Greetings,

I’m The Conifer Guy. This blog exists to document my journey into growing conifers in my small yard. Space is limited, so the trees will need regular pruning to ensure that they remain within the bounds of the property. However, this makes things more interesting, as I have plans on addressing this.

Currently, the plan is to grow four trees on the property as follows:

• Two balsam fir trees
• One white spruce tree
• One red spruce, or a red/white spruce hybrid

I ordered white spruce and balsam fir seeds from my favorite seed supplier, The Ontario Seed Company. The seeds are expected to arrive by Friday, and I will begin stratifying them when they arrive.

For the red spruce, I intend to grow it from a cutting. Living in southern New Brunswick, I expect that there will be many places where I can go to get a cutting. I intend to get this in March, after my seeds have had time to stratify.

If you’re unfamiliar with terms like stratifying, cuttings, or the differences between these species—don’t worry. That’s exactly what future posts will cover. For now, this is where the project begins. Once the seeds arrive, I’ll post photos so you can follow along from the very start.

A quick disclaimer: Carl Jung has become popular with some right-wing commentators. Please don't take this blog post as evidence that I have any affinity whatsoever for those commentators. It's sad that so much has become political these days, but I don't believe in guilt by association, and long before anyone had heard of Jordan Peterson, my dad, a psychologist, was telling me about Jung.

With that out of the way, I recently stumbled across Jung's five factors of happiness, and I find it to be very interesting. This isn't the first set of guidelines I've come across in my life, the first list of ten rules or eight practices one should follow to find fulfillment, but I find it to be a bit more modern and understandable than some of those.

His five factors of happiness are:

1. Good physical and mental health
2. Good personal and intimate relationships, such as those of marriage, the family, and friendships
3. The faculty for perceiving beauty in art and nature
4. Reasonable standards of living and satisfactory work
5. A philosophic or religious point of view capable of coping successfully with the vicissitudes of life

I would point out that this list may not be complete. A murderer or spoiled child might check all of these boxes, but would they be happy? I don't think so. Perhaps that's why we need multiple perspectives, after all.

#PersonalDevelopment #Philosophy #Wellbeing

In Summary: * Two high points of this Wednesday in the Roscoe-verse: First – This morning I used my new little washing machine for the first time, and was pleased with how it worked. I'm thinking now that using it for about an hour or so, three or four mornings per week, that should allow me to keep up with socks, underwear, and shirts. I can live with that. :) Second – I've got a Big Ten Conference men's basketball game to follow on the radio tonight. This game should take me up close to a comfortable, old guy bedtime.

Prayers, etc.: * My daily prayers

Health Metrics: * bw= 222.67 lbs. * bp= 157/96 (59)

Exercise: * kegel pelvic floor exercise, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups

Diet: * 06:45 – 1 peanut butter sandwich * 11:00 – crispy oatmeal cookies, home made meat and vegetable soup * 16:00 – more crispy oatmeal cookies, more home made meat and vegetable soup * 16:50 – 1 fresh apple

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 05:15 – listen to local news talk radio * 06:30 – bank accounts activity monitored * 07:00 – read, pray, follow news reports from various sources * 08:00 – do laundry * 10:00 – read, pray, follow news reports from various sources * 12:30 to 14:00 – watch old game shows with Sylvia * 15:15 – read, pray, follow news reports from various sources * 15:30 – listening to The Jack Riccardi Show * 17:00 – listening to The Joe Pags Show * 18:00 – listening to a Big Ten Conference men's basketball game, the (5-4) Minnesota Golden Gophers vs. the (8-1) Purdue Boilermakers

Chess: * 15:10 – moved in all pending CC games

Matthew 23 is one of those chapters that doesn’t whisper. It doesn’t gently nudge. It shatters the room. If most of the gospel feels like Jesus reaching for the broken, this chapter feels like Him turning over the last untouched table inside religious power itself. There is no soft entry, no small talk. The moment opens with Jesus speaking directly to the crowd and to His disciples, not privately to His enemies. That matters. This isn’t a secret rebuke. This is a public exposure of spiritual hypocrisy because private corruption always damages public faith.

He starts by acknowledging authority before dismantling it. The teachers of the law and the Pharisees “sit in Moses’ seat.” In other words, they inherited real spiritual responsibility. The position itself is not the problem. The problem is what they’ve done with it. They teach truth but refuse to live it. They bind heavy burdens on others but won’t lift a finger to help carry them. This alone cuts deep in today’s world. There is a special kind of harm that comes from people who speak God’s truth accurately but embody it dishonestly. It creates a disconnect that confuses the wounded and hardens the doubting. Jesus doesn’t accuse them of teaching lies. He accuses them of living lies.

Then He names the disease beneath the behavior: everything they do is done to be seen by others. The long prayers. The religious clothing. The front-row seats. The public greetings. The platform. The titles. They don’t just want influence; they want admiration. They don’t just want to serve; they want status. And Jesus does not soften this diagnosis. He exposes it in front of everyone because unchecked spiritual ego multiplies its damage silently.

The pivot comes fast and sharp. “Do not be called Rabbi… you have one Teacher.” “Do not be called Father… you have one Father.” “Do not be called Instructor… you have one Instructor, the Messiah.” This is not a denial of mentorship or leadership. It is a demolition of hierarchy built for self-glory. Jesus is ripping out the spiritual ladder that people climb to feel superior to others. In the kingdom of God, elevation flows through humility, not through performance.

Then He lays down the inversion that terrifies insecure systems: the greatest among you will be your servant. Whoever exalts himself will be humbled. Whoever humbles himself will be exalted. This is not motivational language. This is a warning label on pride. It tells us exactly how gravity works in God’s kingdom. What goes up by ego eventually falls. What descends in humility eventually rises.

Then the chapter turns into a courtroom. Seven times Jesus pronounces “woe” over the religious leaders. These are not curses thrown in anger. They are judicial declarations of spiritual danger. Each one exposes a different fracture in the same corrupted foundation.

The first woe is devastating: they shut the door of the kingdom in people’s faces. They do not enter themselves, and they prevent others from entering. This is the greatest crime of spiritual leadership. It is not ignorance. It is obstruction. It is the use of religion to block people from God instead of guiding them toward Him. It happens whenever systems become more sacred than souls.

The next woe reveals manipulation cloaked as devotion. They travel land and sea to win a single convert and then make that person twice as much a child of hell as themselves. That sentence lands heavy because it shows how transmitted distortion multiplies. When unhealthy leaders recruit followers, they don’t just spread belief—they spread blindness.

Then comes the woe about oaths. They create complicated hierarchies of words to protect themselves from accountability. Swearing by the temple means nothing, but by the gold of the temple is binding. Swearing by the altar means nothing, but by the gift on the altar is binding. This is spiritual legal gymnastics designed to sound holy while evading responsibility. Jesus dismantles their logic down to the dust. You cannot separate God from the things that belong to God. You cannot compartmentalize truth. Integrity either exists everywhere or nowhere.

Then the critique moves to their obsession with minor religious precision while neglecting the core of God’s heart. They tithe herbs down to the leaf—mint, dill, cumin—but neglect the weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy, and faithfulness. Jesus does not condemn discipline. He condemns misplaced devotion. He says you should have practiced both, without neglecting the other. They focused on polishing ritual while ignoring righteousness. They knew religious math but forgot divine compassion.

“Blind guides,” He calls them. Straining out a gnat but swallowing a camel. That image is almost absurd—tiny detail filtering paired with massive moral blindness. It pictures a spirituality that micromanages trivialities while excusing cruelty, greed, and oppression.

Then He moves from the outside to the inside. They clean the outside of cups and dishes, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. The issue is not surface behavior. It is interior formation. Jesus always goes straight to the core. Outward holiness without inward transformation is just spiritual costuming.

The next woe describes how they are like whitewashed tombs—beautiful on the outside, full of dead bones on the inside. This is one of the most haunting metaphors in the entire gospel. Whitewash was applied to tombs so travelers wouldn’t touch them and become ceremonially unclean. These leaders looked radiant, respectable, pure. Inside, they were spiritually decomposing. This reveals that not everything that looks alive actually is.

Then comes the final woe: they build tombs for the prophets and decorate the monuments of the righteous, claiming they would never have behaved like their ancestors. Yet by rejecting Jesus, they prove they are exactly the same. They honor the dead voices they feel safe with while silencing the living voice that confronts them. It is easy to love prophets once they are gone. It is dangerous to listen while they are alive.

And then the chapter turns again—this time from judgment to grief. Jesus cries out over Jerusalem. The same voice that thundered against hypocrisy now trembles with sorrow. “How often I wanted to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing.” This is not rage speaking. This is heartbreak. Divine heartbreak.

He acknowledges that rejection was not accidental. It was chosen. You were not willing. That sentence echoes down every generation. God’s desire to protect, gather, and cover was met with refusal. And the result is devastation. “Your house is left to you desolate.” The cost of resisting grace is always emptiness.

Yet even here, at the edge of judgment, hope is not erased. “You will not see me again until you say, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’” That is not just a prophecy of Palm Sunday. It is an open future invitation. It whispers that recognition can still happen. That eyes can still open. That repentance is still possible.

Matthew 23 is not anti-religion. It is anti-deception. It is not anti-leadership. It is anti-performance masquerading as holiness. It is not anti-truth. It is anti-truth used without love.

And it is not a chapter meant for “them.” It is a chapter meant for every heart that ever turns God into a tool for power, visibility, or self-protection. It confronts the subtle ways people use spiritual language to avoid spiritual surrender. It exposes how easily devotion can become decoration. How prayer can become performance. How doctrine can become defense against transformation.

This chapter levels everyone. Titles mean nothing here. Platforms evaporate here. Applause dies here. The only thing that survives Matthew 23 is humility that actually bends the knee.

Jesus is not calling people out to destroy them. He is calling them out because what is hidden is lethal. Hypocrisy poisons both the one who practices it and the one who follows it. And the reason His words feel scorching is because the disease they confront is terminal without truth.

What makes this chapter unsettling is that the Pharisees were not outsiders. They were Scripture experts. They fasted. They prayed. They studied. They tithed. They served in the temple system. Their downfall was not rebellion. It was substitution. They replaced intimacy with system. They replaced obedience with optics. They replaced repentance with ritual.

And the terrifying lesson is this: you can be very busy in God’s house and never actually live in God’s presence.

Matthew 23 does not ask whether we believe in God. It asks whether we are willing to be undone by Him.

This chapter is a mirror held up to spiritual culture across every generation. It forces an uncomfortable question into the room: Are we following Jesus… or just performing belief in Him?

And part of what makes Matthew 23 so necessary is that real hypocrisy rarely looks ugly at first. It looks polished. It sounds articulate. It quotes Scripture. It carries authority. It prays publicly. It gives publicly. It leads publicly. That is why discernment cannot be built on appearance. Jesus teaches us to look for fruit that grows in the dark when no one is watching.

The chapter also redefines leadership forever. Authority in the kingdom is not about elevation. It is about weight carried for the sake of others. It is not about being served. It is about serving in obscurity without applause. It dismantles the entire concept of spiritual celebrity. The closer someone claims to be to God, the more their life should bend low, not stand tall.

And as harsh as the words are, they are spoken by the same mouth that heals lepers, forgives adulterers, and welcomes thieves. The rebuke is not contradictory to His mercy. It is an extension of it. He is exposing what blocks mercy from flowing freely.

What Matthew 23 ultimately reveals is that God is not fooled by religious theater. Heaven does not mistake volume for virtue. God does not confuse memorized Scripture with transformed hearts. He sees the inside of the cup. He knows what fills the tomb. He reads what is beneath the robe.

