THE PITCHER WHO COULDN'T THROW

This narrative was created by Claude (Anthropic) based on a sermon titled "When Confidence Disappears" on 1 John 5:13-21.

The stadium lights blazed against the Pittsburgh night sky as Steve Blass took the mound in Game Seven of the 1971 World Series. The roar of the crowd was deafening—50,000 voices united in hope and desperation. This was it. Everything they'd worked for all season came down to this moment.

Steve felt the baseball in his hand, familiar as his own heartbeat. He'd thrown thousands of pitches in his life, maybe millions. The motion was instinct now, muscle memory etched so deep he could do it in his sleep. Wind up, stride, release. Simple. Natural. Effortless.

He struck out the side in the first inning.

By the ninth inning, the Pirates had won. Steve Blass was a hero. They carried him off the field on their shoulders, cameras flashing, champagne flowing. He was 29 years old and on top of the world. An All-Star. A champion. A household name.

"This is what I was born to do," he told a reporter that night, grinning so wide his face hurt.

He had no idea that in less than two years, it would all be gone.

---

TWO YEARS LATER

The spring training facility in Bradenton, Florida, was nearly empty. Most of the team had gone home for the day, but Steve stayed behind, as he had every night for weeks. The pitching coach stood behind the plate, catching mitt ready, his face a careful mask of patience.

"Whenever you're ready, Steve."

Steve nodded. He went through the motion—the same motion he'd done a million times. Wind up, stride, release.

The ball sailed six feet over the catcher's head and slammed into the backstop.

"Okay," the coach said, retrieving the ball. "Let's try again. Don't think so much. Just throw."

Just throw. As if it were that simple. As if Steve hadn't been trying to just throw for months now. As if he hadn't lain awake every night replaying the motion in his mind, trying to find what had broken.

He tried again. The ball hit the dirt three feet in front of the plate.

Again. Wide right.

Again. Wide left.

Again. Over the backstop.

The coach walked to the mound, and Steve saw something in his eyes he'd never seen before: pity.

"Take a break, Steve. Come back tomorrow."

But tomorrow was the same. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Steve Blass, World Series hero, couldn't throw a strike.

---

PRESENT DAY - PARK AVENUE CHURCH

Marcus Chen sat in the third pew from the back, same seat he'd occupied for three years, his Bible unopened on his lap. He used to sit in the front. Used to arrive early to help set up chairs. Used to stay late to pray with people who needed it.

That was before.

Before the divorce. Before he'd failed to save his marriage despite all those prayers. Before he'd watched his kids choose to live with their mother. Before he'd realized that maybe God didn't actually hear him after all.

Now he came late and left early and tried not to make eye contact with anyone who might ask how he was doing.

The pastor was telling some story about a baseball player. Marcus only half-listened until he heard the words: "He simply lost his control. There was no physical injury. He just... couldn't do it anymore."

Marcus sat up straighter.

"No one knows the exact cause," the pastor continued. "But among the theories, one stands out: a loss of confidence."

The words hit Marcus like a fastball to the chest. A loss of confidence. That was it, wasn't it? That was exactly what had happened to his faith. No dramatic moment. No crisis of theology. Just a slow, creeping certainty that he didn't know how to do this anymore. That he was throwing wild pitches into the darkness and calling it prayer.

"It can happen in our faith walk too," the pastor said, and Marcus felt suddenly exposed, as if the man was reading his journal. "We doubt our worth. We doubt God's love and forgiveness, and we retreat. We stop seeking God's will altogether."

Marcus looked down at his hands. When had he last actually prayed? Really prayed, not just recited words out of obligation? When had he last opened his Bible expecting to hear something?

"If you've ever experienced this kind of spiritual Steve Blass disease, you know how debilitating it can be."

Yes. Yes, he did.

---

ACROSS THE SANCTUARY

Elena Rodriguez heard the same words but felt them differently. She'd been coming to Park Avenue Church for six months, ever since her sister invited her. She'd given her life to Christ three months ago, kneeling at the altar during a Sunday service, tears streaming down her face as she felt—truly felt—the weight of years of guilt lift away.

