The Good News Church Ministry

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09/12/2026

THE WORD FOR TODAY
Chapter 4 — Who Are You Becoming?

“Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” — Matthew 4:19

There is something in the words of Jesus that I wonder if we sometimes pass over too quickly. He did not merely say, “Follow Me.” He continued, “and I will make you.” Those four words change the meaning of discipleship. Jesus was not merely asking Peter and Andrew to walk somewhere with Him. He was telling them that if they remained with Him, they would not remain the people they had always been. “I will make you.”

That brings us to a question we may not ask ourselves often enough: Who am I becoming?

We usually measure life by what we have accomplished, what we possess, where we have been, what has happened to us, or what we hope will happen next. Jesus looks deeper. He is concerned with the person being formed inside us while all those other things are happening. A person can succeed in the eyes of the world while becoming bitter, proud, selfish, or empty. Another person can walk through terrible difficulty while becoming compassionate, patient, courageous, forgiving, and deeply dependent upon God. The circumstances tell only part of the story. The deeper story is what those circumstances are producing within the soul.

I have walked with Christ long enough to know that this question does not belong only to new believers. I must ask it too. We all must. Am I becoming easier to offend or quicker to forgive? Am I becoming more concerned about being right or more concerned about being Christlike? When someone hurts me, is my first desire to wound them back, or am I learning to place them before God? When nobody is watching, am I becoming the same person I appear to be when everyone is watching?

These questions can make us uncomfortable, but discipleship was never intended merely to make us comfortable. Jesus intends to make us new.

Paul describes this transformation in Romans 12:2: “Be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind.” Transformation means something is actually changing. Christ is not simply adding religion to the person we already are. He is renewing the mind, reshaping desires, confronting old patterns, softening hard places, and teaching us a different way to live.

There is a beautiful emphasis within the ancient Ethiopian Christian tradition that belongs beside today's thought. Its teaching on beginning with Christ describes spiritual life as an ongoing process of becoming like Christ—continually feeding upon Him, surrendering the heart to Him, learning, practicing, and walking with those who have gone farther along the road. That ancient Christian understanding reminds us that discipleship has never been merely about collecting religious knowledge. We are being formed.

But formed into what?

The answer is not complicated.

Jesus.

Paul writes in Romans 8:29 that God's purpose is that we should be “conformed to the image of his Son.” That is where this road is taking us. Not toward becoming impressive Christians. Not toward becoming people who can quote more Scripture than everyone else. Not toward becoming people who appear religious.

Toward becoming like Jesus.

And that changes how we look at yesterday's wounds. Perhaps Christ is not only healing what happened to us; perhaps He intends to produce something through the healing. The person who has known mercy can become merciful. The person who has been forgiven can become forgiving. The person whom Christ has lifted from the ground can learn to kneel beside someone else who has fallen.

Peter is one of the great examples. The impulsive fisherman who once argued about who was greatest eventually wrote, “Yea, all of you be subject one to another, and be clothed with humility” (1 Peter 5:5). Something had happened to Peter. Jesus had been making him.

And He is making us.

That means some of the difficulties we ask God to remove may become places where He does His deepest work. James tells us that the trying of our faith produces patience. Paul tells us that tribulation produces perseverance and character. Jesus prunes fruitful branches so they can bear more fruit. We often ask, “Lord, when will You get me out of this?” Perhaps sometimes Jesus is asking, “Will you let Me change you while you are in it?”

That question reaches me too.

There are still things Christ must teach me. There are still places where I need greater patience, deeper trust, quicker forgiveness, and a heart more completely surrendered to Him. Being a disciple does not mean we have arrived. It means we have decided who we will allow to shape us along the way.

And Revelation shows us the astonishing destination. Jesus promises, “To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with me in my throne” (Revelation 3:21). The journey that began with fishermen hearing “Follow Me” ends with redeemed people sharing forever in the victory of Christ. Between that first call and that final promise lies the life we are living now—the place where Jesus is making us.

So today, instead of asking God only to change your circumstances, sit quietly and ask Him something more personal:

“Jesus, what are You trying to change in me?”

Perhaps He will show you your impatience. Perhaps your pride. Perhaps your fear. Perhaps the way you speak to someone you love. Perhaps the resentment you continue feeding. Perhaps He will show you that you have spent so much time regretting who you were that you have failed to notice who, by His grace, you are becoming.

