One of the most surprising turns in the story of the kings of Judah involves the king often considered to be the worse of the bunch: Manasseh.

And he did what was evil in the sight of the Lord, according to the despicable practices of the nations whom the Lord drove out before the people of Israel. For he rebuilt the high places that Hezekiah his father had destroyed, and he erected altars for Baal and made an Asherah… And he built altars in the house of the Lord, of which the Lord had said, “In Jerusalem will I put my name.” And he built altars for all the host of heaven in the two courts of the house of the Lord. And he burned his son as an offering and used fortune-telling and omens and dealt with mediums and with necromancers. He did much evil in the sight of the Lord, provoking him to anger. (2 Kings 21.2-6)

This guy is just the worst.  Yet his father, Hezekiah, was among the rather few kings in Judah’s history to be considered righteous, comparing favorably to the beloved King David—“And he did what was right in the eyes of the Lord, according to all that David his father had done” (2Ki 18.3).  Of course, since Hezekiah’s life gets a fair amount of text, we learn about his mistakes, too.  For example, he displayed his immense wealth to visiting diplomats from Babylon.  Babylon wasn’t the sort of nation that inspired fear, at the time, but God told him what would be the consequence of his pride: “all that is in your house…shall be carried to Babylon. Nothing shall be left, says the Lord” (2Ki 20.17).

That’s a major consequence, and we clearly see the mistake that caused it.  But we’re left to speculate about what caused another consequence—why did this righteous king’s son stray so far from the pattern his father established?  We have all sorts of expressions, like “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” which we put to use when someone does something reminiscent of his father’s behavior; but they don’t seem to get as much use in regard to scenarios like Manasseh’s.  As his father, Hezekiah had some kind of influence on his son, but we can’t say whether Manasseh’s list of sins reflects a mistake in Hezekiah’s parenting technique or a stubborn rebellion on the part of the son (or, more likely, some combination of the two).

We’re ready to trot out the phrase, “chip off the old block,” when it comes to Manasseh’s son, though!

[Amon] did what was evil in the sight of the Lord, as Manasseh his father had done. He walked in all the way in which his father walked and served the idols that his father served and worshiped them. He abandoned the Lord, the God of his fathers, and did not walk in the way of the Lord. (2 Kings 21.20-22)

When we read that Amon’s own servants got together and killed him, we’re almost ready to cheer them on—almost disappointed that “the people of the land struck down all those who had conspired against King Amon” (2Ki 21.24), as if the bad guys won.  He was a jerk, and we’re glad that he only reigned two years before being assassinated, meaning he didn’t have very much time to wreak havoc.  But what kind of king will replace him?  Well, Amon’s son, Josiah,

did what was right in the eyes of the Lord and walked in all the way of David his father, and he did not turn aside to the right or to the left. (2Kings 22.2)

How did this happen?  When we consider that Josiah was only eight years old at the start of his reign, we can surmise that he got a lot of help from advisors, and this explains a lot.  But there’s more to it.  Manasseh, after reaping some of the consequences of his sins, “humbled himself greatly before the God of his fathers” and repented of his evil deeds (2Ch 33.12).  He did his best to clean up the messes he’d made in his younger days.  While his son and heir, Amon, was a real piece of work as we saw, it’s worth noting that Josiah was six years old when Manasseh died—Amon having become his father at age 16.  It’s clear that Amon wasn't a godly man, repeating his father’s many sins.  But as Manasseh drew near his death, he had the opportunity to be a better influence on his young grandson, who was in line for the throne, than he had been on his own son. 

As with Manasseh himself, we can’t credit all, or even most of Josiah’s righteousness to this hypothetical godly influence from the family patriarch.  The four generations between Hezekiah and Josiah demonstrate that sons do not always turn out like their fathers—they make their own choices whether to submit to God’s will, or exalt their own.  But we also see that influence—good or bad—can make a difference, and echo through the generations.  Is that any less true today?  Your relationship with God comes down to an intensely individual responsibility, regardless of external circumstances or influence, to live out an obedient faith in Jesus.  At the same time, Jesus tells us that “whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone fastened around his neck and to be drowned in the depth of the sea” (Mt 18.6).  Paul tells us to bring up our children “in the discipline and instruction of the Lord” (Ep 6.4).  The present generation will have a substantial effect on whether the next generations love the Lord and walk in his ways, or rebel and follow the road that leads to hell.  Use your influence wisely.  Start by seeking adoption into God’s household, through the intercession of his only true Son.  Then, imitate the Son and be conformed to his image, living as he lived, righteous and selfless.  Finally, work to bring others into God’s house—family, friends, and the little children, before the door is shut.