For two months after that, she'd been on fire. Reading her Bible every morning. Praying throughout the day. Telling everyone she knew about what Jesus had done for her.

But then the whispers started.

"She thinks she's so holy now."

"She used to party harder than anyone. Who does she think she's fooling?"

"Give it time. She'll be back to her old ways."

And the worst one, from someone she'd thought was a friend: "God doesn't forget, Elena. You think one prayer erases everything you've done?"

The confidence had drained out of her like water through her fingers. Now she came to church and wondered if they were right. If she really was forgiven or just fooling herself. If God really loved her or merely tolerated her. If she was truly a new creation or just the same broken person wearing a religious mask.

"False teachers had infiltrated the church," the pastor was saying, "telling them they weren't good enough. That they didn't know enough. That their sins weren't really forgiven."

Elena's throat tightened. That was exactly what was happening to her. Not from some ancient false teacher, but from voices in her head and words from people who should have known better.

"John wants them to recover their joy," the pastor said. "Throughout this letter, he gives them powerful reasons to be joyful: You are forgiven. You are good enough. You are loved."

Elena closed her eyes. She wanted to believe it. Desperately wanted to believe it.

---

IN THE BACK ROW

James Patterson had been a deacon at Park Avenue Church for fifteen years. He'd taught Sunday school, led mission trips, served on every committee there was. People looked up to him. Respected him. Called him a pillar of the church.

And he was exhausted.

Not physically, though there was that too. No, he was soul-exhausted. Weary in a way that sleep couldn't fix. He'd been going through the motions for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to be genuinely moved by worship or stirred by Scripture.

He still showed up. Still served. Still smiled and shook hands and said all the right things. But inside, he felt hollow. He'd lost the joy somewhere along the way, traded it for duty and obligation.

When had serving God become such a burden?

The pastor was reading from 1 John now: "I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God so that you may know that you have eternal life."

James had heard that verse a thousand times. He could probably recite the entire book of 1 John from memory if you asked him to. But as the pastor emphasized that one word—"know"—something stirred in James's chest.

Know. Not hope. Not wish. Not work really hard and maybe earn. Know.

"Sometimes we think it's the Christian thing to talk about ourselves as 'barely saved,'" the pastor said. "We think it's the humble thing to carry around these doubts. But that lack of confidence is an affront to the love of God."

James felt something crack inside him. How long had he been running on empty, too proud to admit he'd lost his way? How long had he been serving out of guilt rather than joy, obligation rather than love?

"It turns us into feeble, powerless Christians," the pastor continued.

Feeble. Powerless. Yes. That's exactly what James had become.

---

THE TURNING POINT

The pastor was in full stride now, his voice rising with passion: "When you have confidence that God is using you in His plan, you have energy. You have energy to do things you didn't think you could do. You have energy to do more than you thought you could do. You have energy to take chances you never thought you would take."

Marcus thought about the divorce support group he'd been avoiding for months. The one where he'd have to be honest about his failures, his doubts, his anger at God. What if he went? What if he stopped hiding?

Elena thought about the woman at work who'd been asking questions about faith. The one Elena had been too scared to talk to, convinced she wasn't "spiritual" enough or didn't know enough Bible verses. What if she just told her story? What if her messy, imperfect testimony was exactly what that woman needed to hear?

James thought about the conversation he'd been avoiding with the senior pastor. The one where he'd have to admit he was burned out, that he needed to step back from some responsibilities, that he'd been serving in his own strength instead of God's. What if he was honest? What if admitting weakness was actually the path back to strength?

"God hears you," the pastor said, his voice softer now, "and He says, 'Let's work together.'"

---

THE HARD PART

The sermon moved into more difficult territory. The pastor was talking about sin now, about praying for others who fall, about not losing confidence in fellow believers.

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. His ex-wife had started attending a different church. He'd told himself he was done with her, that she'd made her choices and he'd made his. But the pastor's words cut through his self-righteousness: "We so often find love and forgiveness from God in our own lives but fail to extend that same grace to others."