Do not run from what He shows you.

Remember the promise.

“I will make you.”

You are not doing this alone.

The Carpenter of Nazareth is still shaping lives.

Today’s Prayer

Lord Jesus, I have spent so much time asking You to change the things around me that I have sometimes forgotten to ask what You are changing within me. Today I place myself before You. Show me where I have become hard, impatient, proud, fearful, bitter, or unwilling to forgive. Do not merely make my road easier; make me more like You while I walk it.

When life wounds me, make me compassionate. When people disappoint me, teach me grace. When I fail, make me humble enough to rise and follow again. When I succeed, keep me humble enough to remember who gave me the strength. And when another struggling person crosses my path, let that person encounter something of You in me.

Yesterday I asked You to heal my wounds. Today I ask You to use even those wounds in shaping the person You created me to become.

I am still following, Lord.

Keep making me.

Amen.

Tomorrow — Chapter 5: What Do You Do When Jesus Seems Silent?

09/12/2026

The Last Quiet Night

Exodus 11; Psalm 51:6; Matthew 26:36–46; John 12:35–36; 1 Enoch 91; Revelation 22:10–17

Some of the most important moments of our lives do not announce themselves as important. There is no thunder, no voice from heaven, no sign telling us, Pay attention—something is about to change. We simply find ourselves standing in an ordinary room, living an ordinary day, while somewhere beneath the surface a decision is being made. I have had moments like that, and perhaps you have too. Looking backward, we sometimes realize that God had been dealing with us long before we understood the importance of what was happening. A conversation we almost ignored. An apology we nearly refused to make. A conviction we tried to push aside. A person we almost walked past. We thought it was just another moment. Only later did we discover that we had been standing at a doorway.

Exodus 11 feels like such a doorway. Egypt has endured plague after plague, but now something different settles over the story. The arguments are nearly finished. Moses has spoken. Pharaoh has resisted. The final plague has been announced, and night is approaching. There is an eerie stillness in the chapter because the great question is no longer whether God has made Himself known. He has. The question is what people will do with what they now know.

That question belongs to us too. We have spent these days walking beside Pharaoh, and it would be easy for us to make him the villain and ourselves the spectators. But I do not want to do that, because I am walking this road with you. We have all resisted truths we knew were true. We have all defended ourselves when we should have listened. We have all carried something longer than God wanted us to carry. The question is not whether we have ever resisted God. The question is what we do when His light finally reaches the place we have been protecting.

An ancient passage from 1 Enoch, preserved in the Ethiopian biblical tradition, gives us a striking expression for this struggle. Enoch urges his children to walk in righteousness and warns them not to approach righteousness “with a double heart.”

A double heart.

I find those words uncomfortable because I recognize the possibility in myself. Perhaps you do too. We can want God and still want control. We can pray for His will while quietly hoping His will agrees with ours. We can ask Christ to forgive us while resisting His request that we forgive someone else. We can sing, I surrender all, while knowing there is one room inside us whose door remains closed.

Maybe the great struggle of faith is not always between belief and unbelief. Sometimes it is between the two desires living within the same heart.

One says, Jesus, I want You.

The other whispers, But not there. Not that. Not yet.

That is where today's story becomes deeply personal for us. Before Israel can leave Egypt, there must come a moment when Egypt can no longer come with them. Something has to end. We cannot walk toward freedom while endlessly negotiating with what has enslaved us.

Jesus faced a far greater night centuries later in Gethsemane. He knew what was coming. He knew the cross stood ahead. He prayed, “O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me.” There is nothing artificial about that prayer. We hear the anguish of a real human soul. But then comes the surrender: “nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt” (Matthew 26:39).

There was no double heart in Jesus.

He did not pretend the road was painless. He simply placed everything into the Father's hands.

And that brings the question close to us. Not, Have I become perfectly surrendered? I have not. Perhaps none of us has. The better question is: What am I still negotiating with God about?

Maybe today we should make that concrete. Before this day ends, let us each name one thing. Not ten things. One. The person we know we need to forgive. The habit we keep excusing. The fear controlling a decision. The conversation we have avoided. The pride preventing an apology. The part of our future we are terrified to place in God's hands.

