My biological father left us when I was six years old.
From that moment on, our home—our lives—were marked by a quiet resilience. My mother, left to raise four children on her own, never voiced bitterness. She never spoke ill of the man who gave us life, yet gave little else. I can only imagine the ache she must have carried—especially in moments when our table was bare, and mouths still needed feeding. I, the oldest, witnessed her resolve, her silence, her strength.
My father was not absent in the absolute sense. We had contact—six to ten times a year, scattered throughout seasons. But his support, his presence, his fatherhood... was minimal. As a child, I craved more than brief visits or occasional calls. I needed a protector, a provider, a father in the fullest sense.
And yet—despite all he lacked, I choose not to live in the shadow of ill-will. I have come to believe that one of the most disrespectful things a man can do is not something visible, but something painfully absent: the failure to provide for his own children. To be physically alive but emotionally and practically unavailable is a quiet form of betrayal.
But God, in His mercy, has given me a gift: the capacity to remember good will. To choose good will.
I choose to hold onto seven moments—seven simple, sacred events my father gave me. Seven memories that break through the heavy fog of disappointment and allow shafts of sunlight to pour through. They are not perfect, not even sufficient—but they are mine. And I treasure them.
I remember building and exploring in a dune buggy with him, laughter echoing as we bounced through rivers and over dunes ~~
I remember the honor of receiving batting lessons from Babe Dahlgren—yes, the Babe Dahlgren who succeeded Lou Gehrig. ~~ I remember my very first backpacking adventure into the Sierra Nevada, up to Silliman Pass in Sequoia National Park—a moment of wonder, of majesty, of connection to something greater than myself.
And there were more—perhaps quiet, perhaps small—but each one a thread in the fabric of a complicated relationship. A fabric I could easily rip apart in anger… but instead, I choose to mend with gratitude.
Thank You, Father in Heaven, for these memories. Thank You for helping me hold onto these moments—not because they erase the pain, but because they remind me that good will is a choice. One I make not because my earthly father deserved it, but because You, my Heavenly Father, poured it into me.
Where ill-will should have reigned, good will rises instead. That, too, is a gift—a reflection not of him, but of You in me.
Should I not ... Because of His undeserved Goodness ... Should I not ... Return goodness to others
'Cause Your goodness is running after, it's running after me Your goodness is running after, it's running after me With my life laid down, I'm surrendered now I give You everything 'Cause Your goodness is running after, it's running after me
And ... this song by an old time favorite ... Keith Green ...'Make My Life a Prayer to You' ... Indeed!
Finding "Good Will"—at times, it feels
almost impossible to imagine.
And yet... it’s often tucked
within the folds of another’s life, quietly waiting to be
noticed.
More often than not, it’s there—if only we are
willing to look beyond the momentary distractions,
beyond the
noise, the wounds, the unmet expectations.
Good will may not
shout. It rarely demands attention.
But if we are still enough…
open enough… humble enough…we just might find it—
not in
the grand gestures, but in the quiet mercies.
A memory … A
gesture … A simple act of presence once offered.
And
sometimes, that is enough to carry us through.
Sometime in the mid-sixties, the world was shifting in ways I couldn't yet understand. Most in the United States were focused on Vietnam—the images of war flickered across the black-and-white television screens in living rooms across the country. But for a seven-year-old boy in Los Angeles, the battlefields of Southeast Asia were distant and abstract. My world was much smaller, yet no less consuming.
Baseball became my life.
There was no questioning where my loyalty lay. In my mind, there was only one name that mattered—Sandy Koufax. He wasn’t just a pitcher; he was a magician, an artist with a baseball in his hand. The way he wound up, that high leg kick, the snap of his wrist as the ball spun toward the plate—it was poetry in motion. I watched him whenever I could, trying to memorize his every move, every pitch, every perfect moment on the mound.
And so, in the backyard of my childhood, I became Sandy.
The garage door was my catcher, its panels bearing the scuff marks of countless fastballs, curves, and sliders—at least in my mind, they were sliders. With each pitch, I imagined the cheers of a packed Dodger Stadium, the roar of the crowd swelling as I struck out batter after batter. I worked tirelessly on my windup, pausing at the peak just like Koufax, then exploding toward home plate. Sometimes, I'd shake off an imaginary catcher’s sign, just like I imagined Sandy did, before hurling the ball with all the strength my seven-year-old arm could muster.