And yet, even in this chapter of confrontation, the image Jesus gives of himself at the end is not of a judge with a hammer. It is of a mother with wings. A hen longing to cover her vulnerable children. That is the heartbeat beneath the discipline. The goal was never condemnation. The goal was always covering.

Matthew 23 does something that few chapters in Scripture dare to do. It refuses to let anyone hide behind the safety of “those people back then.” The temptation is to read these words like a historical transcript—Jesus versus the Pharisees—ancient clash, ancient failure, ancient lesson. But the truth is far more uncomfortable. This chapter is not trapped in first-century Jerusalem. It breathes in every age. It presses on every system that ever confused structure with surrender. And if we are honest, it presses on us.

The danger of hypocrisy is not that it deceives others. The deepest danger is that it first deceives the one who practices it. It allows a person to keep the external motions of faith while the internal posture slowly dissolves. Over time, performance replaces prayer. Image replaces intimacy. And what began as genuine devotion slowly mutates into spiritual muscle memory—movements without marvel, words without wonder, rituals without reverence.

Jesus is not attacking discipline. He is attacking disconnection. The Pharisees didn’t stop believing in God. They stopped being vulnerable before Him.

One of the most sobering realities of Matthew 23 is that Jesus is not speaking to people who abandoned Scripture. He is speaking to people who memorized it. Their problem was not a lack of knowledge. It was a surplus of control. They knew how to quote God without trembling before Him anymore.

This is why this chapter still shakes churches, leaders, and believers today. Because the danger zone is not skepticism. The danger zone is spiritual familiarity without spiritual awe. When God becomes predictable, controllable, and manageable, we stop being transformed by Him. The fire becomes a prop. The altar becomes a stage. The mystery becomes a script.

Jesus calls them blind guides. That phrase alone is haunting. A guide is supposed to lead people forward. Blindness doesn’t stop movement—it misdirects it. That’s what makes blind leadership so destructive. People trust the direction, not realizing the one in front cannot see the cliff they are approaching.

And this blindness isn’t rooted in ignorance. It’s rooted in pride. Pride always convinces us that we see more clearly than we actually do. It masks insecurity as certainty. It disguises fear as control. It dresses self-protection in the language of righteousness.

This is why Jesus keeps bringing the conversation back to inward integrity. Clean the inside of the cup, He says. Not because the outside doesn’t matter—but because if the inside changes, the outside follows. Transformation is an inside-out process, never the other way around.

Whitewashed tombs might be the most unsettling image in the chapter because it captures the paradox so perfectly. Something can look holy and be hollow. Something can look alive and be full of death. Something can be admired by people and be distant from God.

And this doesn’t only apply to institutions. It applies to individuals. It applies to me. It applies to you.

It applies to any moment where we protect our image more fiercely than our conscience.

It applies every time we correct others with truth we ourselves struggle to live.

It applies when we use doctrine to win arguments instead of to wash feet.

One of the quieter indictments in Matthew 23 is how the Pharisees honored dead prophets while silencing living ones. This is still happening everywhere. We quote the courage of reformers long gone. We celebrate truth-tellers safely buried in history. We decorate their tombs with admiration because they no longer threaten our comfort. But when truth walks into the room in real time—when it challenges current power, current systems, current habits—it is suddenly inconvenient again.

It is safer to honor yesterday’s conviction than to obey today’s confrontation.

Another piercing layer of this chapter is how much it reveals about performative spirituality. “Everything they do is done to be seen by others.” That line alone feels like it was written for the modern age. Visibility has never been easier. Platforms have never been larger. Applause has never been more accessible. And yet, the spiritual hazards remain exactly the same.

It is possible to build an audience and slowly lose an altar.

It is possible to be gifted in speech and impoverished in surrender.

It is possible to be known by thousands and unknown by God.

Jesus never condemns influence. He condemns influence that feeds ego instead of obedience.

This chapter invites every leader, teacher, communicator, and believer into a terrifyingly honest self-audit. Why do I do what I do? Who am I becoming when no one is watching? What would remain of my faith if all applause disappeared?

Matthew 23 also quietly exposes how spiritual systems can drift from protection into control. The Pharisees didn’t start as villains. They began as preservationists of faith in a culture under pressure. But over time, the system they built to guard holiness became a wall that blocked grace. The laws meant to lead people toward God became fences that kept them at a distance.

This is one of the great tragedies of religion untethered from relationship. The rules keep multiplying, but the peace keeps shrinking. The procedures increase, but the presence fades.

And people get tired. They grow weary under burdens never meant for them to carry. They begin to associate God with exhaustion instead of rest. Obligation instead of healing. Fear instead of freedom.

This is why Jesus’ rebuke is actually an act of mercy. He is interrupting a cycle that was slowly suffocating people with spiritual weight instead of lifting them with divine life.

And it is telling that after all the thunder, all the exposure, all the sharp language—Jesus ends with tears.

“O Jerusalem, Jerusalem…” The repetition alone reveals emotion. He is not distancing Himself. He is aching. He is not celebrating judgment. He is grieving refusal.

“How often I wanted to gather your children together…” This confession reveals that confrontation was never born from contempt. It was born from longing. God wanted to gather. God wanted to cover. God wanted to shield. But you were not willing.

That phrase is brutal because it reminds us that resistance to grace is not passive. It is chosen. Love was offered. Covering was extended. And it was declined.

Still, even here, hope flickers. You will see me again when you recognize me. When blessing replaces resistance. When surrender replaces defense.

This is the tension Matthew 23 leaves us in. Exposure without despair. Judgment without finality. Reckoning without hopelessness.

So what does all of this demand from modern faith?

It demands that we stop using church as camouflage for transformation.

It demands that we stop confusing participation with obedience.

It demands that we stop applauding performance more than we honor integrity.

It demands that we welcome private repentance as much as we celebrate public worship.

It demands that leaders tremble again.

It demands that believers examine again.

Matthew 23 forces us to confront a faith that is willing to be seen but reluctant to be changed.

And it also gives us a rescue route. The path forward is not perfection. It is humility. Not image management, but heart surrender. Not performance, but posture.

There is a reason Jesus dismantles titles in this chapter. He knows how easily identity becomes idol. Rabbi. Father. Instructor. The danger is not the words themselves. The danger is when people begin to feed on what those words give them emotionally. When worth becomes sourced from recognition instead of relationship with God.

Jesus collapses the hierarchy by pointing everyone back to the same place. One Teacher. One Father. One Instructor. The ground at the foot of the Cross is level. The ground at the foot of the altar is flat. No one kneels higher than anyone else.

This chapter also redefines success in the kingdom. Success is not conversion counts achieved through manipulation. It is not doctrinal precision paired with relational indifference. It is not visibility sustained by spiritual exhaustion. Success in God’s economy looks like quiet obedience. Quiet service. Quiet holiness that never makes headlines.

Matthew 23 is a safeguard chapter. It protects the church from becoming a stage. It protects leaders from becoming celebrities. It protects believers from becoming actors. It protects truth from being weaponized. It protects grace from being barricaded.

And most importantly, it protects the vulnerable. Because hypocritical religion always crushes the vulnerable first. The poor. The wounded. The confused. The searching. They don’t need more weight—they need more welcome. They don’t need heavier loads—they need shelter under wings.

And that image of wings lingers.

A hen does not gather chicks with authority. She gathers them with exposure. She covers them with her own body. She absorbs the wind. She absorbs the danger. She shields the fear. That is what Jesus wanted for Jerusalem. That is what He still wants for every soul that will let Him near enough to cover.

This chapter does not end in triumph. It ends in invitation through sorrow. And that is exactly where real transformation always begins—not in spectacle, but in surrender.

Matthew 23 leaves us with no applause break. No easy exit. No triumphant anthem. It leaves us alone with a mirror, a tear, and a question.

Will we be willing?

Willing to lay down image.

Willing to release control.

Willing to stop performing.

Willing to start repenting.

Willing to be gathered instead of guarded.

Because the truth is this: You can defend your reputation and still lose your soul. You can preserve your platform and still drift from your prayer closet. You can master Scripture and still resist surrender. You can look alive while slowly hollowing out inside.

And Jesus loves us too much to leave us there.

Matthew 23 is not comfortable. But it is kind. It is the kind of kindness that wakes you up before the fire spreads. It is the kind of kindness that pulls the mask off before the air runs out. It is the kind of kindness that exposes so that healing can finally begin.

This chapter does not exist to shame the church. It exists to save it from becoming something Jesus never intended.

A stage instead of a shelter.

A show instead of a sanctuary.

A hierarchy instead of a family.

A performance instead of a presence.

And if we let it, Matthew 23 will do something holy in us. It will make us lighter. Because pride is heavy. Performance is heavy. Image management is exhausting. But humility breathes. Surrender rests. Mercy flows.

This chapter is not just a warning. It is a doorway.

And the same Jesus who confronted hypocrisy is the same Jesus who still spreads His wings and waits.

— Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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There are moments in Scripture where Jesus does more than teach. He reveals the very heartbeat of God, exposing the world as it really is while uncovering who we really are. Matthew 22 is one of those chapters. Every conversation Jesus has in these verses carries a weight that presses into the soul, stretching across centuries to speak directly to the person wrestling with faith, fear, identity, purpose, and the ache of wondering whether they truly belong in God’s story. As we sit with this chapter, the brilliance of Jesus becomes unmistakable, not simply because He wins debates or outsmarts religious leaders, but because He keeps insisting that the doorway into the kingdom is wider, deeper, and more transformative than anyone expected. In a world that constantly tells people they are not enough, Jesus offers a kingdom that refuses to stop calling their name.

Matthew paints this chapter like a tapestry woven from three threads: invitation, confrontation, and revelation. It begins with a parable about a king who refuses to let the celebration of his son’s wedding be empty, even when those invited treat his generosity with contempt. Then it moves into the tense air of public challenge as religious leaders and political groups try to corner Jesus with trick questions designed to break Him. And finally, it ends with Jesus turning the entire narrative around, revealing not only that the Messiah is more than a descendant of David but that He is Lord in ways they have never imagined. Through it all, one truth rises: God’s kingdom calls, pursues, confronts, invites, corrects, and awakens people in ways that expose two realities at once—how deeply God loves us, and how easily we resist a love that big.

The parable of the wedding banquet sets the stage. Jesus describes a king who prepares everything for a wedding feast—lavish, extravagant, generous beyond measure. The invitations go out, yet the people invited treat the king’s kindness as though it is a burden. Some walk away with indifference. Others respond with violence. The messengers, symbols of prophets and voices sent by God, are beaten and killed. This is not just about biblical history; it is about the ongoing tension between God’s persistent invitation and humanity’s persistent resistance. It is painful to admit, but we often reject what we claim we deeply desire. God offers joy, purpose, renewal, forgiveness, relationship, and identity, yet people often cling to whatever distracts them, numbs them, or grants temporary comfort. The banquet is ready, but many never make it to the table because the noise of daily life drowns out the call.

And yet, the king refuses to let the celebration die. This is the detail that reveals the nature of God more clearly than any religious structure ever could: God does not stop inviting. If the ones who were first invited refuse, He sends invitations to those no one expected people from the streets, people society ignored, people who never imagined a king would look their way. This is where the heart of the gospel shines. The kingdom is not upheld by human worthiness. It is upheld by divine generosity. The original guests were not valuable because of their status, and the new guests are not honored because of their lack of it. The feast is not about who they are. It is about who the King is.

This is something people still misunderstand today. Many believe the kingdom of God is only for people who have it all together, who pray flawlessly, who understand every theological nuance, who behave perfectly and never struggle with doubt. But Jesus’ parable dismantles this idea entirely. The people who assumed they deserved the invitation refused it, and the people who never thought they belonged were welcomed in. The gospel is not a reward for the spiritually successful. It is a rescue for the spiritually hungry. It is a reminder that grace is not an accessory to your life—it is the foundation for everything your life will ever become.