Then let us bring that one thing honestly to Jesus and say, Lord, this is where my heart is divided. I want You, but I am struggling here. Help me.

That is not weak faith.

That may be where real faith begins.

Revelation ends the Bible with one of God's great invitations: “Let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely” (Revelation 22:17). After all the battles, kingdoms, judgments, tears, failures, and victories of Scripture, God is still saying:

Come.

So today I am coming with you. I bring the part of my heart that still needs changing, and you bring yours. We do not have to pretend before Christ. We do not have to arrive already healed, already fearless, already perfect.

We only need to stop hiding.

Jesus, here is the place in me I have been protecting. Here is the fear, resentment, pride, habit, memory, or wound I keep carrying. I do not want to approach You with a divided heart. I cannot change myself without You, so meet me here. Take what I have been afraid to surrender, and lead us together out of whatever Egypt still remains within us. Amen.

Perhaps tonight, before we sleep, we can ask ourselves one question:

What did I finally stop negotiating with God about today?

09/12/2026

Day 55 — The God Who Made Breakfast

Scripture Reading: John 21:1–14; 1 Kings 19:1–8; Colossians 3:17; Revelation 21:1–5

Why would the risen Christ, having conquered death, spend a morning cooking breakfast?

It seems almost too ordinary for Easter. Jesus had walked out of the grave. Death had been defeated. History had turned upon its hinge. If ever there were a moment for thunder, angels, proclamations, and displays of divine power, surely this was it. Yet John takes us to a quiet shoreline where several disciples have been fishing through the night and caught nothing. As morning breaks, they see someone standing on the beach.

It is Jesus.

And there is already a fire burning.

Fish are cooking. Bread is waiting.

“Come and have breakfast,” Jesus says (John 21:12, NIV).

I find that scene deeply moving because Jesus knew what these men had been through. Their world had been torn apart. They had watched Him arrested and crucified. They had hidden in fear. Peter carried the memory of his denial. Thomas had struggled with doubt. Their future was uncertain.

And Jesus fed them.

Before sending them into the world, before Pentecost, before sermons and missionary journeys, Jesus gave tired disciples something to eat.

Centuries earlier, Elijah had collapsed beneath a tree, exhausted and afraid. God did not begin by correcting his theology or demanding stronger faith. An angel touched him and said, “Get up and eat” (1 Kings 19:5, NIV). Sometimes divine compassion arrives in surprisingly ordinary clothing.

Perhaps we have made spirituality more complicated than Jesus did. We look for God primarily in extraordinary moments—the miracle, the answered prayer, the great revelation, the powerful worship service. Certainly He is there. But Scripture continually shows us a God who also enters kitchens, fishing boats, meals, roads, workplaces, gardens, and ordinary conversations.

And this is where the story begins looking back at us.

Perhaps you have quietly wondered whether your life matters very much anymore. Maybe your days are filled with things nobody applauds. You prepare meals that disappear in minutes, care for someone who seldom says thank you, go to work and perform tasks that will never carry your name, answer the same questions, clean the same rooms, encourage the same struggling person, or pray prayers nobody else will ever hear.

You may look at someone else's life and see purpose while looking at your own and seeing repetition.

But what if heaven sees differently?

What if the meal you prepare for someone tired is not merely dinner? What if your patient presence beside someone frightened is not wasted time? What if the telephone call you almost did not make becomes the moment someone realizes they have not been forgotten? What if your greatest act of discipleship today happens without anyone except Jesus recognizing it?

The disciples could easily have remembered that morning for the miraculous catch of fish. Yet John remembered the fire. He remembered the bread. He remembered Jesus saying, “Come and have breakfast.”

Maybe there is someone reading these words who has been waiting for God to give them a larger purpose while missing the holy purpose already sitting across the table.

Revelation tells us that God is making “all things new” (Revelation 21:5, ESV). The risen Christ is restoring what sin has broken, and until that day comes, His disciples become small signs of that coming world whenever they bring nourishment where there is hunger, companionship where there is loneliness, tenderness where there is pain, and hope where someone is tired of carrying life alone.

That means your ordinary day may contain more eternity than you realize.

Before today is finished, a moment may come that seems too small to matter. Someone will need patience. Someone may need your attention. Something ordinary will need doing, and nobody will applaud when you do it.

