zechariah's disbelief was unexpected: silence. For eight months, this priest who had made his living with words couldn't speak a single one. But this wasn't punishment—it was formation. In the silence, Zechariah's wonder was reawakened. He was forced to stop going through the motions and rediscover the awe-inspiring reality of a God who still speaks, still acts, still fulfills impossible promises.

How many of us have become "professional" in our faith? We read our Bibles because it's what we're supposed to do. We pray because it's on our spiritual checklist. We attend church out of habit rather than expectation. We've done this so long that the wonder has evaporated, replaced by routine. Zechariah's story reminds us that sometimes God needs to quiet our busy-ness so we can rediscover the joy of simply being in His presence.

Joy in the Waiting

The parallel stories of Elizabeth and Mary offer another profound insight: joy can be cultivated in the waiting. Elizabeth had spent decades longing for a child, watching friends and relatives experience the motherhood that eluded her. In a culture that viewed childlessness as a sign of divine disfavor, she carried not just disappointment but shame. She was "too old" for dreams to come true.

Mary, on the other hand, was young with her whole life ahead of her—but her yes to God's plan meant saying yes to becoming a social outcast. Pregnancy before marriage would cost her everything: her reputation, her community standing, possibly even her engagement and safety.

When these two women—one too old, one too young; one who had waited too long, one whose dream came too soon—met, something beautiful happened. There was no comparison, no jealousy, no measuring of whose miracle was greater. Instead, there was pure celebration. The baby in Elizabeth's womb literally leaped for joy, and both women praised God together.

Their story demolishes our tendency toward comparison. We live in a culture obsessed with timelines and benchmarks. By this age, we should be married. By that stage, we should have achieved certain career goals. When our timeline doesn't match others', we either despair over our delays or judge others for their different paths.

But God doesn't operate on our timeline. His promises aren't bound by cultural expectations about what should happen when. Elizabeth's story says that dreams aren't dead just because you've reached an age when society says you should slow down. Mary's story says that God's plans might disrupt your carefully laid timeline entirely—and that's okay. The key is learning to find joy not when everything falls into place, but in the sacred space of waiting and trusting.

Light in the Darkness

Perhaps the most revolutionary aspect of the Christmas story is who received the birth announcement. Not King Herod. Not the religious elite in Jerusalem. Not the wealthy or influential. Instead, angels appeared to shepherds—some of the most despised people in Palestinian society.

Shepherds were dirty, uneducated, untrustworthy outcasts who lived in the fields, separated from polite society. A third-century rabbi called shepherding "the most despised occupation in the world." These were people on the absolute margins, living in literal and metaphorical darkness.

And that's exactly where God showed up.

The message is clear: God specializes in illuminating darkness. He doesn't wait for us to clean up our act, get our lives together, or become respectable enough to deserve His attention. While we were still sinners—still in our mess, still in our shame, still in our darkness—Christ came for us.

This is where true joy is born: not in having everything figured out, but in discovering that God pursues us in our darkest moments. The shepherds didn't go home and clean up before visiting the newborn king. They went immediately, just as they were, and then couldn't help but tell everyone what they'd seen.

Joy as Strength for the Journey

The joy described in Scripture isn't the same as happiness based on circumstances. Happiness fluctuates with our situation—good news brings happiness, bad news steals it away. But joy is something deeper, more resilient. It's the settled confidence that God is good, God is present, and God is working—even when circumstances suggest otherwise.

This kind of joy becomes our strength. It enables us to be light-bearers in dark places, hope-speakers in cynical spaces, joy-bringers to communities that have forgotten how to celebrate. It transforms us from people who complain about our city, our circumstances, our lot in life, into people who see potential for God's goodness to break through anywhere.

Reawakening Wonder

This Christmas season, the invitation is to move beyond the cultural trappings and rediscover the revolutionary heart of the story. Whether you find yourself in a season of silence like Zechariah, a season of waiting like Mary and Elizabeth, or a season of darkness like the shepherds, joy is available.

Not the manufactured happiness of perfect circumstances, but the deep, abiding joy of knowing that God sees you, pursues you, and has plans for you that exceed your imagination. The same God who kept promises to the old and the young, the professional and the outcast, is still in the business of showing up in unexpected ways.

The question is: will we allow our wonder to be reawakened?