But then Jesus includes a detail that unsettles people: one person at the banquet isn’t wearing wedding clothes and is removed. People often misinterpret this as harsh or contradictory to grace, but it reveals something deeper. The wedding garment is symbolic of transformation—of responding to God’s invitation not with indifference or arrogance but with a willingness to let Him shape your life. The issue is not the guest’s background, history, failures, or social standing. The issue is their refusal to honor the king by embracing the change that comes with entering the kingdom. Grace is free, but it is not cheap. It invites you to come as you are, but it never leaves you as you were. In the kingdom of God, love does not merely comfort; it reshapes. Mercy does not merely forgive; it restores. God does not only invite you to the table; He clothes you in a new way of living that reflects who He is.

When Jesus finishes the parable, the atmosphere shifts. The religious leaders who feel threatened by His authority begin plotting traps. They want Him silenced, embarrassed, or discredited. The Pharisees send their disciples with a question about taxes, hoping to force Jesus into a political statement that would cost Him either public support or Roman tolerance. It is a manipulative, calculated attack, built not to seek truth but to weaponize it. Yet Jesus answers with a clarity that cuts through the tension: “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.” It is a reminder that while believers live within earthly systems, their identity, allegiance, purpose, and worth do not originate there. The image on the coin belonged to Caesar, but the image on humanity belongs to God. This means every human being carries divine imprint, divine value, and divine purpose, regardless of how governments, critics, or systems attempt to define them.

Then the Sadducees step forward with a hypothetical question about marriage in the resurrection. Their goal is not to understand eternal life but to mock it. Jesus not only corrects their misunderstanding but shows that resurrection life is bigger, fuller, and more glorious than the narrow categories people try to impose on it. Human systems of identity will not bind people in the age to come because God’s restoration is greater than anything people can imagine. Jesus points them back to Scripture, reminding them that God is “the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob”—and emphasizing that He is “not the God of the dead but of the living.” If God is still their God, then they still live in Him. This was not a theological sparring match. It was Jesus pulling back the veil and revealing a God whose life-giving power is so complete that death cannot undo His promises.

Then comes the final question—one that tries to define the greatest commandment. The Pharisees believe they are testing Jesus, yet Jesus reveals the essence of the entire law in two unshakeable truths: love God with everything in you, and love your neighbor as yourself. These are not soft commands. They require a rearrangement of the heart. They require a surrender of pride, ego, self-protection, bitterness, and the desire to win. They require humility, compassion, patience, and faith. What Jesus is describing is not religious behavior; it is the core of what a transformed life looks like. If you love God truly, you cannot help but love people. And if you love people sincerely, you cannot help but reflect the heart of God.

But Jesus does not stop there. He flips the script and asks the religious leaders a question they cannot answer: “How is the Messiah both David’s son and David’s Lord?” In this moment, Jesus reveals what they could not see—that He is not simply a teacher or prophet but the fulfillment of promises stretching back through all of Scripture. The Messiah is not merely a king in David’s line; He is the Lord who gave David his throne. Jesus is declaring that the kingdom He brings is not one of political power or religious dominance. It is a kingdom rooted in divine authority, eternal truth, and transformative love. He is not a reformer of old systems—He is the foundation of a new creation.

This chapter reminds every reader that God’s invitation reaches further than people expect, confronts deeper than people admit, and transforms more profoundly than people imagine. It challenges the comfortable and comforts the broken. It calls out to the weary, the overlooked, and the spiritually hungry. It strips away pride, exposes hollow religion, and reveals a kingdom built not on status but on surrender. Matthew 22 is not just a story about Pharisees, Sadducees, and ancient debates. It is a mirror held up to every heart today. It asks questions no one can escape: What will you do with God’s invitation? What will you give your allegiance to? What kind of love shapes your life? And who do you say Jesus truly is?

Matthew 22 is more than a chapter. It is a confrontation with the deepest parts of your soul and an invitation into the deepest parts of God’s heart.

The invitation of the kingdom never loses its urgency. What makes the opening parable of Matthew 22 so unsettling is not the rejection of the guests—it is the persistence of the King. God does not cancel the banquet simply because people refuse to attend. He does not withdraw the invitation because it is ignored. He does not lower the standard because people misunderstand Him. Instead, He expands the reach. This is one of the most overlooked truths of Scripture: rejection never diminishes God’s generosity. It simply reveals His willingness to go further to reach those who never expected to be found. The streets become holy ground. The overlooked become honored guests. The forgotten become first in line at the feast.

There is a quiet grief embedded in that parable that people often miss. The King wanted those first guests there. They were not trick-invited. They were genuinely desired. This reveals a painful truth about God’s heart: He does not casually discard those who turn away. Their rejection costs Him something. Love always risks loss. Love always opens itself to heartbreak. Yet God still chooses to love, fully aware of how often that love will be rejected. That is not weakness. That is divine courage.

And that courage is still at work today. Every time someone hears truth and turns away, God feels it. Every time someone shrugs at grace, heaven notices. Every time someone treats the invitation of Christ like background noise, God does not grow numb to it. He does not become hardened. He does not become indifferent. He remains the King who keeps preparing tables for people who do not yet realize they are hungry.

Then come the traps. The shift in tone from parable to confrontation feels abrupt, but it is intentional. The same people who refuse God’s generosity now attempt to entangle God’s Son with legal arguments and political pressure. The question about taxes is not about civic responsibility—it is about control. They want to force Jesus into choosing sides so that His authority can be discredited. But Jesus does something deeper. He exposes the counterfeit nature of their concern. They claim to be spiritual but are fixated on political leverage. They claim to care about righteousness but are motivated by image and influence.

“Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s” is not a clever escape. It is a spiritual boundary line. Jesus is saying that systems have their place, but they are never ultimate. Governments can regulate money, borders, laws, and structures. But they cannot regulate the soul. They cannot rewrite identity. They cannot define eternal purpose. The image stamped on a coin gives Caesar limited claim. The image stamped on humanity gives God infinite claim. Your value does not come from the world that taxes you. It comes from the God who formed you.

That truth still cuts through the confusion of our time. People are exhausted by politics, divided by ideology, and overwhelmed by the constant pressure to choose sides. Jesus reminds us that our lives are not owned by systems. Our hearts are not governed by institutions. Our future is not dictated by cultural tides. Our being belongs to the One whose image we carry. This does not remove us from responsibility—it anchors us in a higher identity so that we do not lose ourselves trying to survive within lower kingdoms.

The Sadducees enter next, armed with intellectual skepticism disguised as sincere inquiry. Their question is built on a shallow view of eternity. They reduce resurrection to social logistics instead of spiritual reality. Jesus dismantles their framework not with ridicule, but with revelation. Resurrection is not a reorganized version of earthly systems. It is not a continuation of broken patterns dressed in brighter colors. It is the arrival of a new order governed fully by the life of God. It is restoration at a level that renders old categories inadequate.

When Jesus calls God “the God of the living,” He is not making a poetic statement. He is redefining what life actually is. Life is not merely breath in lungs or a pulse in the wrist. Life is sustained connection to God Himself. This is why death cannot sever it. This is why faith is not blind optimism—it is alignment with the deepest reality in existence. If God remains, life remains. Even when the physical vessel fails, the relationship continues. The resurrection is not a theory. It is the natural consequence of a God who refuses to abandon what He has claimed as His own.

The greatest commandment conversation then pulls everything inward. Love God. Love people. All of the law hangs on this. This is not a reduction. It is a consolidation. Jesus compresses thousands of rules into two relational realities. This does not lower the standard—it intensifies it. It means that righteousness is not measured by how well you navigate religious behaviors but by how deeply love governs your inner world.

To love God with all your heart, soul, and mind means surrendering your inner drive, your emotional loyalty, your intellectual allegiance, and your deepest motivations to Him. It means faith is not compartmentalized into weekends or rituals. It becomes the architecture of your entire existence. And to love your neighbor as yourself means you are no longer the center of your moral universe. Compassion becomes instinctive. Grace becomes reflexive. Mercy becomes a lifestyle. You begin to treat people not as obstacles, competitors, or categories, but as reflections of the image you yourself carry.

This command dismantles religious hierarchy. It removes the ladder. It exposes hypocrisy. Anyone can perform spirituality in public. Only love reveals transformation in private. Only love survives inconvenience. Only love speaks truth without cruelty and offers grace without compromise. This is why Jesus says all the law and prophets hang on these commands. Everything Scripture points toward converges here—transformed hearts expressing transformed love.

Then comes the final reversal. Jesus asks a question that silences His challengers. The Messiah is not just David’s son—He is David’s Lord. This is the moment where the entire chapter crystallizes. Every challenge, every parable, every question has been building toward this truth: Jesus is not just an invited guest at God’s banquet. He is the Son for whom the banquet was prepared. He is not merely a teacher in Israel’s story. He is the center of God’s redemptive plan across all history.

Matthew 22 is therefore not primarily a debate chapter. It is a revelation chapter. It shows us a God who invites relentlessly, confronts lovingly, corrects firmly, reveals boldly, and loves persistently. It reveals a kingdom that does not bend to human power games, political traps, intellectual arrogance, or religious pride. It reveals a Christ who cannot be reduced to categories or confined to expectations.

This chapter forces every reader to answer the same questions the original audience faced. Will you respond to the invitation or dismiss it as background noise? Will you allow grace to clothe you in transformation or will you enter the banquet clinging to self-rule? Will you give your allegiance to temporary systems or to the eternal King? Will your faith be rooted in arguments or in love? And when everything else is stripped away, who do you believe Jesus truly is?

These are not abstract questions. They surface in daily life. They rise up in moments of pressure, disappointment, rejection, uncertainty, and loss. They appear when prayers feel unanswered and when obedience costs more than expected. They surface when loving people feels uncomfortable, when forgiveness feels impossible, and when surrender feels like weakness. Yet Matthew 22 insists that the kingdom of God is not built on comfort—it is built on transformation. It is not sustained by consensus—it is sustained by surrender.

The King is still inviting. The table is still being set. The doors are still open. The garments of grace are still available. The only thing undecided is whether a heart will respond.

This is the quiet power of Matthew 22. It does not entertain. It awakens. It does not flatter. It confronts. It does not settle for surface belief. It calls for total alignment. It does not merely offer religious insight. It offers kingdom identity.

And the invitation still stands.

Not because you earned it.

Not because you understood everything.

Not because you performed perfectly.

But because the King refuses to let the banquet be empty.

Because love never stops calling.

Because grace does not know how to quit.

Because the Son is still worthy of a full table.

---

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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#faith #jesus #matthew22 #kingdomofgod #gospeltruth #christianlife #grace #biblicalteaching #spiritualgrowth #discipleship #christcentered #hope #belief #scripturestudy

I’ve been exploring philosophical pessimism lately. It’s not all Schopenhauer and his misery; it’s actually a pretty interesting angle. The dominant strand of philosophical thought suggests that the application of human reason, through pure reason or through technological advances, will lead us to better places. This includes in politics. Pessimism tells us to expect nothing in particular, or perhaps to expect anything. Things can always get better, or always get worse. We have no reason to expect either to occur in the long-term. We have no reason to think that we’ll ever pull ourselves up, or that any effort at pulling ourselves up will last, because we aren’t beings that can make things better reliably, or we live in a world that won’t let us make things better reliably, or both.

This seems kinda bleak. But pessimists sometimes argue this is pretty liberating and refocuses us on the right-now. We can’t trust that reason or technology or any other natural trend in human behavior or “arc of the universe” will save us. If we want a better world, we have no option other than to stand up and try to win it. We might very well fail, but the cost of trying is the possibility of failing.