Do not dismiss that moment too quickly.

You may be standing closer to the shoreline than you think.

The risen Christ once revealed His glory by defeating death.

Then, one quiet morning, He revealed His heart by making breakfast.

Perhaps the mirror for us is not, “Am I doing something great for God?”

Perhaps it is something far more intimate:

Who will know something of Jesus' kindness today because I was there?

09/11/2026

When We Can No Longer See

Exodus 10:1–29; Psalm 139:23–24; John 1:4–5; John 9:1–41; Revelation 21:23

Have you ever looked back upon something you once felt absolutely certain about and wondered, How did I not see it then? I have. Perhaps all of us have. We remember the argument in which we were sure we were right, the person whose motives we thought we understood, the resentment we believed was justified, or the decision we defended until time finally showed us something we could not see before. That realization can be unsettling, because it leaves us with a harder question: What if there is something in my life right now that I still cannot see? I am not asking you that question from somewhere farther down the road. I am asking it of myself while I walk beside you. Maybe that is why we need this journey together. None of us sees ourselves perfectly, and sometimes the things hidden most completely from us are the things happening within our own hearts.

By Exodus 10, Pharaoh had seen plague after plague, yet he continued resisting God. His own servants finally asked him, “Knowest thou not yet that Egypt is destroyed?” (Exodus 10:7). Imagine hearing those words from the people around you: Can you not see what is happening? Everyone around Pharaoh could see what pride would not allow him to see. Then the world outside Pharaoh began to resemble the world within him. Darkness covered Egypt—“even darkness which may be felt”—and Scripture says something haunting: “they saw not one another” (Exodus 10:21–23).

Perhaps darkness still works that way. It can make us stop seeing one another. Hurt can cause us to see only the person who wounded us. Pride can make another person's faults obvious while hiding our own. Fear can disguise itself as wisdom. Bitterness can live with us so long that we begin calling it justified. We can become very good at explaining ourselves to ourselves.

Then, centuries later, Jesus met a man who had never seen anything. John 9 tells us that he had been blind from birth. The disciples looked at him and immediately began discussing whose sin had caused his condition. Jesus saw something different. Before giving the man sight, Christ first saw the man himself. The disciples saw a theological question. The Pharisees would later see a religious problem. Jesus saw a person.

Jesus opened his eyes, and for the first time light entered them. But John is telling us about more than physical sight. As the formerly blind man begins seeing the world, he also begins seeing Jesus more clearly. At first he calls Him “a man that is called Jesus.” Later, “He is a prophet.” Still later he understands that Jesus must be from God. Finally, after the religious leaders cast him out, Jesus finds him and asks whether he believes in the Son of God. The man answers, “Lord, I believe,” and worships Him. His eyes were opened twice: first he saw the world, then he saw Christ.

Meanwhile, the Pharisees traveled in the opposite direction. They had functioning eyes, religious education, knowledge of Scripture, authority, and confidence that they understood God. Yet the more evidence they received, the less willing they became to see. A man born blind stood directly before them with his sight restored, but because the miracle did not fit what they had already decided about Jesus, they rejected what was standing before their own eyes. That is what makes John 9 so uncomfortable for people like us who love Scripture. The man who knew he was blind could receive sight. The men who were certain they could see remained blind.

Perhaps our greatest spiritual danger is not that there are things we cannot see. There always will be. The greater danger is becoming convinced that there is nothing left for Jesus to show us. I know I need God's help here. Perhaps you do too. An old hurt can change how we interpret someone's words. Pride can make their faults enormous while making ours almost invisible. Fear can call itself wisdom. Bitterness can live with us so long that we begin calling it justice.

So David's prayer becomes our prayer: “Search me, O God, and know my heart” (Psalm 139:23). And here is our hope: Jesus did not stand before the blind man and tell him to try harder to see. Jesus gave him sight. John tells us, “In him was life; and the life was the light of men” (John 1:4). Jesus does not merely point toward the light. He is the Light.

