This is Part 2 of a 4-part study through Psalm 139 exploring God’s intimate involvement in every part of our lives.
Read Part 1, “God Knows Me Completely,” here.

Not many passages of Scripture capture the wonder of God’s heart towards His people quite like Psalm 139.

The psalm resounds with the very assurances every human heart naturally needs—and deeply craves. For all of us, common questions like…

Who really am I?
Who really knows me?
Does anyone fully see what I’m going through?
Does anyone truly care about how I’m doing?
Where am I going?
What’s next?

…often rise like insurmountable thresholds from within. But in just the first six verses, Psalm 139 overwhelms them with promise—like an ocean wave flushing out a dam of toothpicks in the sand. From the floodgates of heaven, God’s unfathomable knowledge downpours and ever-rushes towards His own, submerging them in perfect love. He knows me completely.

Verse 7 expands on this grand promise by following its heavenly current downstream towards its most immediate basin of truth: He leads me perfectly.

Steeped in God’s perfect knowledge of who we are, we now see how that truth overflows into every where, when, and how of our lives.

Personalized, custom-tailored assurances—that God not only knows me completely, but also goes with me perfectly—promising that my every step is not just seen and known from Heaven, but led and guided with Presence.

⁷ Where shall I go from your Spirit?
Or where shall I flee from your presence?
⁸ If I ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
⁹ If I take the wings of the morning
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
¹⁰ even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.

Where is God in my life?
Is He leading? Is He with me?

This psalm leaves no room for doubt: He is not with you somewhere sometimes, but everywhere all the time.

Note the contrasting places of extreme in every dimension—ie, “heaven” (highest) and “Sheol” (lowest) and “uttermost parts of the sea” (furthest)—to emphasize that His presence spans the fullest possible extent of human experience.

Nowhere is too high, too low, or too far for Him.

The highest experiences of our rejoicing—
The deepest valleys of our mourning—
The furthest places of our wandering—

God is with us.

And that is the greatest assurance we could ever have.

Never forsaken. Never abandoned.

Note also two words in this section that are repeatedly used — “where…” and “if…” — that express, like short-heaved cries, our greatest concerns. Don’t we plead with God constantly something along the lines of, “Where, God?” and “What if, Lord?”

Hypotheticals. Uncertainties. Desires. Doubts.

• “God, where are You in this?”

• “God, where do I go?”

• “God, what if… I fail?”

• “God, what if… it backfires?”

• “God, what if… they don’t understand?”

But notice this:

Every “where” and “if” is followed by a “You are there!”

It is not just truth in theory: perspective.
It’s truth for hypothetical: promise.

Notice also the vivid imagery in verse 10: “even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.” What a moving image.

With one hand, God is pointing out the direction — He’s leading us.

With the other hand, God is holding on to us — He’s keeping us.

Picture a child being warmly held by his Father with one hand, while the Father points out the direction with the other hand: protection and direction.

But there’s even more. David even makes it a point to specifically emphasize which “hand” of God does what: namely, it’s God’s “right hand” that holds us, and it’s His other hand that leads us (v. 10). Here’s why that’s important:

Throughout Scripture, the “right hand” is a symbol of ultimate power and the “left hand” is a symbol of supporting strength or even hidden activity. So by referencing both ‘hands’ of God here, David is emphasizing God’s dual role of commitment to us:

The ‘right hand’ of God holds us unchangeably, unshakably, and in great honor.

The ‘left hand’ of God may move in ways unexpectedly to us—directionally and circumstantially—but always supporting us nevertheless.

More important than knowing the where, what, when, how, and why… is knowing Who holds onto us through it all, is with us, leads us every step of the way, and is committed to never letting us go.

When we cannot understand the “left hand” of God’s ways, we can trust His “right hand” of steadfast love. His hands move together towards us in perfect congruence and fulfillment—and never in conflict or confusion.

But even still, there are dark moments of life where we feel anything but these promises or presence of God. The spiraling thoughts viciously begin… Surely…

¹¹ If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light about me be night,”
¹² even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day,
for darkness is as light with you.

In the valleys of deep darkness—where we pass under the shadows of the very mountains we longed to climb—our audible cries often reverberate down the long valley walls. The echoes are sinister, spiraling soundbites.

The heartfelt cries linger… longer.
The distressed pleas echo… further.
And broken scenarios playback in our minds… louder.

The valley walls amplify—and distort—these soundbites.

Surely, God has abandoned me.
Surely, my situation is too dark.
Surely, it’s too messed up.
Surely, it’s too far gone.
Surely, God is cruel.
Surely, I’m too old.
Surely, I’m too young.
Surely, I’m too inexperienced.
Surely, they wouldn’t understand.
Surely, there is no further reason to hope.
Surely, the probabilities, possibilities, percentages, and problems—they’re all stacked against me!

But decisively, God assures us there is no darkness too dark for Him. In fact, the worst darkness that could come to our mind, is still as bright as day to Him.

Now, to be sure, David is not downplaying our darkness as light to God. He is saying our greatest darkness “is as light” to God. Meaning, in comparison to His love, wisdom, and faithfulness—our darkest confusion is not confusing to Him one bit; our haziest uncertainty is not unsettling to Him at all; our deepest grief is not lost on Him. In fact, He not only sees every ounce of our darkness in the perfect light of clarity—He also moves all of our darkness increasingly towards the light of eternity.

In Christ, life overcomes death, truth surpasses deception, peace conquers conflict, and joy outpaces sadness—ultimately and eternally. And since that’s true of Him, our lives in Him will follow the same arc—all the way until our final day.

In the deepest darkness, God gives that deeper assurance.
He sees with a perfect clarity for all of it…
He plans a perfect purpose beyond all of it… and
He loves us perfectly through all of it.

We might lose sight of God in our darkness, but our darkness never causes Him to lose sight of us. And that should give us great hope.

Through these times especially, He promises to make it all—even the worst and hardest and darkest—work together for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28).

Only twelve verses into Psalm 139, and we’ve seen a level of personal intimacy—in knowledge towards us and leadership over us—that shows the abundant love of God for us.

The One who knows you best, loves you most, and leads you best—in every way.

Continue the Journey

This article is Part 2 of a four-part journey through Psalm 139. For part 3, we’ll continue with verses 13–18.

Part 3 — God Leads Me Perfectly

Subscribe free to receive the next installment, straight to your inbox.

Subscribe now

Going Deeper (Paid)

For readers who want to explore Psalm 139 beyond today’s exposition, the remainder of this post includes additional theological reflections, Christ-centered connections, and ‘right-now’ practical application.

Read more

This is Part 1 of a 4-part study through Psalm 139 exploring God’s intimate involvement in every part of our lives.

Not many passages of Scripture capture the wonder of God’s heart towards His people quite like Psalm 139.

It’s one of the most popular passages of the Bible—and rightfully so. It pulls on the heartstrings and resonates at the depths of the soul in a way that’s nearly impossible to express in words... but does.

In the most poetic way, this psalm traces the full landscape of the human heart—our deepest needs, our restless desires, and our most tangled thoughts—and then floods its every boundary line with the all-surpassing love of God.

This psalm overflows towards our comfort and confidence—about how completely God knows us (v. 1-6), how personally He leads us (v. 7-12), how intentionally He purposes us (v. 13-18), and how faithfully He refines us (v. 19-24).

For this four-part series, I’ll simply walk through the psalm verse-by-verse, because every line—when even lightly pressed—yields a fresh healing balm for the soul.

Let's begin…

¹ O Lord, you have searched me and known me!

From the very start, we can hear the cry of a heavy heart.

Not a polished introduction. Not a formal first impression.

Just an honest admission — straight from the heart — towards the God who knows, sees, and pursues me.

David, the psalmist, is holding nothing back from God, because he knows God knows it all anyways. And so, his prayer life less about impressing God and more about sheer, full-fledge expressing his heart unto God.

But that’s not all. More is happening than just an earnest, heartfelt cry. He specifically opens with “O LORD…”

That’s important. He could have referenced one of many names for God, such as Most High, Judge, Defender, Provider, or Creator. But see, those titles refer to God’s stature—what He does.

But here, David specifically draws on primary name for God that does not refer to His stature but His nature—who He is.

In our English Bibles, the name “LORD” (all caps) serves as a moniker for “Yahweh,” God’s personal, covenant-making, covenant-keeping nature; One is rich in steadfast love and faithfulness, mercy and justice; and a title-commitment to never leave us.

David draws on that name, in particular, to say that that type of God—infinite in tenderness and knowledge towards us—searches and knows us. All of our anxious thoughts. All of our heavy burdens. All of our prayers and petitions. All of our pains and pressures. All of our disappointment and despair.

He has searched and has known me — past tense! Meaning, before we even had any awareness or ability to process and pray, He has already searched out every dimension of what’s on our heart and mind—and known it completely.

