To prepare is not to build a boat in the backyard, but to eat and drink, speak and marry all while looking and waiting for Christ’s promised coming. We live mindful of eternal souls. We live expecting rain. We live in reverent fear of God. What does the world see you building? Is there anything in your life that can only be explained by Christ and his return?

Life as usual, many will come to realize, was never life as usual.
When Christ returns, many will discover too late that they lived within a dream. Years came and years went. Spring turned to autumn, autumn to winter. They grew and grew old but never awoke. “Normal life” lied to them. So, Jesus foretells,
As were the days of Noah, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. For as in those days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day when Noah entered the ark, and they were unaware until the flood came and swept them all away, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. (Matthew 24:37–39)
The world-ending return of Jesus will be as the world-ending days of Noah. Of what did Noah’s days consist? Busy people unaware — eating, drinking, marrying, and giving in marriage, going about life “as usual.” The very morning of the flood, people simply concerned themselves with whatever laid before them. The immediate seemed most urgent, most real. Planning meals, changing diapers, preparing weddings, working, buying, and selling — these seemed to them the greatest verities of life. Until the rain began to fall.
Texture of Days
Like many today, the people of Noah’s day abstracted the meaning of life from the texture of their average days.
They touched Wednesday and it felt like every other Wednesday. They began work and finished work. They ate, ate again, and finished their work to eat. They played with kids on the floor. Busied with homework and house projects. They talked and listened, laughed and yawned, rose from sleep and slept — nothing extraordinary. Each day didn’t feel like it held eternal significance. Nothing otherworldly felt at stake. Today didn’t feel like anything but today.
God, demons, souls, eternity didn’t grow before their eyes like grass that needs mowing. They did not stir to consider the unseen. And when they did, the unreality of it seemed as implausible as rain drowning a dry land days away from sea. They intuited what is ultimate about life from the ordinary experiences of life. A fatal mistake. And as the days of Noah, so will be the coming of the Son of Man.
Man and His Boat
While they considered their daily planners, anxious about what they considered the real contents of Mondays, Tuesdays, and Saturdays, Noah worked with his sons on the unlikely, the unthinkable. While the world ate and drank, he labored. While they went on with things as usual, he and his sons prepared a stadium-sized boat to shelter the family. “By faith Noah, being warned by God concerning events as yet unseen, in reverent fear constructed an ark for the saving of his household” (Hebrews 11:7).
Imagine the scene. Decade after decade, children were born, diapers were changed, houses were built, adults looked out their window and saw what they had seen since childhood: Noah and his sons laboring on the ship. And Noah spoke a message as strange as the boat he was building: he warned of divine judgment. Perhaps some listened the first week. But eventually, the listeners needed to get back to real life.
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The Good Shepherd is with us in our sleepless nights, and your lack of sleep is no reason to think otherwise. When your anxious thoughts or fiery darts from the enemy assail you, remember your Good Shepherd. Remember how he cried tears of blood and hung on the cross to pay for your sins. Remember how he rose from the dead on the third day. Remember that he didn’t leave you as an orphan, even on your darkest, longest nights.  

It’s 2:34 a.m. My room is faintly lit by tiny, glowing LED lights recharging for tomorrow. I wish I could shut down, plug myself in, and crawl my way toward 100% capacity like my phone. Instead, the adrenaline surges through my now awake body with an inescapable sense of dread. Not again. Yes, it’s happening again. The loneliness of this dark room grips me in its clutches as I notice the hum of the refrigerator, the swooshing car that just sped past, and my dog obnoxiously lapping water from his dish. I fail to get comfortable, and my body and mind are ready for a new day to begin. The clock tells me otherwise—it’s now 3:45 am.
This doesn’t happen every night, but insomnia has become a friend who tries to stick closer than a brother. Some nights I’m tired enough to drift off after a couple of hours of listless tossing and turning. On other nights, I simply get out of bed at 3:00 a.m. and start my day. There’s a faint hope that my body will realize the time and start the cascade of falling asleep again before my 6:30 a.m. alarm. Usually, this happens. Sometimes it doesn’t.
Insomnia filters the world with a darker hue. Yet, the light shines in the darkness.
Though I keep the lights dim while I’m limping through these middle-of-the-night adventures, the Light of the world shines bright. On the verge of tears, I often utter the weak prayer, “Lord, help me get through this.” The Holy Spirit groans on my behalf with groanings too deep for words, and I know my Good Shepherd doesn’t leave me to wander in the pitch-black shadows all alone. He is here with me.
When insomnia creeps in at 3:00 a.m., my theology becomes more concrete than ever. The Good Shepherd tells me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor. 12:9). Having a good theology of suffering is easy when I’m feeling strong and self-sufficient. I think to myself, “Look at God pouring out abundant grace” in my successful and prosperous days. Leaning on the everlasting arm comes when I’m sleep-deprived, irritable, and just want to get some shuteye before our little ones start stirring tomorrow morning.
Though my struggles with poor sleep are minuscule when compared to the intense suffering of many other believers, they still draw me to rely on God. I’m forced to cling to biblical promises and cry out in faith for the Lord’s help. When sleep becomes an infrequent visitor who leaves in a hurry, I remember my God who never sleeps (Ps. 121:4). He lingers to keep me company, even during the night watch. He comforts me until I drift off and greets me as the sunbeams burst through my curtains, beckoning me to look for new mercies.
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Whether a person accepts or rejects the Bible as true or divinely inspired, that the faith Jesus ignited radically changed the world forever is undeniable. The human rights advances that have their source in Christianity can hardly be enumerated. Every foundational idea in Western civilization is inextricably intertwined with Christian doctrine. Not even the most ardent atheist can escape it.

This past Sunday, “Christ is King” was trending on X. The contagion seems to have been sparked by conservative commentator Candace Owens, who, in the aftermath of her departure from The Daily Wire, has posted about persecution of the church and the importance of Christian persistence.
There is disagreement about the intent of repeating such a statement. Some, like Daily Wire host Andrew Klavan, insist the phrase is being used as an anti-Semitic retort. Others claim the term is simply being repeated by Christians as a statement of fact.
I’m not interested in wading into that debate here. Instead, I want to take the opportunity to examine what this truth really means, not as a politically charged rallying cry, but as the central Christian doctrine.
In the ancient world, the Greeks sought reason, the Romans pursued physical strength, and the Jewish people yearned for the coming of their long-awaited Messiah, who would come in the form of a king. When Jesus burst onto the scene, He arrived not as a scholar, a warrior, or a king, but as a baby.
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