Jeremy Nettles

So Peter opened his mouth and said: “Truly I understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him.” (Acts 10.34-35)

With these words, Peter began the first gospel sermon delivered to an audience of Gentiles.  His choice of words shows that this isn’t a popular opinion or an accepted fact.  Rather, he voices it as a concession—as a surprising conclusion he can no longer avoid.  That’s hard for us to grasp, because we take it for granted;  we would be disturbed by the suggestion that God acts prejudicially on the basis of race.  But Peter is surprised to have arrived at this conviction.  Why?  Because, to paraphrase Paul in Romans 2.17-20, he called himself a Jew, relied on the law and knew God’s will; he could consider himself a guide to the blind and an instructor of the foolish, because of his heritage as a Jew, and therefore his important place in God’s plans. And he wasn’t far off.  In contrast to the Jews, the Gentiles were formerly

separated from Christ, alienated from the commonwealth of Israel and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world. (Ephesians 2.12)

Later in the same letter, Paul calls God’s plan from the start a “mystery,” now revealed: “that the Gentiles are fellow heirs, members of the same body, and partakers of the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel” (Ep 3.6).  The Jews didn’t expect this, despite hints in the Old Testament, such as this one:

In that day the root of Jesse, who shall stand as a signal for the peoples—of him shall the nations inquire, and his resting place shall be glorious. (Isaiah 11.10)

The Messiah would not only be the chosen one for the Jews, but for the nations—the Gentiles!  Yet the Jewish audience, happy to agree the Messiah would rule over the Gentiles, didn’t realize that he would rule over the Jews themselves in the very same way!  They imagined he would give them glory and put them above the nations—they were, after all, God’s chosen people.

Jesus himself gave plenty of hints about this mystery, for example saying in John 10.16,

“And I have other sheep that are not of this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.”

There’s plenty more where that came from, but although the apostles heard him speak these words, they still didn’t get it.  Jesus told them to be his “witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth” (Ac 1.8).  In fairness to the apostles, the Jewish diaspora included much of Europe, North Africa, Babylon, and farther east, as well.  It’s understandable that they would have assumed he meant the gospel was to spread to those Israelites who had been scattered to the four winds.  But “to the end of the earth?”  There were not at that time a whole lot of Jews in Britain, nor in Japan, nor in North America.  “To the end of the earth” is what Jesus said, though. 

Even the message the apostles preached implied that God was opening the door to the Gentiles.  Peter reminded the crowds at the temple of the promise God gave to Abraham:

“‘in your offspring shall all the families of the earth be blessed.’ God, having raised up his servant, sent him to you first, to bless you by turning every one of you from your wickedness.” (Acts 3.25-26)

It seems impossible to miss, and yet a lot of time passed between this proclamation and Peter’s somewhat begrudging admission before Cornelius, “Truly I understand that God shows no partiality.”  How could it be that the very men tasked with making “disciples of all nations” (Mt 28.19) had to be prodded forward into sharing the gospel with the first Gentiles?  Why was Peter criticized by Christians immediately upon returning to Jerusalem?  “You went to uncircumcised men and ate with them,” they said (Ac 11.3), and it wasn’t a statement of fact, but an accusation!  Despite the clear and mounting evidence to be found in God’s hints and eventually direct statements throughout the ages, they continued to see what they wanted to see.

God is patient, and led them along at his own pace, until they finally realized the obvious: that “God shows no partiality.”  It’s not the only time God has put up with man’s failures on a fairly basic issue, and gently coaxed him in the right direction over a period of time spanning generations.  There was polygamy, divorce, slavery, and more.  We tend to accept what society tells us is right and wrong, never mind that the standards are different now from those of ten years ago—or perhaps even ten minutes ago!  Anyone who’s not up on the current orthodoxy (subject to change without notice) is a prime target for shame and ostracizing.  When the overwhelming majority around you say this is right and that is wrong, will you go along with them, or sincerely seek God’s word on the matter?  When you examine his word, will you see what you want to see, or what he actually said?  Would his patience have endured, if Peter had still refused to go and preach the gospel to Cornelius’ household after Jesus told him the distinction between Jews and Gentiles was passing away, just like the Jews’ dietary code with its distinction between clean and unclean foods, saying, “What God has made clean, do not call common” (Ac 10.15)?  Best not to find out!  Instead, follow Peter’s example and adhere to God’s word not only when your enemies disagree, but when your friends disagree, too.  Society’s orthodoxy means nothing in the long run.  Conforming to society makes your life a little easier, but you have to give up your soul in exchange.  Worry instead about conforming to the image of God’s Son.