² You know when I sit down and when I rise up;

Even the smallest moments of our lives—such as our sitting down and rising up—actions we do not even count or consider, God counts and considers.

If you think about it, our minds only have so much bandwidth to ponder and remember the details of our lives. We reserve space to remember the ‘big’ details, not the ‘small’ ones.

And since nothing could seem more insignificant or trivial than the number of times we sit down and rise up each day, we naturally discard any memory of them from our mental bank. Why remember sitting down and rising up, anyways?

And yet, we’re told God gives thought to them. In fact, He’s counted every single time we sat down and gotten back up—when, where, and why.

That’s how closely God is watching and looking after us. But it’s not just that God counts and considers. It means something more astounding: what we consider to be so utterly insignificant to us—is evidently significant to God.

This ought to give us great hope: If the most meaningless things to us actually matter to God, then clearly, the most weighty things to us matter so much more to God.

If our own sitting and rising do not command our own attention, but they do command the attention and care of God, then how much more then does our anxiety and anguish, despair and doubts, our trials and tribulations command the attention, care, and investment of God?

We may be dismayed and be tempted to think that God doesn’t know… oh, but He knows all that much—and much more. And that is a comfort.

you discern my thoughts from afar.

Not only does God know my thoughts, but He also discerns my thoughts.

In other words, He makes sense of them, especially when I am failing to make sense of them myself. In those tired moments when I am struggling helplessly through the thickest mental clutter and navigating through the heaviest brain fog—God discerns my thoughts with absolute clarity and logical precision.

What’s confusing and convoluted to me… is crystal clear to Him.

Through the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit, God the Spirit in me helps me groan to my Father with words beyond my limited capabilities, lifting up my heavy-heartedness and translating my messy-mindedness in a divine way that is too deep for words (Romans 8:26).

Do you ever struggle to express to God all that is on your heart and mind? By grace, the Holy Spirit joins that struggle with us—and then prays for us according to our heart’s desire and the Father’s will—expressing everything that we tried petitioning about, as if we knew everything He knew.

³ You search out my path and my lying down
and are acquainted with all my ways.

In addition to perfectly knowing our thoughts, God also is perfectly acquainted with all of our activity and non-activity.

He searches out “my path” – i.e., my daily schedule, my exact commute, my meetings, my responsibilities, where I’m going, what I’m doing, who I’m with, when I’m arriving, and how the day went.

Apple may tally the total of my steps.
Strava may trace the path of my stride.
Oura may check the pulse of my heart.

But only God knows the complete picture of what is happening behind all of my steps, path, and pulse—each and every hour of the day.

He also searches out “my lying down” – i.e., when I stop, when I feel overwhelmed, when I rest, when I am exhausted, when I feel burned out.

God knows when I’m going, going, going… and He also knows when I’m done and cannot do anything more.

He’s acquainted with all of our ways, the activity as well as the non-activity, and everything in between—from the moment we wake up to the moment we fall asleep.

⁴ Even before a word is on my tongue,
behold, O Lord, you know it altogether.

The transition from verse 3 to verse 4 is not just an added thought—but a crescendo of intimacy. Here, David expresses deeper awe for just how completely God knows and loves him—and does the same for us.

How so? In verse 3, David emphasizes God’s attention to detail regarding our external behavior: our working and our resting; our excitement and our exhaustion; our productivity and our leisure; and everything in between.

But verse 4 shifts from the external to the internal. God is not merely perfectly acquainted with what’s on the ‘outside’ of our lives; He is also completely aware of what’s happening on the ‘inside’ of our hearts.

All of our burdens, desires, struggles, anxieties, cares, and concerns.

In fact, He anticipates what we are beginning to feel—and does not merely guess and/or try to finish our sentences. No, what He anticipates in us, He knows “altogether” — before we even do ourselves!

Amazingly, God knows to the fullest degree what we’re about to pray for and why we feel that way—before we even have time to say the words.

Before we’ve fully processed, He’s fully perceived.

All of our groans; all of our sighing, all of our tears; and all of our longing is not hidden from Him (Psalm 38:9). God knows the way we are wrestling with X, working through Y, wondering about Z, worrying about A, walking through B, wading through C, and waiting in between it all.

He knows me—fully.

⁵ You hem me in, behind and before,
and lay your hand upon me.

An initial read of this verse might conjure up the image of a loving father tucking-in his child before bedtime: “You hem me in, behind and before,” i.e., tuck them in tightly, warmly, snugly. Complete with a final, “lay your hand upon me,” i.e., a personal touch, a signal of love, a time for rest.

However, the Hebrew word for ‘hem me in, behind and before’ invokes rather different image from the warm, cuddly, lullaby experience we might presume.

In fact, the Hebrew rendering of those verses does not imply a restful bedtime experience, but war-time ‘besiege.’ In the act of besieging, a stronger nation would completely surround a smaller city or town, functionally cutting off all imports and exports so that the city would be gradually drained of its own resources. Consequently, they would be forced into absolute dependence upon the nation besieging them.

Verse 5 conveys a picture of God surrounding us, though not in violence but in strong love. He lovingly ‘besieges’ us, surrounding us for the spiritual warfare He wants to fight on our behalf.

Ever-presently, God completely encircles us. From all sides, God is there. And oftentimes in His higher wisdom, He cuts off our other lesser ‘supplies’ and drives us into forcible dependence upon Him—so that we learn to increasingly draw on His abundant resources, not merely our own. Wisely, He drains us of our weak autonomy, so that we can be strong in His strength.

But not only does He surround and besiege us in love—He also lays His hand upon us. The picture is compelling: God is not just all around us; He is also above us.

No matter where I am — He is there — personally, powerfully, ever-presently.

⁶ Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
it is high; I cannot attain it.

We spend much of life wondering whether anyone truly understands us.

Or, even if they did understand us, would they still love us?

Psalm 139 opens with a remarkable assurance:

The One who knows you fully also loves you completely.

He knows you the best and loves you the most.

Continue the Journey

This article is Part 1 of a four-part journey through Psalm 139. Next week we’ll continue with verses 7–12:

Part 2 — God Leads Me Perfectly

Subscribe free to receive the next installment, straight to your inbox.

Subscribe now

Going Deeper (Paid)

For readers who want to explore Psalm 139 beyond today’s exposition, the remainder of this post includes additional theological reflections, Christ-centered connections, and ‘right-now’ practical application.

Read more

Of all the passages in Scripture that make us pause and ask, “What did Jesus mean by that?” Mark 7:24–30 may be among the most puzzling.

As the Master Communicator, Jesus does not always communicate in the same way.

• Oftentimes, He preaches straightforwardly—with direct commands and clear truth.

• Sometimes, He teaches strategically—through parable, story, and questions that invite deeper reflection.

• Other times, He speaks in subtlety—drawing on assumptions, wordplay, and rich nuance to make a point.

The latter is exactly what happens in Mark 7:24-30. As Jesus speaks with a Syrophoenician woman, He draws on certain nuances of their ancient context—one that is simply lost on us today. And that’s precisely why Jesus’ response is confusing to us, but clear to her.

In their conversation, there’s a lot going on: Demon possession. Dog food. Crumbs under the table. Leftovers in the fridge. And a statement of faith so powerful that it delivers a little girl in real time.

And, did Jesus insult the woman in the process? If not, then what?

Let’s sort through it. Immediately below, I have inserted Tim Keller’s explanation, taken straight from his book, Jesus The King. Then following, I’ve included a handful of additional applications we just can’t skip over from such a rich passage.

Jesus left that place and went to the vicinity of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know it; yet he could not keep his presence secret. In fact, as soon as she heard about him, a woman whose little daughter was possessed by an evil spirit came and fell at his feet. The woman was a Greek, born in Syrian Phoenicia. She begged Jesus to drive the demon out of her daughter. (Mark 7:24–26)

The story begins with the mysterious statement that Jesus went to the vicinity of Tyre and did not want anyone to know it. What was going on? Well, Jesus had been spending all of his time ministering in Jewish provinces, and that ministry was drawing overwhelming crowds, and he was exhausted. So Jesus left the Jewish provinces and went into a Gentile territory, Tyre, in order to get some rest.

But it doesn’t work. A woman hears of his arrival and makes her way boldly to Jesus. Though she’s a Syrophoenician, because of Tyre’s proximity to Judea she would have known the Jewish customs. She knows that she has none of the religious, moral, and cultural credentials necessary to approach a Jewish rabbi—she is a Phoenician, a Gentile, a pagan, a woman, and her daughter has an unclean spirit. She knows that in every way, according to the standards of the day, she is unclean and therefore disqualified to approach any devout Jew, let alone a rabbi. But she doesn’t care. She enters the house without an invitation, falls down and begins begging Jesus to exorcise a demon from her daughter. The verb beg here is a present progressive—she keeps on begging. Nothing and no one can stop her. In Matthew’s Gospel chapter 15, the parallel account, the disciples urge Jesus to send her away. But she’s pleading with Jesus—she won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

You know why she has this burst of boldness, don’t you? There are cowards, there are regular people, there are heroes, and then there are parents. Parents are not really on the spectrum from cowardice to courage, because if your child is in jeopardy, you simply do what it takes to save her. It doesn’t matter whether you’re normally timid or brazen—your personality is irrelevant. You don’t think twice; you do what it takes. So it’s not all that surprising that this desperate mother is willing to push past all the barriers.