Advent: Peace

There's something deeply satisfying about building a fire. The crackling warmth, the dancing flames, the sense of accomplishment when it finally catches and roars to life. But what if you discovered that your beautiful fire was actually making everything around it work harder? That the very thing bringing you comfort was creating chaos elsewhere?

This is the uncomfortable truth about the peace we try to create on our own.

The Herod in All of Us

The Christmas story introduces us to a man obsessed with peace at any cost. King Herod, upon hearing that a new "King of the Jews" had been born, made a decision that reveals the darkest potential of human nature. Rather than lose control, rather than allow any threat to his manufactured tranquility, he ordered the execution of every baby boy two years old and younger in Bethlehem.

It's a horrifying response. One we'd like to distance ourselves from entirely.

But here's the uncomfortable reality: we all carry a bit of Herod within us.

Before you protest, consider this: How far would you go to maintain control? What relationships have you damaged in your quest for personal peace? What lines have you crossed when someone threatened your sense of security? Maybe you haven't ordered executions, but have you executed someone's character in your mind? Have you wished ill on those who've wronged you?

Romans 5 reminds us that while we were still God's enemies, Christ died for us. That language—"enemies of God"—isn't hyperbole. There's an innate desire in all of us bent toward destructive motives. Our default setting is self-preservation, control, and a "me first" mentality that creates hostility rather than harmony.

The Exhausting Work of Self-Made Peace

We work incredibly hard to manufacture peace in our lives. We tiptoe around difficult conversations at home, maintaining a fragile tranquility by avoiding anything that might ruffle feathers. We work longer hours, chase promotions, accumulate more money, thinking that just a little bit more will finally bring the contentment we're seeking.

But here's what happens: We finally get the promotion, and the increased responsibility leaves us more exhausted than before. We make more money, but somehow feel less secure. We create a peaceful atmosphere at home, but everyone's walking on eggshells, and the emotional labor leaves us drained.

It's like pedaling harder and harder on a bike, only to realize the faster you go, the more energy everything around you needs just to keep up. We throw more logs on the fire of our own peace, watching it burn bright for a moment, only to turn around and find Monday has arrived, the boss is still annoying, the marriage still needs work, and that warm feeling has evaporated.

The harder we work to control our circumstances, the more elusive peace becomes.

The King Who Changed Everything

Into this cycle of exhausting self-salvation came something completely unexpected: a baby.

When the Magi arrived looking for the newborn King, when Simeon held the infant Jesus in the temple, when Zechariah prophesied about the coming Messiah, they were encountering a radically different kind of king. This wasn't the military strategist they expected. This wasn't the gladiator who would overthrow Rome through strength and violence.

This was the paradox of peace.

In a world dictated by power and force, God sent vulnerability. In an empire built on military might, heaven's answer was a child lying in a feeding trough, surrounded by farm animals. Zechariah proclaimed that this child would "guide our feet into the path of peace." Simeon declared, "My eyes have seen your salvation... you may dismiss your servant in peace."

They recognized immediately that this was no ordinary human. This was the promised Messiah, the true Prince of Peace. But the method was all wrong according to human logic.

If you were planning to establish lasting peace on earth, would you send a refugee baby born to poor parents in an occupied territory? Would you choose weakness over strength, humility over power, vulnerability over control?

Yet this is exactly what God did. And in doing so, He revealed a fundamental truth: Peace through strength is the opposite of God's plan.

The Unquenchable Fire

Consider the story of Moses. Raised in Pharaoh's palace while his own people suffered as slaves, Moses tried to create peace through violence. He killed an Egyptian who was beating a Hebrew slave. His attempt at justice through control drove him into the wilderness, alone and searching.

It was there, in his weakness and failure, that Moses encountered the burning bush—a fire that burned but was not consumed. An unquenchable fire.

We spend our lives feeding our own fires, trying to make them burn hotter, last longer. We throw on more logs—more money, more success, more control, more therapy sessions, more self-help strategies. And while these things may have their place, they're not the source of unquenchable peace.

John the Baptist spoke of One who would baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire—an unquenchable fire. While we exhaust ourselves maintaining our own flames, God offers a peace that doesn't depend on our constant effort.

Jesus said, "Come to me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Rest. Peace. Not through your striving, but through surrender.

The Price of True Peace

Simeon's prophecy to Mary wasn't all comfort. He warned that Jesus would cause the falling and rising of many, that He would be spoken against, and that a sword would pierce Mary's own soul. This doesn't sound particularly peaceful.