I’m a Unitarian Universalist, and philosophical pessimism doesn’t slot neatly into that. As a liberal religion, it retains a certain hope for the future of humanity, a faith in our ability to improve. It commonly speaks of an “original blessing,” a belief that every soul is a sacred good in the world. That doesn’t naturally mesh with the pessimist idea that we are constitutionally incapable of reliably making things better.

But I’ve been playing with an alternative, almost “shadow” version of Unitarian Universalist theology that in many ways mirrors and complements more traditional presentations, drawing on philosophical pessimism.

The First Principle: The Inherent Worth and Dignity of Every Person

Unitarian Universalism teaches the inherent worth and dignity of every person. In fact, this is the first principle. While most Unitarian Universalists interpret this as seeing every person as a positive imprint upon the world, I understand it through seeing consciousness as the capacity to do wrong. Rocks are not conscious; rocks do not make decisions; rocks do not make mistakes. Rocks are perfect at being rocks. Humans are conscious; humans make decisions; humans make mistakes. We have the distinctive capability to do things wrong, and that is what makes us inherently valuable, and gives us dignity even when we aren’t at our best.

The Third and Fourth Principles: Communal Growth and the Free and Responsible Search for Meaning

We exist in a world that does not provide easy meaning, and we are not even provided a guide on how to find meaning. We are all in the struggle together. Because of this, we have a reason to accept one another while still helping each other grow. This growth will probably look different in each person. Our shared predicament provides the opportunity to bond over the lack of easy meaning and the process of responding to that.

The Seventh Principle: Respect for the Interdependent Web of All Existence of Which We Are a Part

This is most immediately an ecological idea, but it’s even more so. In pessimism, we find that we all share vulnerability. Every conscious being lives in a world that is not altogether friendly to consciousness, and every conscious being shares vulnerability to this world and to each other. What impacts one of us impacts the web widely; our vulnerability ties us together. The unpredictability of the world comes for us all, and impacts us all. We’re in this together.

The Second and Sixth Principles: Justice, Compassion, Peace, and Liberty for All

The fact that we’re in this together, intimately vulnerable in a world that is not altogether kind, gives us an imperative to act. The world will not get better on its own. Our only chance at improving it is if we try—and we may fail, but we have to try. Our actions constitute our reason for hope.

The Fifth Principle: The Right of Conscience and the Use of the Democratic Process Within Our Congregations and in Society at Large

And, lastly, democracy. Because if we’re in this together and our actions are our only hope for a better world, let’s act together. Hoping in individual action is self-deception about our place in the web.

---

This is a quick summary of my thoughts, but you can go deeper. For example, Unitarian Universalism contains a fascinating two-step between the individual-as-individual and individual-as-constituted, individual-as-process. You can find this in thinkers like Kierkegaard and Sartre, who felt similarly, and also found that this duality creates the potential for intense difficult emotions. Kierkegaard said, to simplify, that the misplacement caused by being both self-as-being and self-as-becoming creates an ontological condition of despair, because we can’t stabilize ourself between the two without an existential anchor. Unitarian Universalism might suggest, with Love at the Center, that love is our existential anchor. And so through Kierkegaard, a “shadow” Unitarian Universalism might discuss the difficult facts of being a person in the world, and how the path through involves love. (Not to say that no one does this; they just usually do it in quite cheery terms.)

I find pessimism healing. It returns me to the here-and-now by reminding me that the future is uncertain and says that, if I give a damn, I better do something. It tells me that I’m only human and will make mistakes, and that being only human is beautiful, even as it’s hard. It tells me that my dark moods don’t do a thing to negate my worth, and every dark thought I have is itself proof of my value.

Pessimism might not be for everyone. But I bet there’s a few souls out there that, like me, could use it. I hope they find it.

Still working on the endpoint I mentioned in yesterday's journal entry. The song for the day is a gem from Sixx: A.M. I feel like this is such an underrated song.

#Status #MusicVideo #SixxAM #Rock

Matthew 21 is not just a turning point in the Gospel story. It is a collision. It is the moment where expectation meets reality, where the crowd’s idea of rescue slams into God’s actual plan of redemption. This chapter is loud with palm branches and shouts of praise, but beneath all that noise is a quiet, unmovable purpose marching straight toward the cross. If you listen closely, you can hear the sound of hearts being exposed, not by miracles this time, but by motives.

Jesus begins this chapter not in triumph, but in intention. Every step He takes is deliberate. When He sends His disciples ahead to get the donkey and her colt, He is not improvising. This is fulfillment in motion. The prophecy from Zechariah is being activated in real time, and most of the people watching have no idea what they are actually witnessing. They think they are welcoming a political rescuer. They think they are watching a revolution begin. What they are really seeing is the arrival of a King who will conquer sin, not Rome.

There is something deeply unsettling about the way Jesus chooses to enter Jerusalem. Kings rode war horses. Conquerors arrived with armor and banners. Jesus comes on a borrowed donkey. This is not weakness. This is clarity. He is showing the world the kind of King He is before He ever speaks a word. He is not coming to dominate by force. He is coming to save by sacrifice. And this single decision immediately exposes the hearts of everyone watching.

The crowd spreads their cloaks on the road. Palm branches wave in the air. Hosanna echoes through the streets. “Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord,” they shout. They are not wrong in what they are saying. They are wrong in what they expect. They want liberation from oppression. Jesus is bringing liberation from sin. They want a throne built in Jerusalem. Jesus is headed toward a cross built outside the city walls. Their praise is sincere, but it is shallow. They celebrate what they think He will do for them, not what He actually came to do for them.

And this is where Matthew 21 becomes deeply personal. Because the crowd is not just a historical group of people. The crowd still exists today. We still praise God loudest when we think He is about to fix our circumstances, elevate our status, or solve our earthly problems. We love the Jesus who multiplies bread. We struggle with the Jesus who calls us to die to ourselves. We shout “Hosanna” when our prayers are being answered. We grow quiet when obedience requires surrender.

When Jesus enters Jerusalem, the entire city is stirred. The scripture says the city was “moved.” Another translation says it was shaken. This is not a casual arrival. This is the kind of moment that disrupts everything. And the question echoes through the streets: “Who is this?” That question still divides people today. Not “What can He do for me?” but “Who is He really?” A miracle worker? A teacher? A prophet? Or the Son of God who demands everything?

Jesus does not go straight to a throne room. He goes straight to the temple. And what He finds there triggers one of the most intense scenes in His entire earthly ministry. Tables overturned. Money scattered. Animals released. The religious leaders are stunned. The people are shocked. The commercial exploitation wrapped in religious language is exposed in seconds. “My house shall be called a house of prayer,” Jesus declares, “but you have made it a den of thieves.”

This moment forces us to confront a deeply uncomfortable truth. Jesus does not only confront sinners in the streets. He confronts corruption inside sacred spaces. He does not just cleanse lives. He cleanses systems. He does not tolerate spiritual performance used as a cover for personal gain. And He still flips tables today. Not physical ones, but the internal ones. The beliefs we hide behind. The habits we justify. The compromises we excuse because they are wrapped in religious language.

What makes this moment even more powerful is what happens immediately afterward. The blind and the lame come to Him in the temple. The people who had been pushed aside now step into healing. The ones who had no access now receive restoration. This is always the pattern of Jesus. He does not destroy the temple to shame people. He clears it so broken people can finally get in.

And then the children start shouting. They are echoing the same praise that the adults shouted earlier in the streets. “Hosanna to the Son of David.” The religious leaders are furious. Grown men in authority are offended by the praise of children. They demand that Jesus silence them. And Jesus responds with scripture. “Out of the mouths of babes and nursing infants You have perfected praise.”

What offends manufactured religion will always delight authentic faith. Children are not calculating outcomes. They are not protecting reputations. They are not hedging expectations. They are simply responding to who Jesus is right in front of them. And that kind of praise cannot be controlled by systems built on appearances.

Jesus then leaves the city and goes back to Bethany to sleep. This detail is easy to skip over, but it matters. The Savior of the world does not seek comfort in prestige. He seeks rest among friends. The Messiah does not retreat to luxury. He retreats to relationship. This tells us something about the heart of God that performance-driven faith often forgets. Presence matters more to Him than platforms.

The next morning, on the way back to the city, Jesus is hungry. This alone should challenge some people’s theology. The Son of God experiences hunger. He sees a fig tree with leaves, a tree that looks alive from a distance. But when He approaches it, it has no fruit. It promises nourishment by appearance, but delivers nothing. And Jesus curses it. By the next day, it is withered from the roots.

This is not about botany. This is about hypocrisy. The fig tree becomes a living parable. It had the look of life without the substance of life. And Jesus is making a spiritual statement that echoes far beyond that roadside. Faith that looks alive but produces no fruit is not neutral. It is deceiving. It feeds no one. It honors nothing. It is spiritual performance without spiritual reality.

When the disciples are shocked at how quickly the tree withers, Jesus speaks about faith and prayer. He tells them that if they have faith and do not doubt, they will not only do what was done to the fig tree, but they can speak to mountains and see them moved. This is not a motivational slogan. This is a spiritual principle. Faith that flows from alignment with God’s will carries real authority.

But Matthew 21 does not let us stay in inspirational territory very long. Jesus returns to the temple and begins teaching. And now the confrontation intensifies. The chief priests and elders challenge His authority directly. “By what authority are You doing these things?” they ask. In other words, “Who gave You permission?”

Jesus responds with a question of His own about the baptism of John. Was it from heaven or from men? The leaders panic internally. If they say heaven, they admit Jesus’ authority. If they say men, they fear the crowd. So they answer dishonestly. “We do not know.” And Jesus refuses to answer their question because they refused to answer truthfully. Authority cannot be negotiated through cowardice.

Then Jesus tells them a parable about two sons. One says he will not obey his father but later repents and does it anyway. The other says he will obey but never follows through. Jesus asks which one did the will of the father. The answer is obvious. The one who actually obeyed.

And then Jesus delivers the blow. He tells the religious leaders that tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the kingdom of God ahead of them. Not because they were morally superior, but because they responded with repentance and faith instead of religious posturing. The leaders had statements of obedience on their lips but rebellion in their hearts.

This is one of the most devastating warnings Jesus ever delivered. Knowing the right words is not the same as living surrendered. Saying “yes” to God verbally is meaningless if your life constantly says “no” in practice. The kingdom of God is not advanced by polished language. It is advanced by yielded hearts.

Then Jesus tells another parable, even more severe. A landowner plants a vineyard, prepares everything for fruitfulness, and leases it to tenants. When harvest time comes, he sends servants to collect what is due. The tenants beat some, kill others, and stone the rest. Finally, the landowner sends his son, believing they will respect him. But instead, the tenants kill the son and try to claim the vineyard for themselves.

The meaning is unmistakable. The servants represent the prophets. The son is Jesus. The violent tenants represent the religious leaders who repeatedly rejected God’s messengers and were now actively plotting to kill His Son. And Jesus does not soften the ending. He tells them the vineyard will be taken away and given to others who will produce its fruit.

This is not a parable about loss of salvation. It is a warning about stewardship of revelation. Truth rejected does not disappear. It is reassigned. Light resisted does not dim. It moves. And those who build their identity on access rather than obedience eventually find themselves outside the very thing they claimed to control.

Matthew tells us that the religious leaders knew Jesus was talking about them. They wanted to arrest Him on the spot. But they feared the crowd more than they feared God. Their last restraint is not conviction. It is public opinion.

This chapter leaves us standing at a spiritual crossroads. The same city that shouted “Hosanna” will soon shout “Crucify Him.” The same leaders who demanded proof of authority will soon orchestrate His execution. The same crowd that welcomed Him as King will reject Him as Savior when He no longer fits their expectations.