So what is Jesus’ response to this woman as she is down on the floor begging? The story continues:

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She begged Jesus to drive the demon out of her daughter. “First let the children eat all they want,” he told her, “for it is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to their dogs.” (Mark 7:26–27)

On the surface, this appears to be an insult. We are a canine-loving society, but in New Testament times most dogs were scavengers—wild, dirty, uncouth in every way. Their society was not canine-loving, and to call someone a “dog” was a terrible insult. In Jesus’ day the Jews often called the Gentiles “dogs” because they were considered “unclean.” Is what Jesus says to her just an insult, then? No, it’s a parable. The word parable means “metaphor” or “likeness,” and that’s what this is. One key to understanding it is the very unusual word Jesus uses for “dogs” here. He uses a diminutive form, a word that really means “puppies.” Remember, the woman is a mother.

Jesus is saying to her, “You know how families eat: First the children eat at the table, and afterward their pets eat too. It is not right to violate that order. The puppies must not eat food from the table before the children do.” If we go to Matthew’s account of this incident, he gives us a slightly longer version of Jesus’s answer in which Jesus explains his meaning: “I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel.”

Jesus concentrated his ministry on Israel, for all sorts of reasons. He was sent to show Israel that he was the fulfillment of all Scripture’s promises, the fulfillment of all the prophets, priests, and kings, the fulfillment of the temple. But after he was resurrected, he immediately said to the disciples, “Go to all the nations.” His words, then, are not the insult they appear to be. What he’s saying to the Syrophoenician woman is, “Please understand, there’s an order here. I’m going to Israel first, then the Gentiles (the other nations) later.” However, this mother comes back at him with an astounding reply:

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“Yes, Lord,” she replied, “but even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” Then he told her, “For such a reply, you may go; the demon has left your daughter.” She went home and found her child lying on the bed, and the demon gone. (Mark 7:28–30)

In other words, she says, “Yes, Lord, but the puppies eat from that table too, and I’m here for mine.” Jesus has told her a parable in which he has given her a combination of challenge and offer, and she gets it. She responds to the challenge: “Okay, I understand. I am not from Israel, I do not worship the God that the Israelites worship. Therefore, I don’t have a place at the table. I accept that.”

Isn’t this amazing? She doesn’t take offense; she doesn’t stand on her rights. She says, “All right. I may not have a place at the table—but there’s more than enough on that table for everyone in the world, and I need mine now.” She is wrestling with Jesus in the most respectful way and she will not take ‘no’ for an answer. I love what this woman is doing.

In Western cultures we don’t have anything like this kind of assertiveness. We only have assertion of our rights. We do not know how to contend unless we’re standing up for our rights, standing on our dignity and our goodness and saying, “This is what I’m owed.” But this woman is not doing that at all. This is rightless assertiveness, something we know little about. She’s not saying, “Lord, give me what I deserve on the basis of my goodness.” She’s saying, “Give me what I don’t deserve on the basis of your goodness—and I need it now.”1

Keller explains the nuance and unearths the meaning so well.

The context, as always, brings the cryptic into clarity.

For paid subscribers—let’s now explore more deeply what this passage means in the larger story of Scripture and in our own lives as well.

Here are 3 deeper implications and applications:

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Unlike some sins, pride might be the most difficult to identify in our lives.

If you think about it, most sins have rather obvious indicators.

Greed? Look at your statements and balances.
Anger? Listen to your volume and tone.
Anxiety? Check your heart rate and cortisol levels.
Envy? Track how often you compare and covet.

And the list goes on. But pride?

Pride is quieter. More deceptive. It shape-shifts.

And more often than not, it lurks behind the expression of other vices.

But make no mistake, it’s there—in all of us. And the most alarming part? We’re the worst at seeing it within ourselves, while embarrassingly, others are the best at identifying it in us. Pride is like a bad odor: others can smell its pungency, but we’re not privy to it. How does that work?

Perhaps the reason why pride is the most difficult to identify in our lives is because it lies at the very bottom of our hearts—underneath the other sins, vices, and perversions that manifest for all to see. Others can see our anger or greed or envy, they can tend to trace it back to a deeper selfishness: pride. (just ask your spouse…)

So, how do we identify pride in our lives?

The first step is naming it for what it is.
The second is discerning how it shows up.

I’ve heard it said that the meaning of pride is actually embedded in how it’s spelled: with “i” in the middle. At its core, pride is a life oriented around the self. It becomes the frame of reference for everything—what is right/wrong, true/false, good/bad, real/fake—all based on the self’s perspective, desires, and goals.

Pride, then, is an operating system—where life is centered upon, filtered through, and adjusted around the self.

This means pride does not always look like a rainbow flag or a bravado brag. At times, it can take the form of a pious prayer or a religious rite.

So how can we discern—with any level of certainty—the presence of pride?

In his first letter to the early churches, the Apostle Peter offers 5 diagnostics. And fittingly, like the hidden nature of pride, these diagnostics are also not what you might think. Just like a litmus test reveals the true nature of a substance, this passage exposes the underlying elements of pride.

Here’s how Peter lays out the ‘litmus test’…

for “God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.”

6 Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, 7 casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you. 8 Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. 9 Resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same kinds of suffering are being experienced by your brotherhood throughout the world. 10 And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you. (1 Peter 5:5-10)

In Peter’s litmus test for pride, 5 diagnostics bring out its discrete presence into clear view—vividly. What are they?

Each diagnostic can actually be found in each of the five verses:

1. Impatience

The first sign of pride does not arise from our ability to succeed—but in our inability to wait.

6 Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you…

Pride fights with timelines, schedules, interruptions, and expectations. It constantly wrestles them into submitting to its own agenda and goals. Impatience, then, reveals a deeper issue: we do not trust in the timing of God.

Pride declares not only what I think is best, but also when I think is best—and time revolves around the self’s purposes and perspective. And when timing of God conflicts with the timing of self, we snap with irritability and impatience.

Humility, conversely, trusts in God’s timing and purposes—and therefore, is patient for what He deems is best, when He deems is best. Contrary to a pride, a humble posture of heart frames life’s circumstances around God’s loving sovereignty and surrenders its desires to God’s wise timeline.

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2. Fear / Anxiety

A second indicator of pride manifests in fear and anxiety—where we struggle with control.

7 casting all your cares on Him, because He cares for you.

Pride not only resists the timeline of God, but also the control of God.

It insists it knows better than God, does better than God, and cares more than God.

Pride essentially says, “I will not cast my cares on God, because I do not trust God. I’d rather trust myself with my cares and concerns!”

Note Peter’s logic: We do not cast our cares on God… because we do not trust God with our cares… because we do not believe He cares about our cares more than we do. Therefore, we must care for our cares, ourselves.

But therein lies the problem. We do not possess the level of control that our cares and concerns demand. Thus, in seeking to control what we ultimately cannot, we collapse into fear and anxiety.

Humility, however, trusts in the control and care of God. It declares, “God, I trust that you love me—and are powerful enough, wise enough, and loving enough—to manage my circumstances in the way that is best. I can cast my cares, because I know You care.”

Pride does not cast its cares—and tries to control them—which results in anxiety, fear, and restlessness.

Humility casts its cares on God—and releases them to God’s control—which leads to peace, confidence, and rest.

The solution to fear is not confidence in self’s ability to manage life; it’s rest in God’s loving, wise control to do so for you.

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3. Intoxication

The third indicator of pride is not merely a desire for control, but a loss of control altogether.

8 Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.

Just as wine inebriates the brain, pride inebriates our life. It slows our thinking, stokes false confidence, and blurs our vision—so that reality is filtered and focused only by the self’s immediate impulses. And as the self fills the frame more and more, the less it can see anything else. When we are high on ourselves, we lose awareness—and then control.

Humility, however, is not intoxicated by the self’s incessant insecurities, needs, or circumstances. Because it receives security, provision, and assurance from God by faith, it is freed from looking elsewhere—and then can take account of everything else and live accordingly.

When the self takes up the whole frame, awareness becomes impossible and destruction becomes inevitable.

But when the self is removed, awareness only then becomes possible, and flourishing becomes promising.

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4. Resentfulness

The fourth element of pride rises to the surface only in the crucible of suffering: resentfulness.

9 Resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same kinds of suffering are being experienced by your brotherhood throughout the world.