Across the sanctuary, a thought occurred to Elena that made her stomach clench. She'd been so hurt by the judgmental comments from other Christians that she'd started avoiding them entirely. She'd written them off, decided they were hypocrites, told herself she didn't need their community.

But the pastor was saying something that challenged that: "When we become suspicious of everyone, we will soon lose the joy of being part of a Christian community."

Elena realized with a jolt that she was doing exactly what had been done to her—judging, dismissing, refusing to extend grace.

James, meanwhile, was thinking about Brad Simmons, a newer member who'd been vocal about some disagreements with how the church handled finances. James had written him off as a troublemaker, avoided him in the hallway, even made a few dismissive comments about him to other leaders.

"God works with imperfect people," the pastor said. "If we're not willing to pray for and offer forgiveness to others, we will become a bitter and useless church."

The words stung because they were true.

---

THE CLIMAX

The pastor's voice grew stronger as he moved toward the end of the sermon: "We know that anyone born of God does not continue to sin; the One who was born of God keeps them safe, and the evil one cannot harm them."

Marcus felt something loosening in his chest. Safe. He was safe. Not because of his performance or his perfect life or his successful marriage. Safe because of Jesus.

"Even though the world is under the control of the evil one, you know better—because you are a child of God."

Child of God. Elena let the words wash over her. Not a slave trying to earn acceptance. Not a servant hoping to do enough good works to balance out the bad. A child. Beloved. Chosen.

"You were born again for this very purpose," the pastor declared. "I can have confidence that as a child of God, whatever situation I find myself in, I can confidently say to myself, 'I've got this.'"

James straightened in his seat. Not "I've got this" in his own strength—he'd been trying that for years and it had left him empty. But "I've got this" because God was with him. Because the One in him was greater than any challenge he faced.

"I can do all things through Him who gives me strength," the pastor quoted. "You can live like a child of God."

---

THE WARNING

The sermon was nearly over. The pastor's tone shifted, became almost urgent: "John ends this letter in an abrupt and somewhat surprising way. After all these profound theological truths, after all this talk about confidence and assurance, he writes just five words: 'Dear children, keep yourselves from idols.'"

Marcus thought about the idol he'd been carrying: the perfect life he'd lost, the marriage he couldn't save. He'd been worshiping at the altar of "what might have been" for two years, and it had left him bitter and alone.

Elena thought about her idol: the approval of others. She'd been so desperate to be seen as "good enough" that she'd let their opinions drown out God's voice.

James thought about his idol: reputation. He'd been so concerned with being seen as the faithful servant, the reliable leader, the spiritual giant that he'd forgotten what it felt like to simply be loved by God.

"An idol is a substitute for God," the pastor said. "God—the God who is Light and Love—wants your heart. All of it."

---

THE INVITATION

The pastor's voice was quieter now, almost intimate, as if he were speaking to each of them individually: "Years ago, John was fishing on the Sea of Galilee, doing what he loved but knowing there was more. Then this man Jesus came into his life. And when he met Him, John dropped his nets—gave up all that he had known—and said to Jesus, 'I'm all in!'"

Marcus could picture it. The nets hitting the sand. The look of wild hope on the fisherman's face. The terrifying, exhilarating moment of complete surrender.

"That's not easy," the pastor continued. "It's not easy to give someone your heart. It requires trust. It requires faith. It requires letting go of control."

No. It wasn't easy. But Marcus was tired. Tired of half-measures and hedged bets. Tired of keeping God at arm's length because he was afraid of being disappointed again.

"But John would say it's been amazing," the pastor said, and Marcus could hear the smile in his voice. "'I have found love. I have found purpose. I have found life. I have found joy. I have found confidence.'"

Elena felt tears on her cheeks. She wanted that. Wanted all of it.

"'I gave Him my heart,'" the pastor concluded, "'and He has taken care of it—and He will for you as well.'"

---

AFTER

The service ended. The congregation stood for the final prayer, and Marcus found himself actually praying instead of just standing there. Not eloquent words or theological statements. Just: God, I want my confidence back. Help me.

And somehow, inexplicably, he felt something respond in his chest. Not a voice. Not a vision. Just a quiet assurance that he'd been heard.