And the most sobering truth of all is this: nothing in Matthew 21 feels distant from modern faith. We still celebrate public victories and resist private surrender. We still prefer confirmation over transformation. We still love Jesus as long as He affirms our plans and disrupts someone else’s. We still struggle with the idea that the King who saves us first comes to confront us.

Matthew 21 is not just about the beginning of the Passion Week. It is about the exposure of the human heart. It reveals who wants a Savior and who wants a symbol. Who wants truth and who wants control. Who wants fruit and who wants leaves.

Jesus enters Jerusalem as King. He cleanses the temple as Judge. He teaches as Prophet. He confronts hypocrisy as Truth. And before the week is over, He will offer His life as Savior. All of it begins here. With a donkey, with palm branches, with praise that does not yet understand what it is celebrating.

Matthew 21 continues to tighten its grip as Jesus presses deeper into open confrontation. What began as a joyful procession now becomes an unavoidable spiritual collision. The parables intensify. The warnings sharpen. And the dividing line becomes unmistakably clear. There is no neutral ground left in this chapter. Everyone standing near Jesus must decide who He is and what they will do with Him.

After exposing the false obedience of the religious leaders through the parable of the two sons, Jesus moves immediately into the vineyard parable—a story so direct that even His enemies cannot miss themselves in it. The landowner prepared everything. The soil, the hedge, the tower, the winepress. Nothing was lacking. The problem was never God’s provision. The problem was human ownership of what was never meant to be owned.

The tenants did not simply fail. They rebelled. They treated divine patience as weakness. They treated mercy as an opportunity for takeover. And when the son arrived, they saw him not as heir—but as obstacle. This single shift explains almost every spiritual tragedy. When God is no longer seen as the rightful owner, people eventually attempt to seize what was only entrusted to them.

Jesus does not soften the ending. He asks His listeners what the landowner should do. Even His enemies convict themselves with their own answer. “He will destroy those wicked men and lease the vineyard to others who will give him the fruits in their seasons.” In one sentence, the kingdom transfer is announced. Stewardship is not inherited by position—it is sustained by obedience.

Then Jesus speaks the line that seals the conflict. He quotes Psalm 118: “The stone which the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone.” This is not poetry for comfort. This is prophecy for judgment. The builders—those trusted with constructing spiritual life—rejected the very Stone required for the entire structure to stand. Not because He didn’t fit. But because He did.

Jesus then says something that should never be domesticated. “Whoever falls on this stone will be broken; but on whomever it falls, it will grind him to powder.” This is not a threat—it is reality. Everyone who encounters Christ will be affected. Broken in repentance or crushed in resistance. There is no bypassing this encounter untouched.

The leaders know exactly what He means. Scripture says they perceive He is speaking about them. Their response is not repentance. It is retaliation—restrained only by fear of the crowd. This is the final exposure. Their god is no longer righteousness. Their god is reputation.

Matthew 21 closes not with resolution, but with tension. The air in Jerusalem is electric. The city that celebrated Jesus is now unsettled by Him. The leaders that once debated Him now seek to destroy Him. The crowd that once lifted Him up will soon turn their backs when He refuses to meet their expectations.

This chapter pulls the mask off the spiritual illusion that praise equals allegiance. Applause can exist without surrender. Celebration can happen without obedience. Words can be loud while hearts remain distant. And Jesus allows all of it to surface—not to shame, but to reveal.

The central question of Matthew 21 is not whether Jesus is King. That is already established in heaven. The question is whether He is King to us—on His terms, not ours. The crowd wanted rescue without repentance. The leaders wanted power without submission. The city wanted miracles without transformation. And Jesus offered none of those bargains.

He still doesn’t.

The fig tree stands as a warning across centuries. Leaves without fruit. Profession without production. Language without life. Jesus did not curse the tree because it failed to be perfect. He cursed it because it pretended to be something it was not. God is not offended by weakness. He resists pretense.

The temple scene still echoes today as well. Jesus overturns systems that exploit in His name. He disrupts environments where spiritual language is used to mask selfish gain. He clears the space not to condemn—but to make room for the blind and the broken to finally come in. That is still His rhythm. He always confronts the obstacle before He heals the wounded.

The children’s praise remains one of the most powerful moments in this chapter. Their voices rise while adult authority seethes. Children recognize truth faster than control structures do. Their praise is not rehearsed. It is not strategic. It is not filtered. It is simply what happens when faith encounters Jesus without layers of ego.

Matthew 21 is not comfortable Scripture. It dismantles surface-level faith. It scrapes away religious insulation. It exposes crowds who celebrate Jesus as long as He aligns with their outcomes, and leaders who tolerate Him only when He does not threaten their control.

Yet woven through all of this confrontation is deep mercy. Jesus does not avoid Jerusalem even though He knows what is coming. He does not dilute truth to buy favor. He does not retreat from tension. He walks straight into betrayal with clarity and love. That is the kind of King He is.

This chapter stands as an open mirror. It asks every reader where they stand in the scene. Are we the shouting crowd who praises loudly but disappears when obedience costs something? Are we the leaders who speak God’s language but resist God’s authority? Are we the fruitless tree that looks alive from a distance? Or are we the blind and the broken who run toward Jesus when the space is finally cleared?

The gates of Jerusalem were wide open that day. The question is not whether Jesus entered. The question is whether He is allowed to reign once He does.

Because Matthew 21 makes this unmistakably clear: receiving Jesus as Savior is not the same as surrendering to Him as King. And the difference between those two responses shapes everything that follows.

The crowds will fade. The leaders will plot. The disciples will stumble. The cross will rise. But none of it will change the truth already declared at the beginning of this chapter: the King has arrived. And the kingdom He brings cannot be negotiated, reshaped, or controlled—only received or rejected.

Matthew 21 is the calm before the storm, the unveiling before the sacrifice, the exposure before redemption. And every soul who walks through this chapter must decide what kind of King they actually want.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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#Faith #Jesus #GospelOfMatthew #ChristianWriter #KingdomTruth #SpiritualGrowth #BibleStudy #ChristianInspiration

It's been awhile and I apologize for that. I have been dealing with some health stuff. Enough about me, let's get to some football talk. Specifically, this post is going to get into league/team ownership structures. Why has the current model lasted so long when it only benefits the few? What changes can be made to fix the current model? Lastly, are their other models that are vastly superior that aren't used.

To answer the first question, the current model of team/league ownership has lasted so long because that is what works for the very few people wealthy enough to own professional sports teams. The owners own the teams and the teams own the league is the simplest way of explaining how the current model works. Each league has its own by-laws regarding majority ownership, voting on league matters, so on and so forth. However, who really wins in this model? It's the owners of the teams, that's it. The few make all the decisions the many have to live by. Players only really get paid at the highest levels of professional sports (NFL, MLB, NBA, NHL). The fans continually get asked to pay more and more so owners can maximize profits and then when new stadiums get built, the taxpayers are on the hook for usually a portion of it as well. Everything revolves around the owners when you really look at it, and to me, that is simply not the way it should be done.

To answer the second question, can the current model be fixed? Honestly, I don't think so because that would require accountability by the people who reap the benefits of the current model. There could be some league level by-law tweaks here and there to make things a little bit better if we're being honest, but they won't fix the real problem, which is the structure itself. No matter how much certain owners complain, the current landscape of major professional sports solely benefits the owners and maybe a few players with extremely large contracts.

To answer the third question, yes, there are other ways to do this. A single ownership model is my personal favorite because it puts the teams all under one umbrella instead of different entities with competing interests all trying to outdo each other. It is also much easier to set standards that equally apply to everyone when using a single ownership model. It has been tried in the US to varying degrees if we're being honest, but it hasn't worked because of implementation (see the current issues with the UFL). So, how can a single ownership model work? It takes putting the right entity together from the start. It then takes putting teams in strategic markets (which is where I believe the USFL/XFL/UFL failed). Essentially, instead of repeating the same few cities over and over again in sports, let's try to do some much better market research and see what alternative locations could really work. Instead of creating just another league, create the “Major League For Everybody Else”.

This is one of the reasons why I strongly believe the indoor route is the way to go. The venues are in place even in these lesser explored markets because they have some type of hockey team or basketball team or a vacant building that with some updating could very well work. By using existing infrastructure, you're lowering the costs of operation, which will keep the costs down for the fan. You combine lower operating costs with proper media rights/distribution, you can create a situation that is a win for the fans, players, and league alike. Of course, there's a whole lot of math that goes into this and of course some expectation management as well. No, we can't pay NFL salaries, but if we can't pay in the range of what many basketball players in Europe make or even some CFL salaries, then the Brand New Shield shouldn't exist. The players deserve good compensation and benefits, the fans deserve value for their hard earned money, and if these both happen, everyone wins.

25 November 2025

Today is the first time I've been aware of a creative cycle seemingly closing its loop in a way that feels akin to releasing an album. Or maybe an EP is more accurate, as the by-product was only four paintings. And the first of those was resolved around October 18th, so they're from a relatively short window—less than two months. In that time I completed ten paintings that I at least considered sharing at one point or another, but six of them ultimately didn't have the legs. A body of work...

What is important to note is how those two months feel more fully formed as a period of inquiry than any other period of artistic output that I've been through. This probably has to do with a number of factors, but protecting and maintaining my attention within my privacy seems chief among them. I've plotted out my points of material, aesthetic, and conceptual research regularly here, so I won't get into all of that right now. I mainly want to notice what it feels like to have been fully engaged in the natural stages of making and showing, from the seeds of a set of ideas to their resolution to sharing them with a wider audience.

Since that sharing, (first via my open studio and then to my community via online channels and outreach to interested parties), I've been pretty unsatisfied with what I've made since getting back to work in the past few days. I think that has to do with how hardened my understanding of my work feels in this moment; as much as I try to put what I'm doing into words here, the time developing my work in my studio before sharing it is not explainable, rational, or logical. The best choices made in my own painting are focused, yes, but not on coherent thought. They are made from a lightness, a delighted joy in the what-ifs that swirl around in the mind during a state of play-centric flow. So the time spent exporting the work into digestible language (in public conversation, grant/art prize applications, etc.) is basically the opposite state. It's an unavoidable part of the process of course, so this is not a lament. It's just a way of telling myself how much more can be done to sharpen the ability to toggle between those modes. Thank you for your patience.

Matthew 20 is one of those chapters that slips quietly into your spirit and then, hours later, flips over entire belief systems without asking permission. It doesn’t arrive shouting. It arrives like a story told over a fence at the end of a workday. And before you realize what’s happening, it has peeled back our ideas about fairness, worth, effort, reward, ambition, recognition, suffering, leadership, and what it actually means to follow Jesus when the math stops making sense.

The chapter opens with a vineyard. A landowner. A group of workers hired at dawn. It sounds ordinary enough. But Jesus doesn’t tell ordinary stories to support ordinary thinking. He tells stories that dismantle the quiet agreements we make with pride, comparison, and performance. Because the kingdom of heaven does not run on the same accounting system as the human heart. We keep score. God gives grace. We measure hours. God measures surrender. We tally effort. God rewards faith.

The landowner goes out early in the morning and hires workers for a denarius, a fair day’s wage. No tricks. No deception. A clear agreement. Then something strange happens. A few hours later, he goes back and hires more. And again. And again. Late in the afternoon, with almost no daylight left, he hires more workers still. And then comes the moment that makes this story either offensive or life-saving, depending on how tightly you are gripping your sense of deserving. At the end of the day, the workers line up. And the last hired are paid first. And they are paid a full day’s wage.

A full denarius for one hour of work.

Now the early workers are watching. And something rises in their chest that every human understands immediately. Expectation. Surely, if that is what the latecomers receive, those who bore the heat of the day will receive more. Surely the landowner now recognizes comparative value. Surely effort multiplied by hours will finally be rewarded accordingly.