Jeremy Nettles

Praise the Lord!

                                      Praise the Lord, O my soul!

I will praise the Lord as long as I live;

                                      I will sing praises to my God while I have my being.

Put not your trust in princes,

                                      in a son of man, in whom there is no salvation.

When his breath departs, he returns to the earth;

                                      on that very day his plans perish.

Blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob,

                                      whose hope is in the Lord his God,

who made heaven and earth,

                                      the sea, and all that is in them,

                       who keeps faith forever;

                                      who executes justice for the oppressed,

                                      who gives food to the hungry. (Psalm 146.1-7a)

While David is the listed author of most of the Psalms, others are attributed to Asaph, or a handful of other individuals, or to no one at all, as in the case of Psalm 146 above.  The convention is to refer to the author of a given psalm as the psalmist.  You may have heard this botched by the current president of the United States back in 2020.  The day before Thanksgiving he gave a speech in which he quoted from Psalm 28.7:

The Lord is my strength and my shield;

                                      in him my heart trusts, and I am helped;

        my heart exults,

                                      and with my song I give thanks to him.

The text is appropriate to the occasion; but then he misread the teleprompter, and since he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was reading in the first place, he was ill-equipped to correct himself when he attributed these words to “the palmist,” rather than the psalmist, as his speechwriter had intended.

This echoed the time when his predecessor spoke at a Christian university during the 2016 campaign, and in his remarks quoted a verse from 2 Corinthians.  But he called the letter, “Two Corinthians” instead of “Second Corinthians.”  A few people tried to defend him on the grounds that Two Corinthians is an accepted way to say the name of the letter in the British dialect; but everyone else rolled their eyes at this fawning attempt to make excuses for a man who’s utterly unfamiliar with the letter, if not the Bible as a whole.  And yet there he was, pandering to the audience, while his own choice of words showed he didn’t even speak their language.

In both of these cases, these politicians wanted to give the impression that they were deeply invested in the word of God, in order to encourage support from the religious crowd out of a feeling of solidarity.  But this sort of thing turns to comedy when the speechwriters try to throw in some chum in the form of a Scripture quotation without considering for a moment that it might as well be written in Klingon, for all that it means to the person tasked with actually delivering the speech!  Some wonderful gaffes are bound to occur as a result, and it ends up undermining what they were hoping to accomplish in the first place.  The outer façade of a spiritual mindset is stripped away, and the incident is instead used to spread bitterness and further polarization.

Most of us understand the timeless message from Psalm 146—there is no salvation in men, so quit putting your deepest hopes in them!  “Put not your trust in princes,” it told us.  Instead, look to the God who made heaven and earth.  Powerful men say they care about the oppressed and hungry; and perhaps they do.  But can they do anything about the problem?  God certainly cares, and has the strength to fix it!  The Psalm continues:

        The Lord sets the prisoners free;

                                      the Lord opens the eyes of the blind.

                       The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down;

                                      the Lord loves the righteous.

The Lord watches over the sojourners;

                                      he upholds the widow and the       fatherless,

                                      but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin.

The Lord will reign forever,

                                      your God, O Zion, to all generations.

                       Praise the Lord! (Psalm 146.7b-10)

When you put your trust in mere men to care for all of these, you set yourself up to be disappointed.  Rulers are appointed by God—Jesus told Pilate in John 19.11 that God had given him the authority to kill or free Jesus.  That doesn’t mean he signs off on all rulers’ actions, but it does mean that God has appointed structures of authority to govern us.  Paul tells us the same in Romans 13, and calls retributive justice service to God.  But there is a vicious tendency in every civilization to deify its rulers.  This happened among the Egyptians 5,000 years ago, among the Romans 2,000 years ago, among the Japanese 100 years ago, and in some ways we’re on that path in the west today, again.  Every ruler and every candidate trying to win your vote—no matter how much you agree with them and no matter how much they promise—will die.  Their plans will come to very little or nothing, in the long term. 

Most of us understand that message, “put not your trust in princes.”  Why is it so hard to implement?  Partly, we just disobey, but it’s also our nature—we trust our eyes to guide us around the world without falling off a cliff or being caught unawares and eaten by a bear.  We can’t see God, but we can see other men, and so it’s easier for us to trust them, even when we suspect they might not have our best interests at heart, and know they don’t have the power to do much about it in the long run, anyway.  Our designer and creator knows that.  That’s why he gave us a man—his son Jesus—to be the trustworthy prince we can’t be.  Give him your allegiance.