As people began filing out, Elena stayed seated for a moment, letting the tears flow freely. She'd spent so long trying to prove herself, trying to be worthy. But the truth was simpler and more beautiful than she'd imagined: she was already loved. Already forgiven. Already enough.

She stood, wiped her eyes, and saw the woman from work—the one she'd been afraid to talk to—standing in the aisle a few rows ahead. Elena took a deep breath and walked toward her.

"Hey," she said, her voice only shaking a little. "I don't think we've officially met. I'm Elena."

The woman turned, surprised. "Oh! Hi. I'm Sarah. I've been hoping to talk to you, actually."

Elena smiled. "Yeah? Well, I've got time. Want to grab coffee?"

Across the sanctuary, James approached the senior pastor, who was greeting people at the door. "Pastor Mike, do you have a few minutes this week? I need to talk to you about some things."

The pastor's expression shifted from polite greeting to genuine concern. "Of course, James. Is everything okay?"

"It will be," James said, and realized he believed it. "I just... I need to be honest about some things. And I need some help."

"How about tomorrow morning? Eight o'clock?"

"I'll be there."

As James walked out into the parking lot, he noticed Brad Simmons loading equipment into his truck. James hesitated, then walked over.

"Brad, hey. Got a second?"

Brad turned, clearly wary. "Sure, James. What's up?"

"I owe you an apology," James said. "I haven't been fair to you. Haven't really listened to your concerns. And I'm sorry."

Brad blinked, clearly surprised. "Oh. Well. Thank you. That means a lot."

"Maybe we could grab lunch this week? I'd like to hear your thoughts. Really hear them."

A slow smile spread across Brad's face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

---

EPILOGUE

Marcus Chen started attending the divorce support group. It was hard—harder than he expected—to sit in a circle of broken people and admit his own brokenness. But it was also healing. And one night, about a month in, he realized he'd prayed before the meeting. Really prayed. Confidently asked God to use him to encourage someone else who was hurting.

And God had.

Elena Rodriguez did grab coffee with Sarah from work. She told her story—the messy, imperfect, real story of how God had found her and changed her. And Sarah listened with tears in her eyes and asked, at the end, "Do you think He could do that for me too?"

Three weeks later, Sarah was baptized. Elena stood in the front row and cried tears of joy.

James Patterson stepped down from two committees and one teaching position. It was humbling, admitting he'd taken on too much. But with the space that opened up, he rediscovered what it felt like to read Scripture out of desire rather than duty. To pray because he wanted to, not because he had to. To serve out of overflow rather than obligation.

The joy came back. Slowly at first, then like a flood.

---

ONE YEAR LATER

It was a Sunday morning, and Marcus sat in the third pew from the back—his spot, still, though now he arrived early to help set up. His Bible was open on his lap, marked up with notes and highlights.

Elena was leading worship, her voice strong and clear. She'd joined the worship team six months ago, still surprised that she had anything to offer.

James was greeting people at the door, shaking hands and asking about their weeks. Not the performative greeting of a man doing his duty, but the genuine interest of someone who actually cared.

The pastor took the stage and opened his Bible. "This morning," he said, "we're going to talk about confidence..."

And three people in that congregation—a divorced man, a new believer, and an exhausted deacon—all leaned forward to listen.

Because they knew something now that they hadn't known before.

They knew that confidence could be lost.

But they also knew—truly knew—that it could be found again.

Not in their own strength. Not in their performance or perfection or past victories.

But in the God who is Light and Love. The God who hears. The God who keeps His children safe. The God who sent His Son not just to save them but to give them life—abundant, confident, joyful life.

They knew they had eternal life.

Not hoped. Not wished. Not wondered.

Knew.

And that changed everything.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Steve Blass never did figure out what went wrong on the pitcher's mound. He retired from baseball in 1975 and became a beloved broadcaster for the Pirates. In interviews years later, he spoke about that difficult time with grace and humor, always grateful for the career he'd had, even if it ended differently than he'd hoped.

But the three people in this story? Their stories didn't end like Steve Blass's.