So today, instead of leaving this as an idea, let us bring one real thing into His light. Think of one person with whom something is not right. Perhaps it is your husband or wife, a son or daughter, a friend, a neighbor, someone at church, or someone you have not spoken to for years. Do not begin by asking God to show you what is wrong with them. For one quiet moment, ask instead: “Jesus, what am I not seeing?” Then stay there long enough to listen. Perhaps He will show us a word we should not have spoken, an apology we owe, a judgment we made without knowing the whole story, a kindness we withheld, or a wound we have allowed to become bitterness. If He shows us something, let us do one thing about it today. Make the call. Say, I was wrong. Ask forgiveness. Listen without preparing an answer. Put an arm around someone we have been avoiding. Pray for the person whose name still hurts. We do not have to repair an entire lifetime in one day. We only need to walk into the light Christ gives us today.

The Bible begins with God saying, “Let there be light.” It ends in Revelation with a city where “the Lamb is the light thereof” (Revelation 21:23). We are walking together between those two moments. I need His light. You need His light. We need it for the parts of ourselves we understand and especially for the parts we do not.

So let us pray together: Jesus, show us what we cannot see. And when You show us, give us the courage to do something about it. Before this day ends, help each of us take one honest step into Your light. Amen.

Then perhaps tonight, before we close our eyes, we can ask ourselves one simple question: What did Jesus help me see today that I could not see this morning?

09/11/2026

Chapter 64: When We Can No Longer See

Genesis 1:1–5; Exodus 10:1–29; Psalm 139:23–24; John 1:1–9; John 9:1–41; 2 Corinthians 4:3–6; Revelation 21:22–25

There is something more frightening than discovering that we have been wrong. It is the possibility that we may be wrong about something and no longer be able to see it. I do not write those words about you. I write them about us. I am walking this road too. I have lived long enough to know that years do not automatically give us clearer spiritual vision. We can grow older without growing humbler. We can read Scripture and still protect certain opinions from Scripture. We can love Jesus sincerely and still have places within ourselves that we do not understand. So today I do not want to stand outside Pharaoh's palace and point toward the man sitting on the throne. I want us to walk inside together, because somewhere in his story there is a warning for every one of us—including me.

By Exodus 10, Pharaoh's own servants could see what he could not. Egypt was collapsing around them. The Nile had turned to blood. Crops had been devastated. Animals had died. Plague after plague had revealed the powerlessness of Egypt's gods and the foolishness of Pharaoh's resistance. Finally his servants asked him one of the saddest questions in Exodus: “Knowest thou not yet that Egypt is destroyed?” (Exodus 10:7). Imagine having to ask the ruler of a ruined nation whether he realizes his nation is ruined. Pharaoh could still see with his eyes, but something deeper had gone dark. Pride had not merely affected his behavior. It had affected his perception.

Then the outer world began to resemble the inner world. God told Moses to stretch his hand toward heaven, “that there may be darkness over the land of Egypt, even darkness which may be felt” (Exodus 10:21). For three days Egypt disappeared beneath darkness. Scripture says, “They saw not one another, neither rose any from his place for three days” (Exodus 10:23). That sentence stays with me: They saw not one another. Perhaps darkness has always done that. It does not merely make it difficult to see where we are going. Eventually it makes it difficult to see one another. We stop seeing a person and begin seeing an enemy. We stop seeing a wounded human being and see only the wound they caused us. We stop seeing someone made in the image of God and see a political label, a nationality, a failure, an inconvenience, an argument we intend to win. And if we are going to be truthful together, none of us is entirely immune.

I know how easy it is to read Pharaoh's story and think, How could that man have been so blind? But perhaps Scripture is asking us to risk a harder question: What if there are things about me that I cannot see either? I have had moments when I was certain I understood a situation, only to discover later that pride, disappointment, fear, or hurt had colored what I saw. Perhaps you have too. We can recognize selfishness quickly in someone else while giving our own selfishness a more respectable name. Their anger is bitterness; ours is righteous indignation. Their stubbornness is pride; ours is principle. Their desire for control is weakness; ours is responsibility. We can become remarkably skilled at explaining ourselves to ourselves.

That is why I think we need to walk carefully through this chapter together. I am not writing as a man who has arrived at perfect spiritual vision and is trying to teach everyone else how to see. I am writing as someone who still needs Jesus to open his eyes. We all do. There may be an old hurt I have carried so long that I no longer recognize how it affects me. There may be someone you have stopped seeing clearly because of what happened between you years ago. There may be something we call wisdom that is actually fear, something we call strength that is actually pride, something we call caution that is really our unwillingness to trust God. We may not know. That is precisely the problem with blindness.