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We often assign images and caricatures to certain vices.

Anger? Furrowed eyebrows.
Lust? A tempting silhouette.
Pride? A warped mirror.
Gluttony? An endless buffet.
Sloth? A couch, a TV, and a bag of chips.

But what about greed? What does greed look like? If you could assign an image or caricature to greed, what would you choose? I’m sure to many, it would look like…

• Endless packages at the front door.

• Luxurious brands and high-end icons.

• Corporate takeovers and expanding empires.

• Obsession with what others have—and how we compare.

• Stockpiling more and more… and still not satisfied.

When most people think of greed, I’m sure these often come to mind.

But greed does not have to look like excess; it usually looks like everyday life… just never enough.

And while those icons touch on something of greed, the Bible actually assigns a different image to greed altogether — one far more nuanced and much more grotesque than we might imagine.

According to Scripture, underneath our…
superfluous spending
compulsive comparing
excessive stockpiling
cold withholding
…is a deeper reality, and therefore, a different picture.

In 1 Timothy 6, the Apostle Paul does not merely explain greed as a nefarious concept; he illustrates it with a startling picture:

6 But godliness with contentment is great gain, 7 for we brought nothing into the world, and we cannot take anything out of the world. 8 But if we have food and clothing, with these we will be content. 9 But those who desire to be rich fall into temptation, into a snare, into many senseless and harmful desires that plunge people into ruin and destruction. 10 For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils. It is through this craving that some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pangs.

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Did you catch the images for greed?
There are three: a snare, a root, and a piercing.

These images might feel unrelated at first, but they’re deeply intertwined—specifically, at the level of our desires. That’s the context. Note Paul talks about “contentment” (v. 6); being “content” (v. 8); “desire” (v. 9); “love (v. 10); and “craving” (v. 10).

This passage about greed is not primarily a picture about money. It is ultimately a picture of the heart — and what the heart does with money.

The heart is the center of one’s desires, contentment, loves, and cravings—and greed happens when the heart looks to money for its fulfillment.

Greed essentially says, “More money will meet your God-given desires for more freedom, security, and satisfaction. So you need more money, not more God.”

In other words, greed seeks to fulfill soul-needs with earthly provision… and that’s exactly where it backfires. And it’s here where these ‘images’ of greed come into focus:

• Greed promises freedom… but actually ensnares you.

• Greed promises security… but actually roots you into all evil.

• Greed promises satisfaction… but actually pierces you with pain.

According to God’s Word, when we seek after more money to meet soul-needs — we engage in a grotesque form of self-sabotage.

The last line is especially vivid: “pierced themselves with many pangs” can be literally translated to, “stabbing oneself.” A shocking, incisive image — and one that also bleeds with irony.

Greed ravages what it promises to relieve. It is the effort to fill ourselves up, yet results in stabbing ourselves through and bleeding ourselves dry.

Greed is not a soother or a savior; it is a sickle and a scythe.

To be sure, the desires for freedom, security, and satisfaction are not unnatural; in fact, they are God-given—a spiritual, built-in signal directing us to God Himself. But greed happens when this God-given desire turns away from more of God and turns towards more of money instead. Meaning…

Greed is not about what we desire.
Greed is ultimately about how we desire.

Greed is not about money, but how our hearts relate to money. Consequently, we can depend on money or God to meet our spiritual desires—but we cannot choose both.

Paul continues by explaining that real fulfillment is not found on a socioeconomic spectrum, but on a generosity spectrum.

17 As for the rich in this present age, charge them not to be haughty, nor to set their hopes on the uncertainty of riches, but on God, who richly provides us with everything to enjoy. 18 They are to do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share, 19 thus storing up treasure for themselves as a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of that which is truly life.

The real difference-maker when it comes to greed is not more money or less money, but greater stewardship.

Ironically, in the desire to gain more and more, greed will pierce us, bleed us, and empty us of all we have. But in giving, generosity will fill us up in greater ways.

This picture of greed—as grotesque and bloody as it is—actually gleams with the message of the gospel.

Greed pierces us, bleeds us dry, and empties us of all we have.

The gospel is that God was not greedy with us, but infinitely generous.

In fact, God was pierced for us, bled for us, and emptied himself of all He had—so that in Him, we might become rich (2 Corinthians 8:9).

Therefore, if we want our souls to be ever-filled—and not lacking or leaking—we can do two things:
1) Abide in God’s promises, presence, purposes.
2) Follow His example of lavish generosity.

Just as the way of greed subverts the way of God, the way of God redeems the way of greed.

• Excessive spending, compulsive saving, or self-preservation often feels like fast-track to fulfillment—but it leads to pain and lack.

• Lavish generosity, self-sacrifice, and wise stewardship often feels like the fast track to lack and emptiness—but it leads to great fulfillment.

Greed takes hold of you and pierces you to death. Generosity enables us to finally take hold of “that which is truly life” (v. 19).

The most fulfilled person to ever walk the earth was also the least greedy and most generous: Jesus Christ.

The Bible’s picture for greed is piercing. But its provision for greed is Jesus—who was pierced—and our practice of generosity.

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Matthew 27 records a scene leading up to the crucifixion that often goes overlooked:

Suspended between the dusty streets of Jerusalem where Jesus is tried and the rocky slopes of Golgotha where He is pierced—a brutal moment unfolds in Pilate’s stone-paved praetorium, where Jesus is mocked.

Once Pilate’s verdict had been made, the Jews’ chants “Crucify him!” settle down—but now the Roman soldiers pipe up.

In the polished and pillared praetorium, they surround Jesus like a pack of hyenas in a cold jagged den—barking, insulting, spitting.

“Hail, King of the Jews!” (v. 29)

Moments before they take Jesus to be crucified, they create a parody coronation… stripping Jesus naked and then donning Him in a crown of thorns, a scarlet sash, and a scepter made of reed.

But what they thought was parody and fun, was actually prophetic fulfillment—unfolding right before their eyes.

How they mocked this King in detail is precisely what God used to exalt this King—in divine fulfillment.

Unknowingly, the three items they used as random mockery are the same three items loaded with messianic meaning.

In other words…
While they loudly mocked Jesus as king,
God quietly made Jesus into the King.

Here’s how:

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The Crown of Thorns

…and twisting together a crown of thorns, they put it on his head… (v. 29)

The Roman soldiers mocked, effectively deriding, “We won’t give you a crown of gold and glory, but one of gore and grueling pain instead—this is all you deserve—fraud!”

To the Romans, the thorn was just an object of torture.

But to the Jews, the thorn was a rich symbol—of sin and judgment.

The first time the thorn appears in the Scriptures is right after the Fall of Man, where sin enters the world—and God speaks a word of judgment over humanity and a newly fallen world.

“Cursed is the ground because of you... both thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you…” (Genesis 3:17–18)

Thorns were the first sign of the Fall and primary symbol of God’s judgment—and not just in the Garden of Eden, but across the Old Testament.

God frequently used the image of lush land and grotesque thorns as a metaphor for His own people and the reality of their sin (Isaiah 5:6; 7:23-25; 10:8; 12:13; 24:30-31; Jeremiah 12, Hosea 9-10, and Ezekiel 28 as well).

So here in this cold praetorian, unbeknownst to these soldiers, they take THE Old Testament symbol of judgment… THE ancient sign of the curse… and twist it into a crown… and press it down upon Jesus’ head.

The symbology is piercing—and every drop of Jesus’ blood drips down His meek face with deep irony and rich fulfillment.

This is not just the mockery of Jesus as King.
This is the theology of Jesus as King.

Movingly, He is symbolically taking the curse of sin, the judgment of God, and our guilt and shame—upon His head for us.

This is His crowning glory as King.

The Romans did not see it.
But the Jews should have gasped.

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The Robe of Scarlet

And they stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him… (v. 28)

Back then, the Roman soldiers were draped in robes of scarlet—symbols of the Empire’s strength and royalty. While purple donned the Emperor himself and his elite class, scarlet became the color of military might.

But to the Jews, scarlet symbolized something far different: this color did not mark the kings and the courts, but the priests and the Temple.

Scarlet represented sin, blood, sacrifice, and atonement.

…though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool” (Isaiah 1:18)

In addition, threads of scarlet were also woven through the two ‘barriers’ between God and man (Exodus 26-28).

1. The priestly garments, as priests mediated between God and man.

2. The Temple Veil that divided the presence of God from man.

So as the Roman guards drape a scarlet robe across Jesus’ naked body… they think they are only mocking Him with shame, but God is cloaking Him in the very color that symbolizes sin, atonement, and salvation.

The Romans did not see it.
But the Jews should have seen it…
Not only Jesus as King…
…but Jesus as their Great High Priest.

The Scepter of Reed

…and [they] put a reed in his right hand. And kneeling before him, they mocked him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” And they spit on him and took the reed and struck him on the head. (v. 29-30)

In an ancient times, only kings held scepters and they were usually heavy, golden, and gemstone-entrusted—a grand statement piece symbolizing power, royalty, and stability.