But here's the truth: God isn't interested in being one of many kings in your life. He's asking for full dependence. If you want the peace that surpasses understanding, you must be willing to stop turning to everything else and put your full attention and devotion on Him.

Maybe you don't have peace because you have too many kings.

The path to peace requires admitting your flaws. It means recognizing where you're trying to control too much, where you're destroying not only your own life but the lives of those around you. It means repenting of the Herod within—that part of you that would rather kill the thing than submit to it.

The Invitation

The beauty of the gospel is that God created the path to peace while we were still His enemies. He's not standing back waiting for you to figure it out. Scripture describes a God who is actively chasing after you, who understands that peace is hard to come by, and who desperately wants you to grab onto the peace only He can give.

If you think God is angry with you, you're wrong. If you think He wants to spite you, you're wrong. If you think He's anything other than close to you in your pain and weakness, you're far from the truth.

God is here. He is close. And He wants to be your friend and your King.

The question is: Are you tired of pedaling through life alone? Are you exhausted from trying to make your own way? Are you ready to stop building fires that leave you cold?

The Prince of Peace came not through strength, but through weakness. Not through control, but through surrender. And He offers you the same path—an unquenchable fire, a peace that surpasses understanding, a rest for your weary soul.

All you have to do is admit you need it, and invite Him in.

Advent: Hope

The Roman Empire stood at its peak of power, built on conquest and maintained through heavy taxation. Caesar Augustus was hailed as the divine savior who brought peace to the world. Yet beneath this veneer of prosperity, life for most people was marked by oppression, poverty, and uncertainty. For women, foreigners, and the poor, each day brought its own struggles for survival.

Into this world, a child would be born who would also be called the Prince of Peace—a direct challenge to Caesar's claim. But before we get to the manger, before we sing about silent nights and calm brightness, we need to understand that the Christmas story unfolds in a context of political upheaval and desperate longing.

For over 700 years, the Jewish people had been waiting for a promised Messiah. Hundreds of prophecies spoke of his coming. Generation after generation heard about this deliverer who would overthrow oppression and establish God's kingdom on earth.

Think about that timeframe. Seven hundred years. If someone made you a promise in kindergarten and you were still waiting in fourth grade, you'd probably give up hope. But this was centuries of waiting, hoping, believing that somehow, someday, the Messiah would come.

The Woman Who Never Stopped Waiting

In Luke chapter 2, we meet a woman named Anna. She appears for just a few verses, yet her story carries profound weight. Anna was a prophet, the daughter of Penuel from the tribe of Asher. She had been married for seven years before becoming a widow, and by the time we encounter her, she's 84 years old.

In that culture, widows lost everything. They had no social standing, no financial security, no voice. Yet Anna didn't disappear into obscurity. Instead, she made the temple her home, worshiping night and day, fasting and praying.

At 84, she could have retired from spiritual vigilance. No one would have blamed her for taking a break. But something kept drawing her back—an anticipatory hope that refused to die.

What Draws You Back?

Hope isn't just wishful thinking about Amazon packages arriving on time. True hope is the anticipated outcome of what we're waiting for. It's what keeps us returning to the source of our expectation.

For Anna, hope in the coming Messiah kept drawing her back to worship, fasting, and prayer. These weren't empty religious rituals; they were lifelines connecting her to the promise she believed in.

This raises an important question for all of us: What do we turn to when life becomes stressful? When circumstances don't add up, when disappointments pile up, when fear creeps in—where do we go?

Some of us turn to work, believing that if we can just maintain our income and position, we'll have control. Others seek solace in relationships, anchoring their identity to another person. Still others numb themselves with substances or distractions, anything to create a temporary sense of peace.

But Anna shows us a different way. When life was hard—and life was undoubtedly hard for an elderly widow in first-century Jerusalem—she turned toward God, not away from him.

The Danger of Drifting

An anchor serves one simple but crucial purpose: it keeps you in place. Without an anchor, a boat drifts wherever the current takes it.

The same is true for our souls. Without something solid to hold onto, we drift. A disappointing comment, an unexpected setback, a question we can't answer—these things can cause us to untie our anchor and float away.

This is especially common in spiritual life. Someone experiences disappointment in church. They encounter difficult questions in college. They face suffering that doesn't fit their theology. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, they begin to drift.