But when their turn comes, they receive exactly what was promised. Not less. Not cheated. Exactly what was agreed upon. A full denarius.

And suddenly, fairness becomes resentment.

They grumble. They protest. They believe injustice has occurred. But the landowner looks at them and speaks one of the most unsettling lines in all of Scripture: “Friend, I am not being unfair to you. Didn’t you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I want to give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you.” The story ends with a question that exposes how deeply comparison has sunk its roots into us: “Are you envious because I am generous?”

That question still lands with force today. Are you offended when grace is given freely to someone who, by your calculations, did not earn it the way you did? Are you threatened when mercy ignores hierarchy? Are you unsettled when God blesses people whose story you don’t think qualifies for that level of favor?

This parable quietly destroys the belief that God’s love increases in proportion to our performance. It doesn’t. It never has. The denarius is not payment for moral stamina. It is the gift of life itself. Salvation does not operate on overtime charts. Grace does not submit to performance reviews. The kingdom does not crown champions based on hustle metrics. At the cross, everyone arrives with empty hands. No one negotiates wages. No one presents a résumé. No one clocks in.

Some of us entered the vineyard early. We grew up in church. We learned the language of faith young. We were faithful through long seasons. And quietly, without realizing it, we began to believe that endurance itself earned us something extra. That after decades of obedience, we should be favored more than the one who came trembling and broken at the last moment. We would never say it out loud, but we feel it when grace feels uneven. And Jesus tells this story not to shame long obedience, but to rescue it from turning into entitlement.

The beauty of early obedience is not bonus reward. It is long companionship with God. It is years of walking with Him while others wandered blind. It is protection, formation, shaping, refining. It is not leverage over God. It is relationship with God.

Then the scene shifts in Matthew 20. Jesus takes the disciples aside and tells them plainly what is coming. He speaks of betrayal. Condemnation. Mocking. Flogging. Crucifixion. And resurrection. This is not symbolic. This is not a parable. This is not poetry. This is the reality that everything He has been showing them will now be fulfilled through suffering. The same Messiah who just preached radical generosity now announces radical sacrifice. The kingdom’s generosity is not cheap. It costs Him everything.

And almost immediately after this sober moment, something painfully human occurs. The mother of James and John comes to Jesus and kneels before Him with a request. She wants status for her sons. One at His right hand. One at His left. She is asking for seats of honor in the kingdom. She is still thinking in ladders and thrones and hierarchy. And the timing is almost unbearable. While Jesus is speaking of torture and death, she is negotiating positions of power.

Jesus does not rebuke her with anger. He responds with clarity. “You don’t know what you’re asking.” Then He asks a question that lands far deeper than thrones. “Can you drink the cup I am going to drink?” They answer quickly. Too quickly. “We can.”

They cannot yet imagine what they are agreeing to. The cup is suffering. The cup is loss. The cup is abandonment. The cup is obedience under pain. And Jesus tells them the truth. They will indeed drink that cup. But positions of honor are not distributed through ambition. They are given by the Father.

This moment exposes how easily we translate calling into climbing. How quickly we turn discipleship into career. How subtly we equate visibility with importance. The other disciples hear about this conversation and they become indignant. They are angry not because the request was wrong, but because they didn’t ask first. And Jesus gathers them again, not to scold, but to redefine leadership entirely.

He tells them that the rulers of the Gentiles lord their authority over people. They leverage power. They dominate. They rule through fear and control. And then He says the words that should still govern every church, every pulpit, every platform, every title, every ministry today: “Not so with you.” Those four words draw a line in history. The kingdom will not mirror the power systems of the world. Greatness here is not dominance. Leadership here is not control. Authority here is not manipulation.

“Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be your slave.” And then Jesus seals the logic of the kingdom with His own mission: “Just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”

This is the upside-down economy of heaven. The way up is down. The way to lead is to kneel. The way to greatness is to disappear behind love. The way to receive life is to give yours away.

And as if to embody all of this in flesh and breath and dust, the final scene opens on a road. Two blind men sit by the roadside. They hear that Jesus is passing by. And they begin to shout. “Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!” The crowd rebukes them. Tells them to be quiet. Tells them to stop disrupting the flow. Tells them their desperation is inconvenient. And they shout louder.

This is one of the most revealing pictures of prayer in the entire Gospel. They do not whisper politely. They do not wait their turn. They do not defer to social order. They shout because mercy is louder than etiquette. They shout because when you cannot see, you learn to cry for what you need with everything inside you. And Jesus stops.

The entire procession halts for two men everyone else wanted to silence.

He asks them, “What do you want me to do for you?” It is not a trick question. It is not rhetorical. He gives voice to their need instead of assuming it. And they answer simply. “Lord, we want our sight.” Jesus has compassion on them. He touches their eyes. And immediately they receive sight. And they follow Him.

Notice the pattern. The ones who were ignored are seen. The ones who were silenced are heard. The ones at the roadside are brought into the road. The blind men receive not only vision but direction. Sight is restored, and so is their path. They do not return to their old spot. They follow Him forward.

Taken as a whole, Matthew 20 quietly dismantles every false measurement we carry. It dismantles performance-based worth. It dismantles ambition-driven honor. It dismantles power through dominance. It dismantles respectability as a prerequisite for miracle. It keeps placing the last at the front of the line. It keeps moving mercy ahead of merit. It keeps placing a towel where we expected a throne.

And if you are honest with yourself, this chapter will make you uncomfortable before it makes you grateful. Because it recalibrates what you believe God owes you. It confronts the secret contracts we write with heaven. It exposes the bitterness we feel when grace crosses lines we protected. It draws your eyes away from how much effort you invested and forces you to stare at how much love He poured out.

Some of us read the vineyard story and instinctively side with the early workers. We know what it feels like to labor long and feel unseen. We know what it is to carry weight others did not carry. And the parable doesn’t deny your exhaustion. It doesn’t insult your effort. But it does refuse to let exhaustion become entitlement. It refuses to let faithfulness turn into superiority. It insists that the denarius is not wages for work, but presence with God Himself.

Some of us read the throne request and recognize our own hunger for recognition. We serve, yes. But part of us still wants to be seen serving. We still hope God notices our sacrifices in a way that publicly elevates us above others. And Jesus gently but firmly tells us that the kingdom does not run on visibility. It runs on surrender.

Some of us see ourselves in the blind men. Sitting beside the road. Needing mercy. Needing restoration. Being told to quiet our pain. Being told our desperation is disruptive. And we learn that Jesus still stops for voices the crowd rejects. That He still responds to faith that refuses to be silent. That He still touches what the world has learned to ignore.

Matthew 20 is not a chapter about fairness. It is a chapter about generosity so radical that fairness cannot control it. It is not a chapter about ambition. It is a chapter about service so deep that ambition collapses under its weight. It is not a chapter about power. It is a chapter about love strong enough to kneel and suffer and die.

And somewhere between the vineyard, the cup, the towel, and the roadside, something in us begins to shift. We stop asking, “What do I deserve?” and begin asking, “What is grace doing here?” We stop calculating who is ahead and who is behind. We stop racing for position. We stop demanding the spotlight. We start following the One who walked ahead of us carrying a cross instead of a crown.

Here is the quiet miracle buried in this chapter. The landowner never shortchanges anyone. The blind men do not merely gain sight; they gain a Savior to follow. The disciples do not merely lose illusions of power; they gain the blueprint for true leadership. Everyone in this chapter is given exactly what they need to enter the kingdom rightly. Some receive correction. Some receive healing. Some receive humility. Some receive grace at the last hour. But all are invited into the same love.

And when we stop trying to rank that love, we finally begin to live inside it.

Matthew 20 does not merely describe the kingdom. It rearranges the furniture of the heart so the kingdom can actually live there. Everything in this chapter presses against our deepest instincts for calculation, comparison, leverage, visibility, and self-protection. And nothing exposes the resistance inside us faster than grace given where effort once ruled.

The vineyard workers show us how deeply trained we are to equate worth with output. We live in a world that rewards visibility, scale, efficiency, speed, and performance. Even love is often measured by productivity. We ask what someone does before we ask who they are. We ask how much they offer before we ask how much they ache. Slowly, without noticing, we drag that logic into our faith. We bring resumes into our prayers. We measure our devotion by our exhaustion. We expect God to validate our sacrifice by outpacing others with blessing.

But Matthew 20 cuts straight through that illusion. The early workers did nothing wrong. They labored faithfully. They endured the heat. They kept their word. Their problem was not their obedience. Their problem was their reaction to generosity. It was the moment they compared their outcome to someone else’s mercy that their joy collapsed. Comparison didn’t diminish the late worker’s gift. It poisoned the early worker’s satisfaction. They could no longer receive their own reward because they were watching someone else receive theirs.

That pattern still governs so many hearts. We do not lose peace because God withholds good. We lose peace because God gives good to someone we think should have received less. Resentment is not born from scarcity. It is born from entitlement colliding with generosity.

The vineyard is not a recruitment strategy. It is a revelation of grace. God does not save people based on longevity. He saves people based on surrender. The thief on the cross did not tithe for decades. He did not attend synagogue for years. He did not memorize Torah. He arrived at faith at the very edge of death, with minutes to spare. And he walked into paradise the same day as apostles who left everything years earlier. That truth either terrifies religious pride or it frees the soul completely. There is no other response.

What Matthew 20 does is cut the cord between effort and worth. That is devastating for ego. And it is salvation for the broken.

Then the chapter moves us toward the cup. “Can you drink the cup I am going to drink?” This question should echo in every generation of disciples. Because we often want the inheritance without the agony, the crown without the cross, the platform without the pruning, the resurrection without the burial. We love the language of calling. We struggle with the language of cost.

James and John answer too quickly because suffering always feels theoretical until it becomes personal. In theory, we think we can endure anything. In reality, pain exposes limits we didn’t know existed. Jesus does not shame them for their ignorance. He simply tells the truth. They will indeed drink the cup. Their journey will include suffering they cannot yet imagine. James will be executed. John will be exiled. The cup is not negotiated away by enthusiasm. It is entered through obedience.

And then Jesus dismantles the leadership model of the world with a few unrelenting sentences. The world uses authority to extract. The kingdom uses authority to give. The world elevates through dominance. The kingdom elevates through service. The world rules by being served. The kingdom rules by serving.

This is not poetry. This is not metaphor. This is instruction. And it is the line most often crossed in modern spiritual culture. We love influence. We crave platforms. We long for reach. But Matthew 20 exposes the danger of mistaking visibility for calling. The question is never how many see you. The question is how many you carry.

Greatness in the kingdom is not measured by who knows your name. It is measured by whose wounds you are willing to touch. The Son of Man did not come to be served. That alone should forever disqualify any version of leadership that feeds on entitlement, privilege, luxury, and control. Jesus does not sit on a throne demanding service. He kneels with a towel and bleeds on a cross.

That truth alone should quiet every ambition that seeks power without sacrifice.

Then we arrive at the roadside. Two blind men. No name. No status. No resume. No credentials. Just need. Their entire contribution to the story is desperation. And desperation is enough to stop God in motion. Jesus is walking toward Jerusalem. Toward His final confrontation. Toward betrayal, arrest, torture, execution. And He stops for two men the crowd wants to silence. Everything about that scene tells us something critical about the heart of Christ. Urgency does not override compassion. Mission does not overshadow mercy. The cross ahead does not make Him too busy to heal in the present.

The crowd tells the blind men to shut up. That is what crowds have always done with suffering they find inconvenient. Silence it. Relocate it. Ignore it. Shame it. But mercy refuses to move on until it listens. The blind men shout louder. Faith gets stubborn when shame tries to mute it.