Because while physical confidence can be lost mysteriously and permanently, spiritual confidence rests on something—Someone—who never changes. Never fails. Never gives up on His children.

The apostle John wrote his letter two thousand years ago to people struggling with doubt and fear.

He could have written it yesterday.

He could be writing it to you, right now:

"I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God so that you may know that you have eternal life."

Know.

Not hope. Not wish. Not wonder.

Know.

And in that knowledge—that confidence—there is life. There is joy. There is energy to do more than you thought you could do.

There is everything you've been looking for.

You just have to drop your nets.

THE END

 

Hope for Scaredy-cats

Well, Happy Halloween. While I certainly am never one to turn away candy, I must admit Halloween is not one of my favorite holidays. I'm somewhat of a scaredy-cat, and all the frights and scares are not my thing. Neither are horror movies or scary stories around the campfire. Add rollercoasters and any type of thrill ride to that list. It may be for some people, but fear is not something I go looking for.

Though I may not go looking for it, fear has a way of finding me and, for that matter, all of us. Whether it be the news, personal concerns, family matters, finances, or health worries, it seems like fear has a way of creeping into my life daily. Who needs Halloween when there are "wars and rumors of war" all around us?

I find it comforting, though, that the Bible acknowledges that the world we live in often does elicit fear. And it talks about it often. A quick word search reveals that the words "fear" and "afraid" are used almost 500 times in our Bibles. In fact, "do not be afraid" is one of Jesus's most often repeated lines. Fear is real.

I wish I could say having faith removes all fear. I can't say that, but I can say that faith can help us in not allowing fear to overwhelm or control us. Here are a few of those Scriptures that might help:

Psalm 23:4 (NIV) — "Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me."

God walks with us through the scary stuff. His presence and protection keep us moving forward even when we're afraid.

1 John 4:18 (NIV) — "There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love."

Knowing we are loved by God reminds us that in all things he is working for our best. That perfect love God has for us pushes fear aside, keeping it from dominating our thoughts.

Psalm 118:6 (NIV) — "The LORD is with me; I will not be afraid. What can mere mortals do to me?"

When others oppose us and ridicule us, we know that God will provide strength for the trial. When we know God is on our side, all fears melt away. Even if our life is at stake, our hope of eternal life mitigates our fear.

Luke 12:7 (NIV) — "Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows."

When you are afraid, take comfort in knowing that God knows all the details of your life and values you more than you can know.

The world can be a frightening place—not just on Halloween, but every day. Yet we don't have to let fear win. Through faith in our Almighty God, we can choose courage over panic, hope over despair, and trust over worry. God's love, protection, and strength are greater than anything we fear.

Glow In the Dark Believers

Over the past few weeks, I've been preaching through 1 John—a brief but powerful letter the apostle John wrote in his later years. His audience faced confusion from false teachers who were distorting essential Christian truths. One particularly dangerous idea suggested that knowing God had nothing to do with how we actually lived.

At first glance, this seems absurd. But is it really so far-fetched?

Consider how often we treat Christian practices—church attendance, Bible reading, prayer—as the goal itself rather than as means to genuine transformation. I catch myself doing this. The rituals become my religion instead of pathways to change. Craig Groeschel captured this tension perfectly in his book title: The Christian Atheist: Believing in God but Living As If He Doesn't Exist. It's entirely possible to maintain all the outward Christian activities while remaining spiritually unchanged.

This disconnect likely plagued John's original readers. It certainly affects us today—perhaps even you and me.

John's response centers on a powerful image: God is Light. Those who truly know Him walk in that light, and walking in light produces visible effects. We become light-bearers ourselves. Drawing near to God's brilliance drives out our inner darkness, gradually transforming us to reflect His purity and glory.

This reminds me of childhood glow-in-the-dark toys—those treasures I'd find in cereal boxes. (Their disappearance from cereal boxes saddens me, but I digress.) I'd rip open the package and rush to the nearest lamp, holding the toy as close to the bulb as possible. Then I would run to the nearest closet, close the door and turn off the lights and voilà—the object glowed. The principle was simple: these objects only glowed after absorbing light. Exposure transformed them from lightless plastic into luminous beacons.