Here again, the Romans mock Jesus by putting a ‘pseudo-scepter’ reed into His right hand. Unlike a scepter, it is flimsy, thin, light, and cheap.

To the Roman soldiers, this reed was just a simple stick—a convenient object for mockery.

But to the Jews, a reed was a specific symbol of idolatry, fragility, and instability.

A “broken reed” was a theological metaphor describing something Israel would trust in besides God—and when they would lean upon it, it would break and pierce the hand (Isaiah 36:6).

A “bruised reed” was also used to denote little power, little stability, and little purpose—referring to the spiritually, physically, or morally weak (Isaiah 42:1-4).

So when the soldiers placed a random reed in Jesus’ right hand as a pseudo-scepter, more was happening prophetically than they realized.

They thought they were mocking Jesus by forcing Him to hold on to it. But as Jesus held onto it, He was painting a prophetic picture—recasting Himself over the storyline of Israel, fulfilling its promises, and reigning in power through weakness.

Israel’s hands would be pierced metaphorically by trusting in “broken and bruised reeds” instead of God.

Jesus’ hands would be pierced literally for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities (Isaiah 53:5).

Don’t you see it?

To the soldiers, the crown of thorns, the robe of scarlet, and the scepter of reed was parody. But to God, it was prophecy.

The foolishness and weakness of the world became the wisdom and power of God (1 Corinthians 1:18-25).

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‘Mystery’ is one of those words that sounds a lot like ‘misery’—and for most of us, it often feels that way.

Not knowing terrifies us.

…what if…?
…why wouldn’t…?
…if only…?
…how come…?

It’s a spiritual climate of cold uncertainty and deep unsettledness—and navigating through it feels like moving through a dense fog on a chilly night. There’s only so far we can see, so much we can understand, and so little we can anticipate.

So, what do we do?

Instinctively, a ‘spiritual reflex’ often kicks in and takes over—before we even know it. Just like a physical reflex would respond in high-alert with a surge of adrenaline, our souls respond reflexively to a high-stakes moments with a surge of anxiety.

Cortisol in the muscles is like control to the soul.

Serotonin in the brain is like certainty to the mind.

In the place of the ‘unknown’—as soon as we’re confronted with deep, unnerving mystery—we start reaching just as frantically for settled certainty.

Frenziedly, we start calculating the ‘fog’—framing it, analyzing it, speculating it, investigating it. Fretfully, we start naming the ‘darkness’—explaining it, polling it, judging it, denying it.

Why? It’s all an effort to make the ‘fog’ feel controllable, the ‘darkness’ seem seeable, and the unknown appear ‘knowable.’

It’s an anxious, spiritual reflex to replace mystery with certainty.

In our minds, the logic seems simple:

• If mystery is the problem, then certainty must be the solution.

• If mystery produces anxiety of heart, then certainty promises peace of mind.

• If mystery threatens our expectations and slows our pace through life, then certainty syncs up our timelines and speeds up our progress.

In other words, mystery feels like a ‘gap’ we are trying to close—like a spiritual mortgage where certainty is its equity.

Just as every homeowner longs to ‘close the gap’ between debt and freedom by building equity, we strive to ‘close the gap’ of mystery by gaining certainty. And the sooner we can ‘close the gap,’ the less ‘interest’ of anxiety there is to pay—and the more freedom and peace there is to experience.

However, under this framework, a dangerous lie sets in: Certainty becomes the salvation to the problem of mystery—and our misery.

Certainty quietly promises… everything:
…to satisfy the unknown,
…to fill in the ‘gaps,’
…to quiet our fears,
…to give us assurance,
…to settle us with peace.

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But does it?

Or does it—like cortisol—just give us the feeling of control? Or does it—like serotonin—just give us the illusion of peace?

If we’re honest, certainty doesn’t eliminate anxiety. It just short-circuits it. Until it surges again, often even stronger.

The problem isn’t that we lack certainty—it’s that we were never meant to live on it.

The reality is that we live in a tension: in mystery but with meaning.

In one sense, God made us in His own image—as meaningful beings, who enjoy meaning, live in meaning, and understand meaning. Meaning to our souls is like nerves to our bodies—it’s how we make sense of life.

But in another sense, we are far lesser than God—so we do not have the faculties or capacities to know, feel, interpret, or comprehend all the meaning of reality like God. Just like nerves in our bodies, we can only sense so much about the world around us.

Together, we live in a tension of mystery and certainty:

On one hand, we do not live in total mystery, because we have the capacity and calling to understand many things. But on the other hand, we do we live in total certainty, because we do not have the capacity or calling to understand all things.

Therefore, as we walk through life, we will always be discovering meaning, but not finding total certainty. Over time, we may come to know the contours of some puzzle pieces, and the frame of the puzzle, but never the entire puzzle itself with all of its intricacies (1 Corinthians 13:12).

Right now, you are walking in the tension of mystery but with meaning.

Some days, you will feel the ‘mystery’ more than meaning.

But God does not just leave us wondering about every ‘mystery’ and wandering through every ‘gap.’ He gives mercy for every mystery and grace for every gap.

His Word tells us exactly where these ‘gaps’ are, why they are there, and how we can navigate them—yet, without revealing every detail, especially as it relates to our life.

Think of these ‘gaps’ like an overlapping matrix—we live in the tension of them, and God gives us just enough mercy and grace for each according to time and need (Hebrews 4:16).

Here are 5 fundamental ‘gaps’ in our everyday living, where mystery always abides:

1. The ‘God’ gap (vertical) — between the Holy and the sinner, the Infinite and the limited, the Creator and the creature.

2. The ‘self’ gap (internal) — between what we see and what is true, what we feel and what is real, what we want and what we need.

3. The ‘others’ gap (relational) — between intentions and perceptions, words and interpretations, actions and outcomes.

4. The ‘world’ gap (circumstantial) — between opportunities and obstacles, expectations and realities, causes and effects.

5. The ‘time’ gap (temporal) — between what has been, what is unfolding, and what is still to come.

Mystery occupies every dimension of our lives.

Sometimes the ‘mystery’ in your life is a matter of not being able to reconcile #1 and #2… or #2 and #5… or #1 and #3 and #5… or all 5 at the same time.

We will never be able to understand it all. And even if we could, we could not control it all anyways. And even if we could, we would not be loving enough or wise enough to do what was ultimately best.

Total certainty is only for God. Total control is only for God. And the good news is that God is loving enough and wise enough to do what is ultimately best.

That means something very important:

God alone is trustworthy with every ‘gap’ and ‘mystery’ of our lives.

Wherever we are going. Whatever we are doing. However we will get there. Whenever we will arrive. Whoever we will become.

If your life feels shrouded with mystery; haunted by uncertainty; and weighed down by pressure—be encouraged. Because if you are a child of God, your life is not the measure of your mystery, but the measure of His sovereignty.

In Christ, mystery is not a spiritual mortgage—demanding more certainty and control in exchange for freedom and direction.

In Christ, mystery is like a divine trust fund—guaranteeing daily provisions so as long as we abide and depend each day.

Rest is not found in certainty or control.

After all, nowhere in Scripture do we see, “A peace that comes from all understanding... Instead, we see repeatedly, “A peace that surpasses all understanding…” (Phil. 4:7)

Rest is found in trusting the One who stands above the gaps and mysteries we do not understand.

He is near in every gap,
wise in every unknown,
faithful in every uncertainty,
powerful in every limitation,
and gracious in every season.

Nothing is too distant for His presence,
too complex for His wisdom,
too uncertain for His faithfulness,
too broken for His power,
or too small for His care.

And because He holds every gap in His hands,
we can trust — and we can rest.

Today, exchange the ‘cortisol’ of control for the calm of Christ, and ‘serotonin’ of certainty for His assurances.

In Christ, there is no misery in mystery—only victory.

“The secret things belong to the Lord our God, but the things that are revealed belong to us…” —Deuteronomy 29:29

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Stuck. Reeling. Muzzled. Screeching.

Tethered tightly to the wooden beam of a public entryway, a donkey flailed about with not much room to move.

Snorting in rage. Kicking up dust. Clanking its hooves.

It circled about its beam angrily, leaving its leash no choice but to pull its neck all the more tightly.

The week of Passover had just begun—and the streets of Israel flooded with happy travelers, bright faces all set to Jerusalem.

But along this route—where the donkey bucked and huffed though bound—the movement of the masses subtly adjusted, sloping their footsteps just enough to avoid the unbridled animal.

It grunted and stomped, stubbornly.

Mothers pulled their young children close.
Laughing broke to coughing from the billows of dust.
Jovial faces snapped to agitation.
And as fellow beasts of burden trotted by—the ones who were chosen by travelers—they too even leered with heavy side-eyes of judgment.