Jeremy Nettles

“For which of you, desiring to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, ‘This man began to build and was not able to finish.’ Or what king, going out to encounter another king in war, will not sit down first and deliberate whether he is able with ten thousand to meet him who comes against him with twenty thousand? And if not, while the other is yet a great way off, he sends a delegation and asks for terms of peace.” (Luke 14.28-32)

Jesus’ point deals with the most important question of all: will you become his disciple?  He isn’t merely warning his listeners that they may not be up to the challenge—although that’s part of it.  When you consider the alternative to following Jesus it’s obvious that the cost there is unimaginably greater: the loss of your soul and everything precious to you, forever!  But if we delude ourselves into believing that following Jesus will cost us nothing, we set ourselves up for failure. 

The analogy Jesus used to make this point has a lot to teach us even after we have resolved to give up bad relationships we nevertheless treasure, the sins we enjoy for the moment, the material gain, or whatever it may be that holds our hearts captive.  Jesus describes the way that leads to life as narrow and difficult (Mt 7.14), and along that path are countless decisions about how to handle obstacles, which side to walk, and whether to take any of the abundant off-ramps to find an easier road, with a different destination.

We often desire to do good things purely on the basis that they are good, and this is a wonderful desire to have.  Whether it’s feeding a brother in need, or spreading the Gospel across the world, the good deed comes with a cost, and we often fail to consider how great it will be.  This is what happened to Mark, the author of the second Gospel, whose Hebrew name was John. 

So, being sent out by the Holy Spirit, [Barnabas and Saul] went down to Seleucia, and from there they sailed to Cyprus. When they arrived at Salamis, they proclaimed the word of God in the synagogues of the Jews. And they had John to assist them. (Acts 13.4-5)

He wasn’t mentioned specifically in the Spirit’s mandate, but he had joined them during a previous endeavor for the Lord’s church in Jerusalem, followed them back to Antioch, and decided to accompany them on their mission to spread the good news far and wide.  How did it go?  Not great.  We’re left to infer from Paul’s lack of time spent in Cyprus during his later travels that their rate of success was pretty low, and this was probably a great discouragement to the young and inexperienced Mark.  He “left them and returned to Jerusalem” (Ac 13.13).

This lack of follow-through left such an impression on Paul that he refused to work with Mark again when the opportunity arose.  This wasn’t just a slight preference against the idea; Barnabas wanted to give Mark another chance, but Paul flatly refused!  “And there arose a sharp disagreement, so that they separated from each other” (Ac 15.39).

In the ensuing years, Mark grew up some more, and later became one of the most trusted and helpful associates to Paul, as well as to Peter a bit later—to say nothing of authoring our second Gospel!  But think how discouraged he was by that early lack of success, and by how hard the work was; think how great a blow this was to Paul and Barnabas, whom he abandoned when the going got tough.  Think how far he fell in Paul’s eyes as a result.  It would have been better for everyone if he’d first counted the cost, and then either decided not to go along—an acceptable choice—or been ready for the struggle.  That second option would have been a better course of action in every way.

When we start counting the cost of doing good things, we often find it too high to accept—at first.  Perhaps you want to have kids and teach them to love God.  Sounds great!  But when you list the things you’re giving up, and consider the risk of failure, it suddenly sounds harder.  Perhaps you want to travel to Nigeria and preach the Gospel in an inhospitable environment.  That’s also great!  But it would be a huge mistake to fail to recognize the costs and risks involved.  Maybe your ambitions are closer to home, trying to build a business that allows you to employ Christians in a spiritually edifying environment.  This is also a worthwhile goal, but will come with significant costs and risks, including ones much more important than money.  The desire isn’t always limited to an individual; perhaps the whole church wants to build a bigger and better facility, in order to increase community visibility and in turn better spread the gospel.  That’s good, too—but count the cost and make sure you’re ready to pay it!  There’s an unlimited number of good deeds you may desire to do, and it’s important to know what you’re giving up.  But don’t be so wrapped up in the costs and risks, that you never get anything done.

He who observes the wind will not sow,

        and he who regards the clouds will not reap. (Ecclesiastes 11.4)

There are always risks.  There are always costs.  Be honest about them, but don’t use them as an excuse.  Pursue those courses of action whose consequences you’re prepared to accept.  Doing good when it hurts is far more important than when it’s easy.

In the grand scheme of things, nothing is sure except God’s promises.  He tells us what kind of outcomes we can expect eternally, and there are only two paths available.  Which  consequences are you willing to accept?