The same principle governs our spiritual lives. To bear God's light, I must stay close to Him. I must dwell in His presence. Without proximity to the Light, I have no capacity to shine.

Perhaps this offers a better framework for understanding Christian practices—not as religious obligations to check off, but as opportunities to draw near the source. I've heard it expressed this way: Don't read Scripture merely for information; read it for transformation.

Otherwise, we miss the point entirely. We attend church but leave unchanged. We read our Bibles while remaining in darkness. We pray without experiencing God's warmth. This path of least resistance may feel easier, but it's fundamentally wrong.

My prayer for you is simple: May God's Light penetrate your life, dispelling whatever darkness troubles you. May His brilliance transform you so completely that others see the unmistakable glow of someone changed by the greatest Light of all.

But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin. (1 John 1:7, NIV)

 

Almost Free?

When my daughter and son-in-law traveled abroad recently, they encountered the familiar chorus of street vendors at every tourist destination. Desperate to move their merchandise, these sellers would shout to passersby, "Almost free! Almost free!"

The phrase "almost free" is clever marketing, but it reveals an important truth: "almost free” still costs something. Almost free means you'll need to reach for your wallet. Almost free confirms what we've always known—nothing in life comes without a price. My father's wisdom echoes in my mind: "There are no free lunches." From childhood, we learn that everything worthwhile must be earned through effort and payment.

This universal understanding makes the Gospel message so revolutionary.

When God extends His offer of salvation, He doesn't shout "Almost free!" from the heavens. Instead, He whispers something that defies everything we think we know about how the world works: "Absolutely free."

The Scriptures declare this stunning truth repeatedly:

Ephesians 2:8–9 (NIV) — For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.

Titus 3:5 (NIV) — He saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy.

Romans 6:23 (NIV) — For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.

John 3:16 (NIV) — For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

Salvation cannot be purchased, earned, or negotiated. Grace flows from God's mercy alone. Even if we attempted to earn our way to God, no amount of good works could ever suffice to pay the debt we owe.

Understanding the complete freedom of God's gift transforms how we see four crucial truths:

First, this gift reveals the devastating reality of sin. The fact that only God Himself could pay the price shows how utterly offensive our rebellion is to His perfect holiness. Any suggestion that we could contribute to our salvation diminishes the gravity of sin and insults God's purity.

Second, this gift showcases God's incomprehensible love. The Father's willingness to sacrifice His Son demonstrates love beyond human comprehension. Only God could bear the infinite cost of our sin, and He chose to do so not because we deserved it, but because He loves us.

Third, this gift should ignite our worship and service. When we truly grasp that our salvation cost us nothing but cost God everything, gratitude becomes the natural response. Our service flows not from duty or fear, but from hearts overflowing with thanksgiving.

Fourth, this gift eliminates all grounds for spiritual pride. Since we all stand as sinners saved by the same undeserved grace, we have no basis for looking down on others. Instead, we extend the same mercy we received to fellow sinners who desperately need what we freely received.

Tragically, many voices in our world promote an "almost free" gospel—salvation with strings attached, grace with conditions, mercy that must be earned or maintained through performance. These counterfeits rob God of glory and believers of peace.

Only an "absolutely free" gospel possesses the power to genuinely transform human hearts. Only an "absolutely free" gospel honors the magnitude of God's love and mercy.

The invitation stands open. The gift awaits. God calls to every person: "Absolutely free!"

The Shattered Pool Liner – A Story of Forgiveness and Grace

What started out as a boy's reckless defiance became a lesson in the power of forgiveness and grace.

Like many young boys, I dreamed of being a professional athlete. I thought my best chance was Major League Baseball, so day after day I would take my wiffle ball and bat to the backyard, throw the ball in the air, and swing with all my might. If baseball didn't work out, the National Football League was my backup plan. The biggest obstacle to the NFL was that I was not that big, so I set my sights on being a kicker. On many a cold New England winter day I would tee up the football, perfecting my field goal technique.