We might call it "figuring out our own way" or "deconstructing our faith." But often, we've simply lost our anchor. And when life's next storm hits—a bad medical report, a lost job, a broken relationship—we find ourselves completely adrift, searching desperately for anything to hold onto.

The problem is that we'll anchor ourselves to something. Our souls crave stability. So we grab onto whatever seems solid in the moment—a career, a romance, physical fitness, intellectual achievement. These things aren't bad, but they make terrible anchors. They simply cannot hold the weight of a human soul.

The Only Anchor That Holds

Anna understood something profound: the coming Messiah would be hope embodied. He would be near to the brokenhearted, the mender of broken lives, the Prince of Peace who brings everlasting life.

When Jesus finally arrived at the temple as an infant, Anna was there. After decades of waiting, worshiping, fasting, and praying, she came face to face with the fulfillment of her hope.

Consider the significance of her name. Anna means "grace." Her father's name, Penuel, means "the face of God." Grace, the daughter of the face of God, was meeting the physical embodiment of grace—the one who perfectly revealed the face of God to humanity.

The text tells us she gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to everyone who was looking forward to the redemption of Jerusalem. We don't know exactly what she said, but imagine the joy, the vindication, the overwhelming sense of "it was all worth it."

Hope for Today

We live in our own uncertain times. We wait for healing, for clarity, for peace in our homes and hearts. We carry burdens that feel too heavy, face questions without easy answers, and wonder if things will ever be okay.

The message of Advent—the season of waiting and anticipation—is that what we're waiting for has already come. Hope has a name and a face: Jesus.

His first sermon included an invitation that still stands: "Come to me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Not more burden. Not more striving. Rest.

This Christmas season doesn't have to be another race from one gathering to the next. It can be an opportunity to pause and recalibrate. To ask ourselves: What am I really hoping in? What is my soul anchored to?

Like Anna, we can choose to turn our faces back toward God, to worship, to pray, to draw ourselves closer to the only anchor that truly holds. Because when everything else fails, when the fog rolls in and we can't see which way is up, we can trust that Emmanuel—God with us—will give us rest.

Hope has come. His name is Jesus. And he's more than enough.

In Every Way: Mirrors

We live in a world obsessed with mirrors. We check our appearance constantly—before dates, before meetings, even while driving down the highway at 45 miles per hour. We strategically place full-length mirrors to see the complete picture. We clean them when they're dirty. We create makeshift mirrors when we need them because mirrors give us something essential: a reflection of reality.

But what if I told you there's another mirror you probably haven't considered? One that reflects something far deeper than your physical appearance?

Your bank account is a mirror of your worship.

The Uncomfortable Truth We Avoid

Most of us have mastered the art of avoiding this particular mirror. We'll scroll through our bank statements, see mysterious charges we can't quite identify, and convince ourselves that companies must be stealing from us. The reality? Our spending habits are simply a reflection of our lives and priorities.

In our subscription-saturated culture, what used to cost $30 for cable now runs us $475 across multiple streaming services. We've created a monster, and our transaction history tells the story. Every swipe, every purchase, every automatic withdrawal—they're all pointing toward something we value, something we're willing to sacrifice for.

The question isn't whether we're worshiping something with our money. The question is: what are we worshiping?

A Scene at the Temple

In Mark 12, we encounter a fascinating moment. Picture the scene: the temple treasury area, bustling with activity. There were thirteen offering receptacles shaped like horns, and as people dropped their coins in, you could hear the metallic clinking echoing through the space.

This wasn't a quiet, reverent moment. It was a show.

Wealthy donors would approach with bags of coins, and a priest would often announce the amounts being given. The sound of heavy coins cascading into the horn-shaped receptacles created a spectacle. It was almost like an auction, with numbers being called out and the crowd responding with admiration.

Before this scene unfolds, Jesus issues a warning about the religious elite—the scribes who walked around in flowing robes, demanded respect in marketplaces, and occupied the best seats at every gathering. These were the influencers of their day, the people everyone wanted to be. But Jesus saw through the facade.

"Watch out," he said. "These people devour widows' houses."

He was likely referring to a scandal where religious leaders had manipulated a wealthy widow into donating large sums to the temple, only to pocket the money for themselves. The fraud was eventually discovered, leading to severe consequences for the Jewish community in Rome.