Nearby, the owner sat slumped with his hands in his face—
partly to hide from the embarrassment, partly to shield his eyes from the flurry of dust, and partly to rest from his deep resignation.

On the week of highest demand…
no one wanted his donkey.

Now his beast of burden had become…
his own burden to bear.

But this was nothing new.
It had never been ridden before.
Because it resisted everyone, and naturally, everyone resisted it.

All until now.

As the busy streets and dust billows settled down—two men showed up.

Then, the owner heard what he had never heard before: “We’ll take it.” But as astonished as he was, their next line struck him even more: “The Lord chose this one.”

Before they could change their minds, the owner yielded the donkey to them—transferring the leash with giddy haste.

Immediately though, to everyone’s surprise, the donkey calmed quietly… and followed.

As they walked the donkey to its new Owner, its rasping lungs seemed to breathe in a new oxygen of relief. Its tensed muscles slowly let go and released. And its erratic clanking hooves began to click to a musical pace.

No balking and bucking.
Just trotting now—to a pace of peace.
The donkey even thought to itself, “Where is this coming from?”
The disciples mulled over the same thought themselves, though they had a strong hunch.

At the end of their short trek, a Man stood before them, awaiting their arrival—calmly powerful yet warming inviting.

At once, the donkey knew intuitively: It was Him—the Source of the very peace that calmed me as soon as the two men showed up.

As the donkey stopped in its tracks before Him, all felt… right.
For the first time in its stubborn, angry, bitter, and bound-up life… it felt free… at peace… useful… alive.

As if under a spell of its own reflection, the donkey remained steady—without a leash. The disciples proceeded to place their cloaks upon his back, making a humble saddle for who felt like the Prince of Peace.

“A King…” the donkey imagined, “…maybe, He’s a King!”

The donkey had never been ridden before.
This was entirely new.

Before, its aggressive impulses would have surged by now, kicking and seething. But this time, he felt subdued… yet not by the power of force, but by the power of Peace.

As soon as the Man set in the saddle, immediately, the donkey sensed a heavier peace also set in. This sensation was one of weighty paradox.

“This doesn’t make sense,” the donkey thought, yielding to his first Master.

The donkey had never been anywhere before, but somehow, he now knew instinctively where to go.

The Man seemed heavy with glory, but somehow, His burden felt strangely light.

The destination went entirely unsaid, but somehow, their direction felt divinely assured: Jerusalem, like everyone else; but somehow, unlike everyone else.

Pondering these paradoxes, he moved steadily and gracefully onward. Who is this Person in my saddle? What is His purpose in Jerusalem? And why did He choose me?

As their path carried them increasingly towards the City gates, the crowds came back into view.

“Oh, those dreaded crowds…” the donkey thought, embarrassed for the beast that it was, even though he now felt brand-new. “How I’d much rather go around, and not through…”

But to his astonishment, for the first time, the crowds drew close—in wonder and adoration—not away in disgust or agitation.

It was the Man.

The same peace that had moved the donkey to Him… seemed to pull the crowds to Himself as well.

Then amazingly, as if in one accord, the crowds parted—clearing a path all the way towards the gates of Jerusalem. On either side of the road, they stood with anticipation. They even began laying down their own cloaks upon the dusty path, carpeting it for this Man and his beast.

As soon as the donkey’s hooves touched cotton and linen—and not dirt and stone—a powerful realization struck him:

He had only ever seen cloaks placed upon a donkey’s back—never under its feet. “This is a sacred moment,” he thought.

No more dust. No more dirt. No more coughing.

On this carpeted path, awe and reverence hung heavy in the air instead—and the people began to sing!

Hosanna! Hosanna! Glory to God in the Highest!

The donkey rasped, amazed. He had heard those praises many times before, but only as passing echoes, carried on the wind from distant crowds. Never before had he heard it sung directly to a person… his Person!

“Maybe this is a King, after all…” the donkey pondered with every trot.

Suddenly though, among the perimeters of the crowd—subtle comments and pointed glances interjected the larger chorus of praise.

“Wait… is Jesus riding THAT donkey?”
“Dad, didn’t we pass by that donkey earlier? Wasn’t that the dangerous one?”
“Wow… that donkey is actually calm with Him…”

Hearing these remarks, the donkey bowed its head—though not in shame, but in deep humility… because it was true!

As loud as the chorus was, the scene was just as clear:

The donkey everyone had previously scoffed at and avoided—they now marveled at.

The donkey that no one wanted—He chose for this royal occasion.

The donkey that could not be tamed—He changed by the power of His presence.

“Who is this Man?”

There was no denying it, people knew it to be true: Jesus’ enthronement upon the donkey—that especially stubborn and unbridled beast—had melted its cold heartedness to eager submission and its brash instability into sweet, reliable servitude.

On they rode.
Through the crowds, still singing.
Past more gaping faces, still pointing.
Into the gates of Jerusalem, now completing.

In one day, the same donkey who had been restrained to a humble wooden beam of a public entryway—now arrived at the golden-pillared entryway of Jerusalem in royal refrain.

The donkey’s redemption story.

Jesus dismounted.
His disciples gathered.
The crowds dissipated.
And the donkey was returned to its owner—who was utterly amazed—as a new creature.

The sun set.
But that wasn’t all.

From its stall each day, the donkey looked longingly towards Jerusalem—missing His first Master, but also, searching for something more that he could not fully explain.

Because after—and even during!—their unforgettable journey into Jerusalem, he sensed a mission that was much greater than simply a triumphal entry. Somehow, deep down, he felt it—there was something yet to be completed.

Several days passed by—and though the donkey looked hourly towards the gates of Jerusalem—he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Until Friday.

From his stall near Olivet, the donkey had a unique and privileged view of the Garden of Gethsemane and the City. Though it was dark, the stars above lit up a divine event unfolding before his eyes.

It was the Man, again.

Yet this time, not surrounded by a chorus of praise, but by a band of priests and soldiers.

Shouting broke out.
People were falling down.
But He was as calm as ever.

They took Him, shackled Him, and led Him—though He seemed in full control.

And then they disappeared into the darkness of the City.

For hours, the donkey panicked and hawed about—wondering what had just happened to his Master. The Prince of Peace.

Until He finally emerged again, from another gate, to a further side of the City. The donkey squinted, searching through the darkness for an answer.

And there he saw it.
But he was confused.

There He was, Jesus, uncloaked… walking through dirt and dust… and carrying a large, rough-hewn wooden beam upon His back.

One just like the donkey had been tightly tethered to his entire life—until Jesus had showed up.

How? Why? What was He doing?!
The donkey broke down, all at once.

Then he watched as his Master was not merely tied to this wooden beam—but nailed to it.

The piercing strike of hammer-against-nail rang out across the way—echoing the memory of his own hooves against that old beam… where iron met resistance… the piercing sound of his own slavery.

Yet here, his Master entered into it—willingly.

As Jesus hung His head in humility, the earth quaked, and a more powerful peace burst through all the earth.

Instantly, it all made sense.
The donkey stood amazed.
That’s why the Master came.

The donkey quaked, “He took my place.”

My wooden beam of slavery, He took for my salvation.
My wooden beam of burden, He took for my freedom.
My wooden beam of revilement, He took for my redemption.
I don’t know why He chose me. But here I am—forgiven, free, and fulfilled—not forsaken.

On Saturday, the donkey wept.
He need not peer from his stall any longer.
He did not know what to think.
He did not know what was next.
He just felt peace.

But on Sunday, the City unwound.
Whispers circulated the streets.
News broke—seemingly everywhere.
Wonder charged the air.
The donkey’s deep peace surged to a piqued interest—as he peered through his stall once again.

Then he heard it.
Though, it was as if he already knew.
Or, maybe as if his peace divinely expected.

The Man who was crucified, dead, and buried… is alive.

The donkey could not fully understand it.
But he fully sensed it—the ancient curse had been broken.
The curse that bound everyone to sin, and sin to death.

That was His mission.

By taking our place, He took the curse.
Defeating it without destroying us.
And then rising again—because once the curse was paid, death had no claim on Him.

The Prince of Peace.
Now the King of All.

Steadied, the donkey breathed it all in.
In his humble stall, warmth filled his body anew.

Then he felt it—
a deep sense to peer towards the Garden.
And as soon as he lifted his gaze…
there He was.

Their eyes met.
Peace shone from His hands and feet.

He was more alive than ever.
And somehow…
so was the donkey.

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If this piece resonated with you, I’d love to take you a step deeper.

Below, I’ve unpacked a few of the themes behind the story—because it’s not just the donkey’s ‘Easter’ story; it’s our ‘Easter’ story as well.

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The Psalms are filled with David’s heartfelt prayers, and Psalm 108 is no exception. In fact, what makes this one especially resonant is that it mirrors many of our own prayers — it begins with genuine praise, yet quickly turns to urgent petition.

