
We know the word fool, but do we recognize who the fools are? Do we recognize when we’re the one playing the fool? Psalm 14 helps us better understand real foolishness.

We all know what it’s like to finally commit to following God’s call—and then watch the enemy show right back up. In 2 Samuel 5, David faces that exact moment, and what God tells him to do next is not what a warrior would expect.

A mute man speaks, and the crowd says nothing like this has ever been seen in Israel. The Pharisees watch the same moment and reach for another explanation. Matthew 9 puts those two reactions side by side.

We come to the Bible hungry for a fix—something for our problems, our inner turmoil, our next step. Genesis 1 and 2 refuse to make us the point. The story opens with four words that name the main character, and it isn’t you.

We all want our lives to mean something—to make a name for ourselves that people will actually remember. The builders at Babel in Genesis 11 wanted exactly that, and the choice they made raises an uncomfortable question for anyone who’s ever chased significance: is the tower you’re building any different from theirs?

Saying the right things about Jesus can feel like a low-risk move until He keeps walking and we have to follow. The next part of our journey in Matthew 9 leads us to face the uncomfortable junction of faith and faithfulness.

We see lots of details but miss the main point when we come to Jesus mainly to eliminate problems here and now. In Matthew 9:18–26, two people reach out to Jesus with needs very much like the ones we have and must wrestle with the deeper point of Jesus’s ministry — just like we do.

When we struggle to translate from one language to another, we’re painfully reminded of the problems coming from the Tower of Babel. But do we remember the temptation of that situation, one that plays to our own ambitions still today?

Maybe you had a childhood toy that took your voice and sent it back distorted and amplified. Small choices work the same way in Proverbs 3:34-35 — God reciprocates what we put out into the world, amplifying our foolishness so we see it clearly, or honoring our wisdom in ways that matter eternally.

Most of us know our own dirt isn’t the curated kind—and suspect it may be too much to clean up. In Matthew 9, Jesus walks past everyone with the polished-for-consumption sob story and stops at a tax collector’s booth, a man whose sin was public knowledge, and says simply, “Follow me.”


When we try to live by “Don’t Be Evil,” we find that we end up being evil in the end. There’s a better way.

When we try to live by “Don’t Be Evil,” we find that we end up being evil in the end. There’s a better way.

We’ve all known someone’s birthday was coming, kept it in the back of our minds, and then realized two weeks too late that we never said a word—recognized it, but never responded. In Matthew 8, the demons who meet Jesus call him “Son of God” with more clarity than almost anyone else in the Gospel, yet that recognition leads somewhere unexpected and deeply unsettling.

Most of us feel satisfied if we manage not to do evil—if we avoid the obvious wrongs, the cruelties we can see. But there’s a quieter failure Proverbs 3:27–28 names: the moment when you know exactly what good you could do, right now, and you choose not to do it. Google once promised not to be evil as it rose above other tech firms, yet the real challenge—for companies and individuals alike—comes in everyday decisions about whether to give good or hold it back. When does restraint from wrongdoing become complicity with harm?

We can gather up what feels like security, but are we actually secure? Proverbs challenges to make sure we have the right point of security.


Can we choose our own adventure wisdom? The Bible says “no” for a very important reason.

We have a lot of things we think are signs of the “blessed life”? Proverbs has a clear answer that challenges our assumptions.