I had a natural set of field goal posts in my yard – the deck of our above-ground pool served as the perfect target with an opening where the ladder led up to the deck's surface. I can't count the number of times I won the Super Bowl with a perfectly placed kick.

I recall bragging to my father one day when he came home from work, and although he encouraged my practice, he did note an inherent risk with my regimen. In the winter the lining of the pool became very brittle, and if one of my kicks didn't clear the pool, the football could cause the liner to shatter, and that would be costly. With that warning, he banned my backyard kicking practice.

But ambition proved stronger than obedience. The call to the NFL was too strong, and I ignored his prohibition. I had been doing this for weeks without him knowing and never once did I do any damage. After all, elite kickers don't miss their targets.

Except when they do.

The ball went sailing and perhaps I didn't make solid contact, but it looked like it was going to come up short. It did, and what my father had warned me of happened. The liner shattered, and I shuddered!

It seemed like it took forever for my father to come home from work that day, and I was expecting the worst. He was not a man given to anger, but I had blatantly disobeyed, and he had every right to be angry.

But his response gave me a lesson in forgiveness I remember to this day.

He was upset, but his anger was controlled and his solution was gracious. Instead of punishment, he offered partnership. He proposed that come springtime we would buy a patch and he and I would repair the liner together.

I still remember that spring standing in that pool with my father, glue and patch in hand, repairing the damage done by the rebellious son. The patch worked just fine, but it was not pretty. The color didn't match the sun-faded liner, and the glue left a rough surface on an otherwise smooth liner.

For years that patch remained, and although it reminded me of my rebellion, it carried a far greater message. That mismatched patch became my introduction to divine love. A message of love and grace. Of forgiveness and mercy. A message that reminds me of the love of another Father.

My father taught me a lesson that even though I rebel, I have a Father who forgives, and even the pain and scars of my sin can be a reminder of that. He is loving, graceful, forgiving, and merciful always seeking restoration over retribution.

 

Exceeding Expectations

Last Sunday I preached about heaven. I love preaching about heaven but I always feel like any description I give falls so far short of what it will actually be like. And I must admit, I have many questions. What exactly will it be like? What will we be doing? Will the bonds we've formed here remain intact?  Heaven, in so many ways is incomprehensible to me but there is one thing I am confident of – it will far exceed any of my expectations.

I find it maddening when my expectations fall short of reality. Someone recommends their favorite restaurant and I find it so-so. Someone raves about a movie and I find myself dozing throughout. There have been times when someone would say to me, "You've gotta see this," or "You have to go there," and when I do I wonder what all the hype was all about. Unmet expectations are frustrating.

But that will not be the case for heaven. No matter what you or I think, it will be better.

I've had that experience at least a couple of times in my life, when I saw something that exceeded my expectations. One was when I first visited the Grand Canyon. I had seen pictures and videos. I had read the impressive statistics on its width and depth. I had heard talk about the beautiful earthy tones. I was excited to visit this “big hole in the ground”, but I still vividly remember standing at the rim, placing my eyes on it and standing there in an awe that far exceeded my expectations. All the statistics and all the pictures were accurate, but they were inadequate.

Another experience was visiting Niagara Falls. Same thing. I had seen pictures and videos. I had read of the impressive volume of water, the height of the drop, and the thunderous sound. But actually seeing it firsthand - feeling the mist on my face and hearing the earth-shaking roar - surpassed any depiction or description. All the descriptions were accurate but once again they were inadequate.

These natural wonders taught me that some realities can only be known through direct experience. No amount of preparation can substitute for standing in the presence of true majesty.

And I believe the same will be true of heaven. We do have some impressive descriptions. Streets of gold. Gates of pearl. Unparalleled worship led by hosts of angels. No tears or sadness. And I believe them all to be accurate but I also believe them all to be inadequate.

Like the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls, heaven will far exceed my expectations, and even more!

I think it's good to think about heaven. It keeps me from falling too in love with this world. It gives me hope and joy especially in times when this life falls so far short of my expectations. Most importantly, it motivates me toward holiness, knowing that while heaven's invitation extends to all, its experience will not be universal.