Jesus asks them what they want. That is not because He lacks knowledge. It is because love dignifies desire. He gives their need a voice before He gives it an answer. And when they say they want their sight, He does not delay. He does not test them. He does not lecture them. He touches them. And sight returns.

But the deeper miracle is not the healing. It is the following. They don’t go back to their old place. They don’t return to the roadside where survival defined their days. They follow Him. Healing that doesn’t lead to following eventually becomes spectacle. But healing that leads to following becomes transformation.

Matthew 20 is not a collection of stories. It is a spiritual sequence. Grace disrupts fairness. Suffering reframes ambition. Service redefines leadership. Mercy interrupts movement. And all of it converges toward a cross that has not yet appeared in the chapter but already governs everything that will.

This chapter quietly asks you who you are becoming in the kingdom. Are you becoming someone who demands position or someone who offers presence? Are you becoming someone who keeps score or someone who gives thanks? Are you becoming someone who seeks recognition or someone who embraces obscurity if love is being served through it? Are you becoming someone who watches others receive grace with resentment or with wonder?

We often treat grace like a pie that can run out. But heaven is not rationed. You do not lose because someone else is loved. You do not shrink because someone else is healed. You do not diminish because someone else rises. The only time your soul contracts is when comparison poisons celebration.

Matthew 20 also reshapes how we understand lateness. The late workers are not punished for being late. They are welcomed for showing up. No one in the vineyard story interrogates why they arrived late. No moral postmortem is conducted. No lecture is given on wasted years. Grace does not shame lateness. Grace redeems it.

That truth alone rescues thousands of people who believe they are behind forever. You are only behind if grace has an expiration date. And it does not.

Some people arrive early and wander later. Some arrive late and cling fiercely. Some stumble in exhausted and broken with less time and fewer chances by human standards. But the denarius is the same. Eternal life is not scaled by age of belief. Heaven runs on mercy, not memory of mistakes.

This chapter also reaches into our relationships. It confronts the moments when we quietly resent someone else’s breakthrough. When we hear their testimony and think, “But they didn’t struggle as long.” When we watch them rise and feel overlooked. When God answers their prayer quickly and ours lingers unanswered. When their healing appears instant and ours feels delayed. Matthew 20 whispers into that ache, “Do you trust My generosity when it doesn’t follow your timeline?”

Then there is the cup. The question Jesus asked then still confronts now. Can you drink it? That does not mean, “Can you survive a single crisis?” It means, “Can you live faithfully when obedience costs more than comfort?” The cup is not dramatic. It is daily surrender. It is restraint when revenge would feel better. It is humility when recognition is withheld. It is patience when acceleration would be easier. It is compassion when bitterness would feel justified.

And here is the mystery. Those who drink the cup do not just suffer. They are shaped. Pain does not merely wound. It carves capacity. It deepens mercy. It expands vision. It weakens pride. It strengthens dependence. The cup is not just about endurance. It is about transformation.

Then Jesus anchors everything in Himself. “The Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve and to give His life as a ransom for many.” That sentence is the gravitational center of the chapter. Every lesson orbits that truth. Grace is generous because He gave Himself. Suffering reshapes ambition because He embraced it first. Leadership is service because He knelt before He reigned. Mercy interrupts crowds because He stopped for us when heaven’s agenda could have moved on without us.

And that is where Matthew 20 finally lands. Not on our worth, but on His. Not on our labor, but on His sacrifice. Not on our ladders, but on His descent.

When you hold this chapter long enough, your questions begin to change. You stop asking whether God has treated you fairly. You start asking whether your heart remains soft toward the grace He keeps giving. You stop measuring your position. You start measuring your posture. You stop bargaining with heaven. You start being grateful that God is generous even when your math fails.

You also begin to realize that the vineyard is not just a workplace. It is the world. People enter at different hours for reasons you will never fully know. Some arrive early through stable upbringing. Some arrive late through shattered stories. Some arrive wounded. Some arrive sheltered. But no one enters without mercy carrying them in.

And you realize something else. There will come a moment when you are no longer the early worker. There will come a moment when you arrive late and desperate for the same grace you once scrutinized. Pride forgets that. Humility remembers it.

Regarding leadership, Matthew 20 leaves no room for spiritual authoritarianism. Authority that crushes is not kingdom authority. Leadership that feeds on applause is not kingdom leadership. Titles that exist to protect ego are not kingdom titles. If your influence is not lifting the vulnerable, it is not Christ’s influence.

And regarding healing, the blind men still teach us how to pray. Loud faith is not arrogance. It is acknowledgment of need. Silence does not impress God. Dependence does. The ones who shouted were the ones who saw.

There is also something powerful in the order of healing and following. Vision was restored before direction was chosen. God often gives enough light for the next step, not the entire road. And when sight returns, following becomes possible in ways it never was before. Many people want clarity about the future without intimacy in the present. Matthew 20 quietly reminds us that sight is for following, not for control.

And this is where the chapter gently begins preparing us for what is coming in the days ahead. Jerusalem is near. The cross is near. The collision between grace and violence is near. The kingdom that pays late workers the same wage will soon pay for the sins of the world with the blood of God Himself. The one who healed blind eyes will soon have His own eyes bound. The one who served will be stripped and executed. The one who stopped for the desperate will be abandoned by His closest friends. The towel will become nails.

But we cannot understand Calvary without first understanding the vineyard. We cannot grasp the ransom without first seeing the generosity that demanded it. Matthew 20 is the soft unveiling of the logic of the cross. If grace is that lavish, then sacrifice must be that costly.

So where does this leave us?

It leaves us standing somewhere between labor and grace, between ambition and surrender, between blindness and sight, between towel and cross. It leaves us with a choice about what kind of discipleship we actually want. Do we want a contract with God or a relationship with Him? Do we want a ladder or a cross? Do we want applause or transformation?

Matthew 20 does not invite you to achieve. It invites you to trust. It does not invite you to outwork others. It invites you to rest in mercy. It does not invite you to secure your rank. It invites you to secure your surrender. It does not invite you to shout your worth. It invites you to receive a worth that was never earned in the first place.

This chapter ultimately teaches that heaven is not impressed by how early you arrived. Heaven is consumed with the fact that you arrived at all.

And when you finally understand that, resentment loosens its grip. Ambition softens into obedience. Comparison fades. The scoreboard goes dark. And gratitude finally becomes the loudest voice in the soul.

That is the quiet victory of Matthew 20. Not that you worked hard. Not that you endured the heat. Not that you drank the cup. But that in the end, you discovered that the wage was never the point.

The Presence was.

—

If this chapter exposes anything, it is that grace will always offend the part of you that still wants to be better than someone else. And it will always heal the part of you that knows you never were.

—

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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honey silver, at long last windswept barrow we wash over moss, gathering

[ ]acorns and perhaps the spin cycle through, we now can — what have you...? [ ] jump shale-footed clatter into the deep ...starlight

[#2025dec the 10th, #fragment]

I'm interested in using Debian on my next laptop. The releases are slow, of course, but not much slower than Ubuntu LTS. For a few years now, I've been using Ubuntu LTS, anyway. I've found that many non-LTS releases introduce problems on my machine. Besides, these days, it's not hard to install newer desktop applications using Flatpak and newer CLI programs using… I don't know, Homebrew?

Debian's commitment to free software would have appealed to me more as a younger person, but these days, I want a laptop that just works, and I do see the value of proprietary software. Apple creates great software, for example, and it very often has higher usability and user experience standards than open-source software does. (Liquid Glass and the iPhone setup process are notable exceptions over at Apple. Signal, WordPress, and GNOME, among others, are notable exceptions in the open-source community. Also, I really hate the way Apple behaves as a company, but I think that's largely a separate issue.) Thankfully, with Debian, it's easy to work around the free software guardrails and install proprietary software. So easy, in fact, that the FSF faults Debian for it.

What's wrong with Ubuntu LTS? Not much. I like it, and my gripes are pretty minor. Ubuntu does have a habit of force-feeding their users unpopular software that was built in-house, though, like Unity, Snap, and lots of other stuff. I would prefer a pure GNOME experience with Flatpak and Homebrew as alternative package managers. Plus, I think it would be fun to learn Debian. That's the biggest reason I'm interested in switching, honestly.

Maybe some additional thinking will change my mind, but at the moment, I'm interested in giving Debian a shot. I probably don't have enough energy or interest to do it now, though. I'll wait until I buy a new laptop. (I remember installing Arch Linux mid-way through courses at RIT and being unable to use my laptop for one week while I figured out how to properly configure full-disk encryption with LUKS and dm-crypt. Yeah, those days are gone.)

#Technology #Usability #UserExperience

I’m chaotic when it comes to daily tasks, generating ideas, and writing. It’s a constant battle in a world seeking order. My writing strategies are no different. I’ve used many writing tools and techniques throughout the years with successes and failures. Here are some of them.

Writing Tools:

• Wooden pencils (Blackwing, Musgrave, Tomo 100, USA Gold, and USA Titanium)

• Pens (UniOne, Zebra)

• Notebooks (Decomposition, Mead, and Moleskine)

• Electronics (Laptops, Smartphones, Typewriters, and Freewrite (ugh!))

• Apps (Apple Pages, DeepSeek, iA Writer, LibreOffice, Scrivener, and UpNote)

Writing Strategies:

• Longhand writing first before typing (My go-to)

• Outlining (With AI, it’s easier)

• Pantser (Always have been)

Even though I always prefer writing on paper, the past few years I’ve adopted my writing strategies from writers such as Robert Caro, Scott Scheper, and others and refined my techniques. And it works for me. So, what is my actual writing strategy?

I’ll first write longhand on a notebook (preferably on Decomposition notebooks) with pencil. I can focus solely on writing without any electronic distractions. Then, I’ll type what I’ve written on my laptop (usually on LibreOffice) or phone (UpNote). Writings larger than a blog post (notebook then the WriteFreely app) I’ll print it out, edit and proofread, and type out the final draft before publishing. It sounds simple but the key is consistency.

Is your writing method similar to mine? If not, how do you do your writing? Let me know.

There are moments in Scripture where Jesus doesn’t just teach; He rearranges the furniture in the human heart. Matthew 19 is one of those chapters. It is a chapter built on questions — real, raw, uncomfortable questions — the kind people still wrestle with today. Questions about commitment. Questions about worth. Questions about what God expects. Questions about what is possible. Questions about whether someone like us could ever step into something greater than the life we’ve known. And in every dialogue, every encounter, every response, Jesus pulls the curtain back on what life looks like when heaven steps into human struggle.

  Matthew 19 is not just a chapter filled with doctrine or instruction; it’s a mirror. It shows us where people feel trapped, where people feel small, and where people feel disqualified. And it shows us how Jesus responds: not with dismissal, not with shame, not with cold theology, but with clarity, compassion, and a call toward a higher, freer, more authentic life.

  This is why Matthew 19 still speaks powerfully to the human soul today. Because the questions inside this chapter are the questions people whisper in their hearts every day. The fears inside this chapter are the fears we still carry. The breakthroughs inside this chapter are breakthroughs we still long for. And the hope Jesus offers is the same hope He continues to extend right now — to anyone brave enough to walk toward Him.

  So today, we walk slowly through this chapter. We listen to the questions. We watch how Jesus answers. We let the weight of His words reshape us, steady us, and awaken the part of us that knows we were made for more.

  And somewhere in this chapter — maybe in the question of marriage, or the innocence of children, or the pain of wealth’s grip, or the trembling sincerity of the one who asks how to inherit eternal life — somewhere in this chapter, Jesus will speak to you. Not in a vague, distant way, but in the way He always has: personally, intentionally, precisely. Because Matthew 19 is not just a story about people long gone. It is a story about you. A story about the life you are stepping into. A story about the freedom God is initiating in you right now.

  Let’s begin.