However, while this psalm may feel familiar, its form of petition is altogether unique. David does not simply lay out his need and then ask God for help. Instead, he maps his petitions onto God’s promises — literally through a map.

Rather than appealing to God’s promises conceptually, David anchors them geographically—i.e., where God’s faithfulness shone in the past, in time and place—as he seeks it again in his present moment of need. Through prayer, David maps out his feelings and requests onto the “map” of God’s story literally. Here’s how:

[5] Be exalted, O God, above the heavens!
Let your glory be over all the earth!
[6] That your beloved ones may be delivered,
give salvation by your right hand and answer me!

[7] God has promised in his holiness:

“With exultation I will divide up Shechem
and portion out the Valley of Succoth.

[8] Gilead is mine; Manasseh is mine;
Ephraim is my helmet,
Judah my scepter.

[9] Moab is my washbasin;
upon Edom I cast my shoe;
over Philistia I shout in triumph.”

First, before David gets to this “map” of petition, notice he first “frames” it with praise (v. 5-6). He begins by affirming God’s lordship and love over all of his life. He surrenders before he pleads—opening his heart before opening his hands.

But quickly thereafter, he petitions. And not with a meek request, but with a desperate cry: “…give salvation by your right hand and answer me!” Desperate, bold, and relatable. Thankfully, Scripture reaffirms that this type of impudence and honesty—God readily welcomes.

Now note, as David earnestly expresses his petitions unto God—he does not light a candle, pour another cup of coffee, or even open a new prayer journal—he pulls out a map. Here’s where it gets good.

To the Hebrews, maps of Israel and its surrounding areas were not merely cities and places, but statements and promises. Each region, town, valley, mountain, cardinal direction and even boundary line gleamed with its own unique meaning — because it was all tied up in God’s unfolding story, their ancestral journey, and our present hope.

To them, the topography was scaled-down theology, and the geography was a storyline of grace.

In this prayer, David draws on 9 different places as a way of anchoring his petitions in God’s promises—each one carrying a distinct meaning, yet collectively declaring one overarching truth: “God has promised…” (v. 7).

Here’s how this ancient map reveals an enduring promise—traced from Israel’s journey, recited in David’s story, and applied to our own today:

Shechem

This is the first place David recalls—because it’s the first place where God called Abraham (Gen. 12). It the place of covenantal origin, and over time, also the place of covenantal renewal—where patriarchs like Jacob, Joseph, Joshua, and other leaders would frequent.

On these sacred grounds, God’s presence seemed closer, His voice seemed clearer, and His purposes seemed firmer. In many ways, Shechem symbolized the starting point for faith and the reason for the journey. It evoked identity and calling.

Valley of Succoth

Here, the early family of Israel moved away from their homeland and through the unknown, feeling insecure and surrounded by enemies. Yet, God protected and provided for them in the middle of a dangerous family transition (Gen.33).

But that wasn’t the only place it showed up. Significantly, Succoth appears yet again, hundreds of years later as the early nation of Israel moved out of Egypt and through the unknown, feeling insecure and surrounded by enemies, too. Yet again, God protected and provided for them in the middle of a dangerous national transition (Ex. 12).

Succoth consequently came to be known as a place of great transition, great dependence on God, and yet His greater provision and protection along the way. It is the place of the ‘in-between.’

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[This post concludes a 4-part series on Jesus’ metaphor, “You are the salt of the earth…”]

Earlier this month, I wrote a post entitled, “Salt of the Earth”: 7 Meanings Behind the Metaphor. And then, following the way Jesus Himself develops the parable, I added two more: How to Become “More Salty” and Salt That’s “Not Salty.”

Behind Jesus’ familiar metaphor lies an ancient context—one where salt was not merely a ‘side-note’ to people’s everyday lives, but was ‘front-and-center,’ absolutely essential to life. Back then, salt preserved; healed; purified; paid wages; sealed covenants, and more. So when Jesus called His people, “salt of the earth,” He was not merely drawing on a single idea, He was invoking a world of associations, deep nuance, and rich principles. Over time though, many of these powerful associations have quietly fallen through the cracks of culture, distance, and familiarity—and are simply lost on us today.

In my first post, I pulled forward 7 of those ancient associations—thinking I had reached the full extent of what Jesus had in mind. But as it turns out, I hadn’t. There were 3 powerful associations I had overlooked—which not only ‘add’ to the metaphor’s dimensions, but also ‘sharpen’ its intended effect.

These next 3 further reveal what salt does—the how and why behind its effect.

This is where the force of Jesus’ analogy begins to press upon us—past our minds (fascination), into our hearts (conviction), and ultimately through our lives (transformation).

Here are #8, 9, 10 to follow the first 7.

8. Salt causes thirst.

This association was just as true in Jesus’ day as it is in ours today—salt causes thirst. Our bodies need salt, but more importantly, the right amount of it.

So whenever we ingest salt, our bodies must adjust—and it does so by triggering a special, salt-related response: thirst.

Here’s how it works:

• We ingest salt —> The salt concentration in our bloodstream heightens —> Our body triggers a cellular response to regain ‘salt’ balance —> Water moves from our cells and towards the salt to dilute the concentration —> Equilibrium is established once again.

But whenever water is given from the cells, it is also needed by the cells once again.

• Our brain detects the water imbalance —> It triggers our sensation for thirst —> It cues us to drink more water —> Then our body is restored with the water necessary for functioning and thriving.

In short: when salt is present, water is needed, and thirst is triggered.

So when Jesus calls His followers “salt of the earth,” He very well might have been calling forth this unique ‘thirst-causing’ property of salt. And the spiritual principle is profound: just as salt awakens thirst in our natural bodies, the faithful Christian life ought to awaken a spiritual thirst in the world—eliciting deeper curiosity and driving a stronger desire for the only Living Water who can satisfy the soul (John 7:37).

This is also worth mentioning, too: salt causes a desire for water, not a desire for more salt. Salt directs one’s attention not to itself, but beyond itself—for more water. In the same way, the faithful Christian life ought to cause others to not desire more of the Christian, but to desire more of Christ.

9. Salt enhances fertilizer.

Back in ancient times, salt was also used as a natural fertilizer—added into manure and compost as a way of controlling fermentation, decomposition, insects, and even odor. In this natural mixture, salt was not a nutrient to the soil, but its enhancement, allowing it to be more effective and more enriching, for longer. In fact, Luke explicitly includes this ‘gardening association’ into Jesus’ “salt of earth” metaphor in a way that Matthew did not.

“Salt is good, but if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltiness be restored? It is of no use either for the soil or for the manure pile. It is thrown away.” (Luke 17:34-35)

According to Luke, when Jesus called His followers “salt of the earth,” He was clearly summoning this agricultural benefit of salt—its enhancing nature to preserve, prolong, and protect what can cultivate life, for longer. Just as salt enhanced manure and compost for fertilization purposes, Christians likewise are called to enter into the ‘messy,’ the ‘unideal,’ and the ‘under-resourced’ places in the world—to cultivate life where it is otherwise struggling to sprout on its own.

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10. Salt is effectual when spread out, not lumped together.

Finally, salt achieves all of its many uses—and releases all of its latent potential—specifically when it is spread out, scattered about, and worked in.

Interestingly, if salt is clumped together, its concentration becomes too high—and life is not upheld, but upended. When salt is too concentrated…

• …taste doesn’t sweeten, it embitters.

• …wounds don’t heal, they burn.

• …bodies don’t replenish, they dehydrate.

• …fields do not bear fruit, they turn barren and infertile.

When salt is too concentrated in any one area, life does not flourish—it fails. And so, salt must be spread out, scattered about, and worked in so that all areas of life can live up to its full design and abundant purpose.

This elemental truth of salt illustrates the Christian’s evangelistic call of life. If we are to be faithful and effective “salt of the earth,” we must resist the temptation of ‘high concentration’—only ever being together, all ‘lumped together,’ and remaining in our proverbial ‘salt shakers’ of church, friend groups, and basic routines. Instead, we must constantly remind ourselves to be spread out, scattered about, and worked in to all areas of life. If we are not spread through the world, we cannot release the life of Christ into the world for its flourishing and good.

Nonetheless, you might still ask, “Well, what does that look like practically?”

Again, salt actually shows us, once more.

What happens when salt is spread out, scattered about, and worked in?

It dissolves and disappears.

Once applied, salt quietly works its great power without drawing attention to itself, and instead, drawing attention to the very life that’s been cultivated, sustained, and enhanced in the process.

As Christians, that is precisely how our lives ought to operate as well. Where we are, there will be more of Him. And where He is, there will always be more of life.

As the “salt of the earth,” where are you making an impact?

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Pan your mind’s eye to the Sea of Galilee, 1st century.

