May the God of love and peace be with you on this fine day.

(Yesterday on the blog: No Unfinished Sculptures)
The Gifts of This Age Point Us to the Age Still to Come
Jared Wilson: “What Jesus is saying is that marriage is meant for this age to point us to the reality of that age. How does it do that? There are so many broken marriages, and always have been since the fall, but it was originally like that. And even the best marriages, even the ones that last until death do them part, are often fraught with conflict or hurts or just disappointments.”
He Would Have Come With Me
I enjoyed this story of how God changed one man’s heart.
Navigating Cross-Cultural Relationships
Chopo Mwanza provides an interesting example of a cross-culture difference and offers some good counsel on navigating cross-cultural relationships.
Open Door
“Over the years. In various cultures. Conversations over tea build friendships. And open doors. And our exchange moves from common everyday themes to the topic most essential. And dearest to my heart. Jesus.”
We Agree, Right?
Holly Mackle: “I’ve noticed a curious trend lately: in conversations with acquaintances or strangers I realize my conversation partner presumes I believe the same way they do on a given topic. Sometimes subtle, sometimes overt, whether the topic is politics, pandemic, or Pandora stations—it just keeps happening.”
In John 3:16, Does “The World” Refer To The Elect Or To Fallen Humanity? (Video)
Sinclair Ferguson answers well in this short video.
On Divisions and the Kingdom
“Are you growing in righteousness, and peace, and joy? All the things which we are absorbing, all the debates we are throwing ourselves into, all of our stances, all of our focus and attention on the things which divide, all of our talking points….are these bringing about righteousness and peace and joy? Maybe, then, they aren’t the stuff the kingdom is made of.”
Flashback: One Very Good Reason to Read Your Bible
The benefit of knowledge of God and intimacy with God extends to your family, to your neighbors, to your church. If you can’t or won’t do devotions for your own sake, won’t you do it for the sake of others?

Nothing is too great and nothing is too small to commit into the hands of the Lord. —A.W. Pink

I have many fond memories of my father—memories accumulated over the 43 years we shared this earth. I have fond memories based on my first twenty-one years when I lived in his home and saw him nearly every day. I remember him taking me to old Exhibition Stadium to watch the Blue Jays play. I remember going on a road trip together—just the two of us traveling across Georgian Bay and onto Manitoulin Island. I remember getting up early in the morning and finding that he was already awake, already reading his Bible, already spending time with the Lord. I remember this and so much else.

Then I have fond memories based on the next 23 years of life after I had gotten married and moved out, and after he and the family had left Canada to settle in the American South. Our visits became less frequent then, but no less significant. I remember his joy on those rare occasions when the whole family could be together, the entire collection of kids and grandkids under a single roof. I remember looking out from many church pulpits and conference podiums and seeing his face in the crowd. I remember notes and letters he would send at important moments or following significant events.
But my favorite memory of all is my final memory of all. In June of 2019 dad turned 70 and the family threw him a surprise party to mark the occasion. I made the long journey from Toronto to my sister’s home in Georgia to be part of the fun. It was a wonderful afternoon spent with friends and family, all of whom had gathered to honor dad as he reached a significant milestone. Though I talked to him on the phone after that day, I never actually saw him again and formed no other lasting memories. Just a few months later he collapsed and died at a time that was unexpected but in a way that was exactly as he wanted—with dirt on his hands.
Just months after my father went to heaven, my son followed. It has been more than a year since I last saw Nick, more than a year since I dropped him at Southern Seminary and watched as he walked away, arm-in-arm with the woman who would soon be his fiancée. Though we often spoke on the phone after that time, and though we sometimes connected by video chat, I never actually laid eyes on him again before he, too, collapsed and died at a time that was unexpected and in a way we could never have imagined.
In the aftermath of those two great sorrows, I often find myself thinking back to dad’s final birthday and to my final memory. Though I had decided to make the long journey, the family had determined they would not tell dad that I was coming. Because of flight schedules I was not able to arrive until an hour or two after the festivities had gotten underway. Dad was by the side of the pool when I got there, chatting with a friend. He saw me, he blinked in shock, and his face lit up with joy—the joy of a father who is surprised and delighted to see his son. It was a special moment.
It was a special moment that, in its own way, points me toward another special moment, for on his birthday dad unknowingly foreshadowed the joy I will experience when I finally see my Nick again—the pure and sweet and unadulterated joy of a Father whose heart has longed for the son he loves, the son he misses, the son he so wishes to see, to hug, to hold, to enjoy. The delight that flashed in his eyes, the smile that broke over his face, the tears that glimmered in his eyes, all point me to a time in the future when what is broken will be made whole, when what is sorrowful will be soothed, when what has been torn apart will be stitched back together, a time when son and father and father and son will be reunited, never more to part, never more to grieve.

Sometimes I find myself on a reading kick in which I follow a common theme through a number of books. Over the past few weeks I have been fascinated with businesses that have the appearance of being legitimate while they are actually over-hyped at best and fraudulent at worst.

Elizabeth Holmes’ Theranos claimed to have created technology that could run hundreds of tests on a single drop of blood when, in reality, she was lying to her investors and running the great majority of the tests on industry-standard machines. Adam Neumann’s WeWork was claiming to be a groundbreaking technology company when really it was a mere real estate company that was using fast growth to cover up its financial hemorrhaging. Ken Lay’s Enron was using false and fraudulent accounting to deceive its shareholders and give the appearance of profitability.
As I read of the crimes and misdeeds of the founders or leaders of these businesses, as I read of the ways they take advantage of others, as I learn how they enrich themselves at the cost of their investors, my heart begins to long for justice. As I come to the final chapters, I long to read the author’s explanation of how each of the culprits was caught, charged, sentenced, and confined to prison. I long to hear how their mansions were seized, their cars repossessed, their fortunes returned. This rarely all happens, of course, since those with billions of dollars to their names can usually hire the kind of defense teams that can help them get away with the most minimal sentences. Still, I find myself rejoicing at their downfall and satisfied when I see that their reputations have been forever shattered—and rightly so.
Yet I also realize that in these times I need to step back and consider myself. When I honestly assess myself, I have to admit that my longing for justice is not universal. I want justice for other people’s sins, but not for my own. I want their misdeeds to be met with justice but mine to be met with mercy. Is this not the very height of hypocrisy?
There are two ways I can deal with this contradiction. The first is to draw the line of what kind of sin demands punishment so that it falls just beyond my own. Now I can satisfy myself that what those people did merits harsh measures while what I did merits the most gentle. The other is to admit that both kinds of sin are bad, but then to determine that the nature of their sins demands punishment while the nature of mine merits grace.
But the reality, of course, is that if I long for justice for them I must also long for justice for me. The heart that is satisfied with Holmes’ downfall and Neumann’s ouster should also only be satisfied when I, too, face the consequences of my own sin. I can’t have it both ways. I can’t rightly conjure up a world in which I become the standard, the dividing line between justice and mercy. I can’t be satisfied with a world in which some receive justice while others do not.
And yet I don’t need to because I can have confidence that my sins have been met with justice. At the cross Jesus Christ took my sins upon himself and settled their sentence. That’s not to say I will or should escape all temporal consequences for my sins, but it is to say that the ultimate longing for justice has been met. And, therefore, I can long for justice even when it comes to the things I have done, the sins I have committed. In fact, I should long for justice even when it comes to the things I have done, the sins I have committed. And I can be satisfied that there has been and will be justice for me, not just for thee.
(Books I read: The Cult of We; Billion Dollar Loser; Bad Blood; The Smartest Guys in the Room.)