    THE FIRST QUESTION: WHAT DOES GOD EXPECT FROM ME?

  The chapter opens with a difficult topic — marriage, divorce, commitment, covenant. The Pharisees approach Jesus not because they are seeking wisdom but because they are seeking a trap. They ask, “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife for any and every reason?” It’s a question that has circulated through the ages: Where is the line? What does God expect? And how far can I go before I’ve gone too far?

  But Jesus refuses to play their game. Instead, He goes straight to the beginning — to God’s intention, not human loopholes.

  He points them back to creation, to the moment God fashioned humanity with purpose and unity. “The two shall become one flesh,” He says. “What God has joined together, let no one separate.” It is not merely a rule; it is a reminder of what relationship was designed to be — a picture of God’s own heart, His own unity, His own commitment to His people.

  And in this moment, Jesus gently turns the Pharisees' attention — and ours — away from minimizing life to boundaries and toward maximizing life through God’s design. He doesn’t say this to shame or condemn; He says it to elevate. To remind people that covenant is a reflection of divine love, not a human technicality.

  And for everyone who has ever felt like their story is broken… For everyone who has experienced relational trauma… For everyone who carries guilt for what didn’t work… For everyone who believes their past disqualifies their future… Jesus is not here to crush you beneath history; He is here to lift you toward healing.

  Because Matthew 19 is not about shutting doors; it is about opening new ones. It's about understanding God’s heart so you can finally have room to breathe again.

    THE SECOND MOMENT: JESUS AND THE CHILDREN

  Then everything shifts. As if to show the Pharisees what humility looks like, what trust looks like, what open-hearted faith looks like, people begin bringing little children to Jesus. The disciples — trying to manage crowds, schedules, and the practical concerns of a growing ministry — rebuke them. They attempt to push the children away, thinking they are protecting Jesus from distraction.

  But Jesus will not allow it. He says the line that shakes the foundation of human pride: “Let the little children come to Me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”

  This moment is not just about children; it is about posture. It is about reminding us that faith is not built on status, accomplishment, or spiritual performance. It is built on trust. It is built on vulnerability. It is built on the courage to come to Jesus without pretending to be more than you are.

  The disciples saw children as a distraction from spiritual work. Jesus saw children as the perfect picture of spiritual readiness.

  This section of Matthew 19 whispers something essential: What God blesses, people sometimes overlook. What God values, people sometimes misunderstand. What God welcomes, people sometimes try to push aside.

  And maybe that is your story. Maybe there were chapters in your life where people underestimated you. Where people dismissed you. Where the world told you to be quiet, stay small, keep to the side. But Jesus always sees differently. He always makes space for those who have been pushed away. He always draws in the ones others overlook.

  When Jesus welcomed the children, He was welcoming you — the part of you that still wonders if you’re allowed to come close, if you’re worth His time, if you can bring your smallness into His greatness.

  His answer is yes. A thousand times yes. Come.

    THE RICH YOUNG RULER: THE QUESTION EVERY SOUL ASKS

  Then comes one of the most honest conversations in Scripture. A young man approaches Jesus with sincerity burning in his question: “Teacher, what good thing must I do to inherit eternal life?”

  He’s not arrogant. He’s not testing Jesus. He is asking what every heart eventually asks: How do I step into the life God created me for?

  Jesus begins where the young man is. He honors the question. He affirms the desire. He takes the man’s spiritual hunger seriously. And He walks him slowly through obedience, through the commandments, through the life God shaped for His people.

  But the young man presses deeper — “I’ve done all of that. What am I still missing?” This question reveals something powerful: he is not looking for a loophole; he is looking for transformation.

  And that is when Jesus speaks the words that cut through centuries: “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow Me.”

  Jesus is not attacking wealth. Jesus is not demanding poverty. Jesus is identifying the barrier the man cannot see. Jesus is exposing the chain around his heart. Jesus is revealing the one thing that still owns him.

  Everybody has one. One thing that competes with God. One thing we cling to. One thing we fear letting go of. One thing that feels safer than surrender.

  For this man, it was wealth. For someone else, it might be reputation. Control. Bitterness. The fear of being alone. The need for approval. The story you tell yourself about your worth. The walls you built so no one can hurt you again.

  Jesus is never trying to take something from you; He is trying to free you from what is taking something from you.

  And when the young man walks away sad, we see something heartbreaking yet illuminating: he wasn’t rejecting Jesus. He simply didn’t know how to release what was holding him.

  We’ve all been there. We’ve all had moments where we loved God but feared surrender. Where we wanted breakthrough but couldn’t let go. Where hope tugged at our heart but insecurity tugged harder.

  And Jesus does not chase the young man down or shame him. Jesus lets him walk — not because He doesn’t love him, but because surrender cannot be forced. It must be chosen.

  But the story does not end in sadness. The story sets the stage for the breakthrough that comes next.

    THE DISCIPLES’ QUESTIONS AND JESUS’ IMPOSSIBLE PROMISE

  Watching the young man leave, the disciples are shaken. They wonder out loud: If someone that good, that disciplined, that sincere can’t enter the kingdom easily, who on earth can?

  Their question is honest. It is the question every believer has asked at one time or another. Am I enough? Can I make it? Is this even possible for someone like me?

  And Jesus gives them words that lift the weight off every heart that has ever felt overwhelmed by the standard: “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”

  Impossible for you? Yes. Impossible for Him? Never.

  What you can’t carry, He can. Where you fall short, He fills. What you fear, He overcomes. Where you see weakness, He sees room for glory.

  And then Jesus adds something even more stunning — He assures His followers that anything they sacrifice for the sake of His name will be returned multiplied, transformed, overflowing.

  Nothing surrendered is ever wasted. Nothing given up is ever forgotten. Nothing lost for His sake stays lost. It becomes seed — and God knows how to grow seed into a harvest.

  And that is where Matthew 19 lands: the reassurance that whatever journey God is guiding you through, whatever He is asking you to release, whatever new season He is calling you into — He is not leading you toward emptiness. He is leading you toward abundance.

  A new door opens when you let Jesus lead. And Matthew 19 shows what that door looks like.

The ending of Matthew 19 does not wrap things up neatly. Instead, it leaves us suspended in reflection. Jesus reminds His disciples that “many who are first will be last, and the last will be first.” These words echo through the entire chapter like a heartbeat. They are the final lens through which everything else must be seen.

  The Pharisees wanted rules to control behavior. The disciples wanted order to manage chaos. The rich young ruler wanted assurance without surrender. The children wanted connection without complication.

  And Jesus meets every one of them differently — not with convenience, not with comfort, but with truth that rearranges the soul. Matthew 19 does not validate human expectations of power, success, or security. It flips them upside down. It exposes how easily we misunderstand God’s priorities. It dismantles the illusion that status equals favor, that money equals blessing, that control equals safety.

  Jesus does not chase wealth. He does not glorify hierarchy. He does not protect pride. He does not negotiate truth.

  He calls people out of what feels safe and into what makes them free.

  And this is where Matthew 19 becomes deeply uncomfortable and deeply hopeful at the same time. Because discomfort always shows up before transformation. The soul resists before it surrenders. The heart aches before it heals. The hands tremble before they release what they’ve been gripping for too long.

  This chapter is not about who qualifies for God. It’s about what qualifies as surrender.

  And surrender is never about humiliation. Surrender is about alignment. It is about taking what is twisted and letting God straighten it. It is about taking what is fractured and letting God unite it. It is about laying down what is heavy so you can finally stand upright.

  Matthew 19 quietly teaches us that what God seeks is not perfection, but availability. The children didn’t come with resumes. The disciples didn’t come with certainty. The rich young ruler came with morality but not release. And Jesus meets each one at the exact point their faith remains unfinished.

  Faith is not proven by what we claim to believe. Faith is revealed by what we are willing to release.

  And release always costs something. It costs control. It costs comfort. It costs identity. It costs the version of yourself that you thought you needed to protect in order to survive.

  But the gift waiting on the other side of release is not loss. It is life.

  Matthew 19 challenges the idea that obedience is restrictive. In truth, it reveals that obedience is the pathway to expansion. Every instruction Jesus gives is not designed to cage the soul, but to free it from a smaller existence.

  People fear God’s commands because they think God is taking something from them. But God’s commands are designed to return us to who we were always meant to be before fear started calling the shots.

  And this is the quiet power of Matthew 19: it exposes the difference between survival and belonging. The difference between getting by and coming alive. The difference between holding onto what we can manage and walking into what only God can sustain.

  The rich young ruler survived with wealth. The children flourished with trust. The disciples stumbled forward with obedience. The Pharisees clung tightly to certainty.

  And only one of these postures leads to life.

  We often read the Bible looking for information. Matthew 19 invites us to look for transformation. It asks us to question what we are defending, what we are protecting, what we are resisting, and what we are surrendered to.

  Not every barrier to God looks like rebellion. Some look like success. Some look like discipline. Some look like reputation. Some look like stability. Some look like responsibility.

  Anything can become the rich young ruler in your story if it stands between you and surrender.

  Jesus does not confront the ruler with anger. He does not confront him with threat. He confronts him with invitation.

  An invitation is always an act of love. And love never forces its way into the human heart. Love stands at the door and waits to be welcomed.

  Matthew 19 does something few chapters dare to do: it leaves the outcome unsettled in your hands. The rich young ruler walks away sad — but the chapter moves on. The question is not whether the ruler ever came back. The question is whether you will.

  And that is the invitation still echoing through time:

  Will you let go of what owns you? Will you trust God where you cannot calculate the outcome? Will you step into obedience when results are not guaranteed? Will you become like a child again — vulnerable, receptive, unguarded? Will you believe that what feels impossible is not impossible with God? Will you trade what you can control for what God can transform?

  Matthew 19 does not grow smaller with age. It grows sharper. It grows bolder. It grows more personal the longer you live. Because life reveals just how many things compete for your allegiance.

  And one by one, Jesus gently puts His finger on them and says, “Follow Me.”

  Following Jesus has never been about walking behind Him timidly. It has always been about walking with Him boldly. It has always been about learning to see differently, measure differently, desire differently, and trust differently.

  The kingdom He describes in Matthew 19 does not resemble the kingdoms we build for ourselves. It does not operate by dominance. It does not reward control. It does not prioritize accumulation. It values humility, surrender, dependence, and trust.

  And this is the paradox of the gospel that Jesus reveals so clearly here: When you loosen your grip, God tightens His. When you step down, God lifts you up. When you give away, God multiplies. When you surrender, God establishes. When you follow, God leads.

  Matthew 19 does not promise an easy road. It promises a meaningful one. It does not eliminate sacrifice. It assigns purpose to it. It does not remove struggle. It reveals the strength hidden inside it.

  The chapter ends not with resolution, but with repositioning. Jesus repositions how we think about greatness. He repositions how we think about success. He repositions how we think about worth. He repositions how we think about life.

  And the final repositioning is this: The kingdom of heaven does not belong to those who arrive impressive. It belongs to those who arrive open.

  Open hands. Open hearts. Open futures.

  If Matthew 19 has a single thread weaving through every encounter, every question, every teaching, it is this:

  God is not asking for what makes you impressive. He is asking for what makes you available.

  And availability changes everything.

  Because the moment availability meets God’s authority, impossibility loses its power.

  With man, this is impossible. With God, this is where everything begins.

  And that is why Matthew 19 still matters. It is not a chapter about rules. It is a chapter about release. Not about religion, but about relationship. Not about what you must prove, but about who you are becoming.

  It is the chapter where Jesus quietly asks every reader across history the same life-altering question:

  “What are you still holding onto… that you were never meant to carry?”

  And when you finally let it go, a new door opens. A new life unfolds. A new freedom takes root.

  Not because you earned it. But because you followed.

  And the moment you follow — everything changes.

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