While I love preaching about heaven, I suspect my greater need is to think about it more regularly—not just on Sundays when it's my professional duty, but daily as a personal discipline. I want heaven to be more than a sermon topic; I want it to be the constant backdrop against which I view everything else.

May heaven be always in my heart and ever on my mind.

 

The Soil of the Heart: A Reflection on Growth and Spiritual Life

Last spring, I undertook a simple lawn project that would teach me an unexpected lesson about spiritual growth. I planted grass seeds in two different areas of my yard. For the first patch, I prepared the ground by adding nutrient-rich topsoil to the naturally lower terrain. For the second, I simply loosened the existing earth and scattered the seeds.

Over the following weeks, I maintained both areas with equal care—watering regularly and watching expectantly for signs of new life. The results, however, were strikingly different. The first section, enriched with additional soil, soon displayed vibrant green shoots pushing through the earth. Week after week, this area flourished with thick, healthy grass. The second patch lagged significantly behind, eventually producing sparse, weaker blades that never quite matched the vitality of their counterparts.

The difference, I realized, lay not in my efforts but in the foundation I had provided. The topsoil's promised nutrients—which I had initially dismissed as marketing claims—had genuinely enhanced the growing conditions. Superior soil had yielded superior results.

This gardening experience brought to mind one of Christ's most enduring parables about seeds and soil found in Matthew 13. Jesus described how the same seeds of divine truth produce vastly different outcomes depending on the condition of the hearts where they're planted. His teachings about abundant life, peace, joy, and love take root and flourish in some lives while struggling to survive in others.

The key factor isn't the quality of the seed—God's truth remains constant and powerful. Rather, it's the receptivity and preparedness of our hearts that determines the harvest. Some believers seem to overflow with the fruits of faith—demonstrating remarkable patience, genuine kindness, unshakeable hope, and deep contentment. Others, though equally sincere in their faith, appear to struggle with anxiety, bitterness, or spiritual stagnation.

What creates this difference? How can we prepare the soil of our hearts to receive the fullness of what God offers?

Cultivating Heart Soil

Just as my lawn benefited from enriched topsoil, our spiritual lives require intentional preparation and ongoing cultivation. Consider these essential nutrients for the soul:

Humility serves as the foundation of all spiritual growth. A humble heart remains teachable, welcoming instruction and correction rather than defensively rejecting them. When we approach life with the understanding that we have much to learn, we position ourselves to receive wisdom from Scripture, from mature believers, and even from difficult circumstances. Pride creates hard, impenetrable soil where truth cannot take root. Humility creates soft, receptive ground where God's word can penetrate deeply.

Confession acts as a cleansing agent, removing the debris that blocks healthy growth. We all stumble and make mistakes—this is part of the human condition. The question isn't whether we'll fail, but how we'll respond to our failures. Denial and rationalization create toxic conditions that poison spiritual growth. Honest confession, however, clears away the obstacles and creates space for grace to work. When we acknowledge our shortcomings before God and others, we experience the liberation of forgiveness and the opportunity for genuine transformation.

Confidence in our identity as God's beloved children provides the stability necessary for sustained growth. This isn't self-confidence based on our own abilities or achievements, but rather a deep assurance rooted in God's love and purposes for our lives. Understanding that we are created in His image, indwelt by His Spirit, and called to reflect His character gives us the courage to pursue growth and the patience to endure the process. This confidence prevents us from being overwhelmed by temporary setbacks or discouraged by slow progress.

The Divine Gardener at Work

Perhaps the most encouraging aspect of this analogy is recognizing that we're not gardening alone. God Himself serves as the master gardener, working in and through us to produce the fruits of His kingdom. Even the most barren heart can become a flourishing garden under His care.

The question for each of us remains: What kind of soil are we providing for the seeds of God's truth? Are we cultivating hearts that are humble, honest, and confident in His love? Are we creating conditions where His abundant life can take root and flourish?

The difference between spiritual abundance and spiritual struggle often comes down to this fundamental question of soil preparation. With intentional cultivation and God's faithful tending, every heart can become fertile ground for His transforming work.