Jeremy Nettles

“A sower went out to sow his seed. And as he sowed, some fell along the path and was trampled underfoot, and the birds of the air devoured it. And some fell on the rock, and as it grew up, it withered away, because it had no moisture. And some fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up with it and choked it. And some fell into good soil and grew and yielded a hundredfold.” (Luke 8.5-8)

Jesus explains the parable in the verses that follow, saying that the seed represents the word of God, and the soils are different types of people—specifically, they are different types of hearts, as Jesus says that the word is “sown in [a person’s] heart” (Mt 13.19). 

The path, where feet have constantly tamped down and compacted the soil, represents a hardened heart.  The seed finds no way to penetrate beneath the surface, nor is it sheltered from the birds—representing Satan.  He “takes away the word from their hearts, so that they may not believe and be saved” (Lk 8.12).  It’s important to note that Jesus specifically mentions that these people do not believe the word they hear—not because we would have concluded otherwise, but because we might have assumed the same thing about the next two types of soil.  We would have been mistaken!

The rock represents those who “believe for a while, and in time of testing fall away” (v13).  Contrary to the earnest desire and conclusion of many, a moment of belief and profession does not bear fruit and lead to eternal life.  Jesus himself, while encouraging belief, says that many will believe, yet fall away through lack of soil, and lack of firm rooting.

The thorny ground also receives the word—these people also believe, and even produce a more enduring growth than the rock.  But where’s the fruit?  It’s not that the word has produced no growth, but the plant faces too much competition for limited resources due to the weeds that surround it.  Although it may eke out a brief existence, there’s no way for it to sustain itself in the long run through bearing fruit—creating more seed.

Finally there’s the good soil, “those who, hearing the word, hold it fast in an honest and good heart, and bear fruit with patience” (v15).  This represents the whole package, and the intended outcome is achieved: a bountiful harvest a hundred times as plentiful as the seed that was scattered over the ground at the beginning.

It would be a terrible misfortune, then, to be the wrong type of soil.  Right?  It’s a tragedy of fate, or destiny, or whatever you might call it—God’s arbitrary providence, perhaps?  The Nile Delta was the breadbasket of the Mediterranean, but the Sinai desert was so barren that God had to provide bread from heaven for the Israelites.  Some hearts are created as good soil, and others are created as clay and stone.  Whose fault is this, if not God’s?

But that’s not fair.  God also gave us minds, and we’re capable of understanding why our own gardens fail to produce what we want; furthermore, we are capable of addressing the problems and achieving the desired outcome.  We can all till the soil, remove the rocks, and pull up the weeds—in fact, if we don’t, we have no one to blame but ourselves for a poor yield.  What did we expect?  So what can you do, if the fruit you produce isn’t good, or isn’t as plentiful as the farmer—Jesus—expected?  How can you turn your heart into good soil for God’s word?

You can soften your hard heart to allow the word a place to take root, sheltered from the devil who wants to take it away.  This process will be invasive and uncomfortable, but avoiding that pain will do you no good, when judgment comes.  Your heart may be hard enough to keep God’s word out for now, but he promises that one day, “every knee shall bow to me, and every tongue shall confess to God” (Ro 14.11).

You can break up and dig up the rocks, or build a more fertile soil above them.  In a garden, we’d layer organic material and minerals.  For a heart, we must grow a depth of vision and character that is not only interested in the superficial and pleasant aspects of God’s kingdom, but can bear fruit over the long haul, due to a rich and healthy system of unseen roots, nourished in the fertile ground prepared beneath the surface.

Finally, you can—and must!—deliberately remove the thorns and weeds that will grow in any remotely fertile environment.  There’s great competition for our attention and our resources, and by entertaining these seeds scattered by the workings of the natural world in addition to those sown by God, we deprive God’s seed of both our attention, and of the resources it needs in order to produce fruit in us.  Eliminate distractions from your responsibility to bear fruit for God.  More will sprout tomorrow, of course—the work of weeding never truly ends, as long as the work of farming continues.

The difference between the good soil and the bad isn’t limited to external circumstances that happen to befall each parcel of land—each person’s heart.  Those things matter, of course; it’s much easier to grow corn in southwest Indiana than in the Mojave Desert.  But when you drive past an empty field in April with rich, dark, consistent, well aerated soil and not a speck of green to be seen, do you conclude that this came about naturally?  No, someone deliberately worked that soil in order to prepare it for planting and give it the best possible chance of providing a good crop.  Prepare your heart in the same way.

Jeremy Nettles