The Woman With Two Pennies

Then, in the midst of all this noise and spectacle, something remarkable happens.

A poor widow approaches. After all the wealthy donors with their impressive contributions, after all the announcements and applause, this woman comes forward with two lepta—the smallest, least valuable coins in circulation. Essentially, pennies. The kind we don't even make anymore because they're considered worthless.

The contrast is stark. You can almost feel the awkwardness as she approaches. The priest announcing donations probably doesn't even acknowledge her. He might have looked away, busied himself with paperwork, anything to avoid the uncomfortable moment of announcing such an insignificant amount.

But Jesus notices.

He calls his disciples over and says something that should revolutionize how we think about generosity: "This poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They gave out of their wealth, but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on."

The Revolutionary Principle

Here's where it gets uncomfortable for those of us living in Western culture.

If this widow were your friend today, and she told you she was about to give away her last dollars while struggling to put food on the table, you'd probably stop her. You'd say, "The church will be fine. God doesn't want you to give compulsively. Keep that money. Buy yourself some groceries."

And honestly? That would seem like the compassionate, reasonable response.

But Jesus doesn't stop her. He doesn't run up and pull coins back out of the treasury. He doesn't condemn the system for taking a poor woman's money. Instead, he commends her worship.

Why? Because she understood something that all the wealthy donors missed: generosity isn't tied to current financial realities. It's tied to worship.

The wealthy gave out of what they could afford—amounts that looked impressive but didn't require sacrifice. This woman gave out of everything she had. One group gave to be seen. One woman gave to worship.

The Idol We Don't Want to Name

Our souls are wired to worship something. It's not a question of if we'll worship, but what we'll worship.

In Western culture, the two greatest issues we face can be boiled down to money and sex. Why? Because our souls crave God, and it's devastatingly easy to substitute material security for divine provision.

We tell ourselves we're not materialistic. We're just being responsible. We're just planning for the future. We're just trying to achieve financial security. And there's wisdom in stewardship, of course.

But when was the last time you examined whether you're hoarding or worshiping?

Consider this: Are you less anxious about money now than you were ten years ago? If you've achieved financial goals you set for yourself back then, has it brought the peace you expected? Most people discover that hitting their savings target or getting that promotion doesn't eliminate financial stress—it just shifts it.

Because the issue was never actually about having enough. It was about what we're worshiping.

The Treasure Question

Jesus talked about money constantly, and for good reason. He knew something profound: where our treasure is, our hearts will be also.

He said, "Don't store up treasures on earth, where moths and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven."

To a rich young ruler who had followed all the rules, Jesus said, "You lack one thing. Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me."

He told his disciples, "Sell your possessions and give to the needy."

And perhaps most challenging of all: "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God."

Does God hate wealthy people? No. But he opposes lives that are attached to wealth, because the grip of materialism will destroy your soul while promising to save it.

The Invitation to Freedom

Here's the beautiful truth hidden in this challenging message: where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.

Real freedom isn't found in finally having enough in your savings account. It isn't found in the promotion or the portfolio that's performing well. Those things can disappear in an economic downturn, a health crisis, or any number of circumstances beyond your control.

Real freedom is found in a soul that says, "You can have everything from me. I just want You."

The woman with two pennies understood this. In the midst of a broken religious system, she could have stayed home. She could have protected her meager resources. She could have justified keeping every cent for survival.

But she showed up. And she gave everything.

Not because the system deserved it. Not because it made financial sense. But because she understood that her God would provide for her in every way, and her worship wasn't dependent on her circumstances.

Your Mirror Is Waiting

So here's the question that matters: What does your bank account reveal about your worship?

Look at your transaction history from the past month. What story does it tell? Where is your treasure? What are you sacrificing for?

This isn't about guilt or shame. It's about honest reflection. It's about recognizing that every financial decision is a spiritual decision, whether we acknowledge it or not.

The invitation isn't to poverty for poverty's sake. It's to freedom. It's to a life where God is truly Lord, not just another line item competing for resources alongside streaming services and coffee subscriptions.

It's to a life that looks at the promise—"My God will supply every need"—and actually believes it enough to live differently.

The woman with two pennies challenges us to ask: Am I willing to give out of everything, or only out of what's comfortable? Am I willing to sacrifice, or only to contribute what won't be missed?

Your bank account is a mirror. What does it reflect about your worship?