Jesus showed us this in John 9. He met a man who had been blind from birth and gave him sight. Imagine the wonder of that moment. For the first time the man could see a human face, sunlight, sky, color, movement. Yet as the chapter unfolds, something unexpected happens. The man who had been physically blind begins seeing more and more clearly who Jesus is, while the religious leaders—men whose eyes had always worked—become increasingly blind to the Son of God standing before them. The blind man eventually worships Jesus. The seeing men reject Him. Suddenly the story is no longer about one blind man. It is about all of us.

And that is where I find myself praying differently. Perhaps you will pray it with me: “Search me, O God, and know my heart... and see if there be any wicked way in me” (Psalm 139:23–24). Notice David does not merely say, I will search myself. He asks God to search him. There are things hidden so deeply within us that we need another set of eyes. God's eyes. That prayer requires courage because God may show us something we would rather not see. He may show me that I was not entirely innocent in an old conflict. He may show you that the person you have blamed also carried wounds you never understood. He may show us that beneath our anger lies fear, beneath our certainty lies pride, beneath our busyness lies avoidance, beneath our religious language lies something we have never surrendered.

But here is where this journey becomes good news. Jesus does not reveal our blindness so He can humiliate us. He reveals darkness because He came to bring light. John tells us, “In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness” (John 1:4–5). Jesus does not merely point toward the light. He is the Light. That means our hope does not rest upon our ability to understand ourselves perfectly. If it did, all of us would be lost. Our hope is that Christ sees us completely and loves us enough not to leave us as He finds us.

Think about the enormous story we are walking through. The Bible opens with darkness over the deep until God says, “Let there be light.” Egypt later sits beneath a darkness that can be felt while God's people have light in their dwellings. Then Jesus enters history declaring, “I am the light of the world” (John 8:12). At Calvary, darkness covers the land while the Light of the world carries our sin upon the cross. For a moment it appears darkness has won. Jesus dies. His body is placed inside a tomb. A stone closes the entrance. Then morning comes, the tomb opens, and darkness discovers once again that it cannot hold what belongs to God.

And Revelation carries us all the way to the end. John sees the New Jerusalem and tells us that the city does not need the sun or moon because “the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof” (Revelation 21:23). The Bible begins with God commanding light to shine and ends with a creation in which darkness has disappeared forever. We are living somewhere between those two moments. We are people whom Christ has called out of darkness, but we are still learning to see. We still misunderstand. We still carry wounds. We still discover pride where we thought there was none. We still need forgiveness. We still need correction. We still need grace. We still need Jesus.

So today I am not asking you to stand before God while I stand somewhere else. I am standing there with you. Let us ask Him together: Lord, what are we not seeing? What am I not seeing about myself? Where has hurt distorted my vision? Where have I become too certain to listen? Is there someone I have reduced to what they did to me? Is there something in my own heart I can easily recognize in others but cannot recognize in myself?

I cannot answer those questions for you, and you cannot answer them for me. But perhaps that is where discipleship becomes real. We are not a collection of people who have figured everything out. We are men and women following Someone who sees what we cannot see. Sometimes one of us stumbles and another reaches out a hand. Sometimes you may see something I have missed. Sometimes I may remind you of something you have forgotten. Sometimes we may both stand bewildered before God and simply say, Jesus, we need Your light.

And He does not abandon us there.

The same Christ who opened blind eyes still opens hearts. The same God who spoke light into creation can speak light into the places within us that have remained dark for years. We do not have to pretend we see perfectly. We only have to remain willing to let Him show us.

Perhaps that is our prayer today—not yours alone and not mine alone, but ours:

Jesus, we are walking this road together, and none of us sees perfectly. Search us. Show us what we have missed. Correct us where we have been wrong. Heal what has distorted our vision. Help us see one another again—not as enemies, problems, failures, or labels, but as souls for whom You died. And when You show us something about ourselves that is difficult to face, give us enough grace not to turn away. Be our Light until we can see. Lead us until we reach that promised day when there will be no more night. Amen.

We began this chapter looking at Pharaoh and wondering how a man could become so blind.

Perhaps we should leave it holding one another's hands rather than pointing at him.

We are all still learning to see. And thank God, we are following the One who is Light.

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