It’s the darkest of night, around 3am, with nothing but the moon’s faint glow to soften the sky. Except on this night, that glow flickers and wanes down at sea level.

A dark squall has moved along the Galilean waters—stealthily, unassumingly, unexpectedly—and full of rage. Blotting out the heavens, it now breaks out against the earth.

In one horrid moment, the clean, clear skies above shatter into cataclysm as the squall unleashes its pent-up fury against the seabed — pummeling its serenity into battered waves and shrieking mercilessly with white strikes of lightning.

Swirling darkness. Whipping winds. Relentless rain.

It’s a black hurricane of disorientation, desperation—and death.

And in the middle of it all — one boat with twelve men.

Rowing. Panicking. Yelling.

It was a night no one saw coming, but everyone would remember forever.

Earlier that day, these twelve men pushed off onto the sea—with nothing other than Jesus’ command.

They had no forecast about the weather.
They had no forewarning about the storm.

Yet as soon as they were underway in open sea—the soft skies turned black—and the storm closed the way back.

Now, they’re stuck, heaving, flailing—doing everything they can to stay afloat. The only way is through.

It’s now 3am. For 8 straight hours, they’ve fought the storm with every ounce of their being — but it’s shown no sign of quitting, and they’ve made no sign of progress.

At this point, they’re far past their limit. And they quietly know it: their lack of progress through the waters will eventually plunge them beneath it. They’re exhausted and expended in every way—and because the storm rages on—their end hastens near.

In the middle of this darkened fury, a sobering spiritual truth comes into full view:

The darkness doesn’t just swirl around the disciples violently.
It also swirls within them viscerally.
A hurricane of the heart, a squall of the soul.
As violent as the once-still sea, so goes their once-steady faith:

Jesus told us to go! So we went!
Now here we are! Sinking!
And where is He now? Gone it seems!

Panicked thoughts smatter against their troubled minds like the cold rain against their tearful faces.

Who are you, Jesus?
Why would You tell us to set sail?
Did you abandon us?
How are we going to make it out?
Are we, even?

Deep doubt thrashes against their tired souls like the uneven waves against their brittle boat.

Stuck. Sinking.
And almost sunk.

But in the middle of their storm, unknown to them, a watchful Eye remained on them attentively — from the very moment they undocked.

They were never unseen. They just didn’t see it.

But suddenly, their eyes open — and widen.

Out of the horrid hurricane, a figure emerges.

Powerfully. Peacefully.
Untouched by the tenuous rain.
Treading upon the treacherous sea.
Hollowing out the wind.
Lighting up the darkness.

Jesus walks by — and draws near.

Terrified, their eyes lock with His — yet their hearts still. Seemingly, the swirling chaos fades to a blur, and somehow, the surrounding violence deadens as if mute.

Then He speaks — a quiet, calming word — a voice like rushing waters, though louder than the whistling wind and crashing waves.

“Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid.”

In that moment, the depth-readings changed.

From their splintered, wooden hull—though the storm raged and the chaos ensued—they sensed a great calm and a deep safety.

With His presence, He silenced the storm inside them.
With His word, He calmed the hurricane of heart.

The tides changed spiritually: their fear began to recede and peace steadily began to settle in.

One of the disciples, Peter, feels this very tension—and his spiritual impulse quickens. Whether out of newfound courage or a need to further confirm, he calls out, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.”

Calmly, Jesus replies—yet less as a command and more as an invitation—“Come.”

As the waves seethed and the boat tottered, Peter staggeringly steps out.

…out of his only security…and into the darkness, chaos, danger.

His first step, though shaky and uncertain—finds what feels like solid ground. Like the Red Sea that once parted, the waves seemingly stepped aside as he stepped forward. Each step—however lightly and unstably—sending rippling waves out into the storm, away from him.

Faith in the One before him lifted him above what was around him and kept him from sinking.

Though only for a moment.

The strong wind whipped against Peter—and though he was walking on water already—he became afraid and then instantly started to sink.

Isn’t that interesting? It was not the waves—that he was treading upon!—that sunk him, but the wind that ultimately did. Peter had taken his eyes off of Jesus—as well as the waves he was walking upon—and focused on the one thing he did not feel any control over in the moment: the wind. That’s what plunged him under. What might that be for us?

“Lord, save me!” Peter cried as he descended into the depths.

Immediately, Jesus reached out and took hold of him.

As Jesus lifted Peter up out of the depths, He spoke, “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?”

It was not condemnation, but again—invitation.

Jesus knew the depths of Peter’s heart and faith. One moment, he believed; another moment, he doubted. Back and forth, like the waves that rocked his boat, his faith both surged and sank.

Peter’s only stability in the storm was not his faith in Jesus, but Jesus’ faithfulness to him. And when Peter could not hold on any longer, Jesus reached out and held on to him.

A firm grip. In sinking waters.

Out of the stormy chaos, Jesus walks Peter back into the boat.

And then, calm.

The wind ceased.
The water stilled.
The skies cleared.

The disciples stood astounded, mouth agape. No one spoke. Spiritually, the silence roared—more deafening than the storm just moments before it—yet with worship and awe.

“Truly you are the Son of God.”

No one knew quite what to do, except… to row again. To grab their oar, and continue to do exactly what Jesus told to do before, except with a near Captain and new wind in their sails.

As they rowed, they quickly realized that this time… their rows made waves; they weren’t fighting against them. Because He was fighting for them.

Why did Jesus allow this storm? One thing was sure: without the storm, as hard as it was, they wouldn’t have seen this degree of His power, this height of His presence, and this depth of His love.

And that’s all they really needed for whatever was ahead.

So they kept on rowing.

Consider your own life.

Are you in a storm?
Rowing hard against an impossible tide?
Exhausted? Exasperated? Angry? Afraid?

Like the disciples, do you feel like you’ve obeyed God—followed His voice, taken risks, and ‘set sail in a new direction’—only to encounter a storm instead?

Know this—whatever “storm” is overwhelming you—is under His feet. Jesus walks upon your greatest storms—in full control, with a wise purpose, and at total peace.

His watchful eye is certainly upon you, even if you cannot discern His presence.

He invites you to not just row through the waves, but to walk upon them—through faith in Him.

And even when you stumble and fall, He will never let go.

He reaches out to you, holds onto you, and even gets in your boat.

Like the disciples, the storm was not punishment; it was purposed for their preparation for the road ahead.

Are you doubting, wavering between the Lord and the waves?

Keep your eyes on Jesus, who treads victoriously over it all and is personally with you. The storms are not meant to sink you, because He is always there to save you.

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“You are the salt of the earth” is one of Jesus’ most familiar descriptions of His people. Yet, what He says immediately after may be one of His most peculiar qualifications:

You are the salt of the earth, but if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything except to be thrown out and trampled under people’s feet. (Matthew 5:13)

At first glance, Jesus’ words can seem a bit perplexing. Salt that’s lost its saltiness? How can salt lose its saltiness… if it is… salt…?

Even from a basic chemical standpoint, pure salt cannot lose its saltiness. If it remains pure, it remains salty—as it cannot be what it is not. So, what gives?

Therein lies the tension—and the pivot of Jesus’ teaching point.
It is not pure salt that loses its saltiness.
It is impure salt that does.

And in Jesus’ world, this was not a hypothetical situation—it was a familiar predicament.

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During that time, much of the salt that was used in Judea came from the Dead Sea region, where it was mined as a mineral mixture—not in its purest form. But here’s what’s so interesting: though this ‘pseudo-salt-composite’ was heavily corrupted with gypsum and other minerals, it still took on a white, crystalline cluster that gave it the appearance of pure salt.1

…it looked like salt.
…it was sold as salt.
…it was used as salt.

All until the moment of truth:

…it didn’t flavor.
…it didn’t preserve.
…it didn’t heal.

Its appearance said one thing, but its application proved another.

Impure-pseudo salt and pure-genuine salt looked exactly the same, and that was the danger. It deceived people into mistaking one for the other.

And because of this common disappointment, people learned something important:

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Last week, we explored the rich and ancient nuances behind Jesus’ renowned metaphor: “You are the salt of the earth” — 7 to be exact.

In biblical times, salt carried a remarkable range of associations—domestic, scientific, social, financial, medical, religious, and even linguistic—so when Jesus called His followers “salt,” He wasn’t just pointing to one idea. He was invoking a world of meaning to describe the many dimensions of the Christian life.

But maybe after reading about all of the layers and nuances of Jesus’ salt metaphor, you finished thinking… “Well, I’m glad I know more about the meanings behind the metaphor, but… how does this apply personally? How can I be ‘saltier’ or ‘be the salt’ that Jesus wants His disciples to be?”

That’s not just a great question, it’s the right question.

And profoundly enough, that answer actually comes by extending this ancient metaphor even further. Because Jesus’ metaphor about salt does not merely leave us with more information, but a new invitation.

Here’s how:

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