Each time the ball smacked against the garage, it was as if I had just thrown the winning strikeout in the World Series. I could almost hear Vin Scully's voice echoing my triumph, announcing to the world that this little boy from Los Angeles had just done the improbable.
The game was never just a game. It was a dream
— a dream to be like Koufax, to stand on that mound in Dodger blue, to hear the crowd chanting my name. And so, I kept throwing.
"But tonight ... September the ninth, 1965" ~~ "To see the only pitcher in baseball history to hurl four no-hit ~ no run games. He has done it four straight years. And ~ now he capped it, on his fourth no-hitter, he made it a perfect game! And Sandy Koufax ... whose name will always remind you of strike-outs ... did it with a flourish. He struck out the last six consecutive batters. So when he wrote his name in capital letters in the record books ... that 'K' stands out even more than the O U F A X ..." Vin Scully 1927 ~ 2022
It was the winter of 1985, forty years ago this very month. The
chill in the Oregon air was heavy with rain, occasional snowflakes,
and the deep quiet that only a winter season can bring. Yet, within
our hearts, a different kind of anticipation stirred—a hope that
could not be dimmed by either the cold or uncertainty. We were
preparing to welcome our son, Zachary Alan, a child we prayed for,
cherished, and longed to dedicate to God from the very start.
Expectation and joy filled our days, but those feelings were met
with a challenge when the doctor informed us of Zachary’s Fred
Astaire-like dancing feet. A “footling breech,” they called
it—a precarious position that meant our son would not make his
entrance into the world as planned. Instead, a Cesarean section would
be required. In those days, such news felt more foreboding than it
might today, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and birth. The
realization weighed on us, yet through it all, the promise of our
son—our Zach—remained like a flame that could not be
extinguished.
We prayed. And as we waited, God planted a seed of purpose within
our hearts—a desire to dedicate this birth to Him, to let our son’s
arrival signify something greater. As though divinely timed, we soon
discovered a brand-new organization had been founded in our
community: the Salem Resource Center. Only twelve
years had passed since abortion was legalized, and here stood a
mission that sought to protect life—to offer grace and compassion
to preborn babies and the mothers facing crisis pregnancies. This
fledgling organization and its mission of hope aligned perfectly with
our own prayer: that Zachary’s life would begin with a dedication
to God’s grace and the preservation of life.
When Zach finally arrived—his tiny feet making their entrance
through careful, prayerful hands—we saw not just our son, but a
miracle. The cold, wet Oregon winter could not touch the warmth we
felt in our hearts that day. Our hope had been fulfilled.
Indeed ... There is a Story
Now, forty years later, we stand amazed at God’s
faithfulness—both in Zachary Alan’s life and in the ongoing work
of that small seed of hope planted so many years ago. Today, that
once-new organization has grown into what is now the Hope
Pregnancy Clinic, a thriving testament to God’s love and
provision. Just as we prayed for Zach’s life to bring hope, this
clinic brings that same hope to every young woman who walks through
its doors, often overwhelmed and despairing, only to find grace,
charity, and the courage to choose life.
Hope is sustained in many ways. Through monthly and corporate
donors, through community events like walk-a-thons (Zach in stroller, was at the very first), swim and
bike gatherings, banquets, and other fundraisers, the clinic continues its
mission to be a lighthouse of hope. Each day, they stand as a
reminder of the beauty and sanctity of life, and the joy that comes
when a young woman leaves those doors with a newfound desire to bring
her child into the world—a story of redemption written anew.
In celebrating Zachary’s fortieth birthday, we also celebrate
forty years of hope. His life and the ongoing work
of the Hope Pregnancy Clinic are deeply connected—a symbol of God’s
grace at work, no matter the odds or the season.
As one who was born to a sixteen-year-old mother, I can personally
attest to the power of that hope. I am living proof of what happens
when a young woman—though unsure, scared, and facing
obstacles—chooses life. It is only by God’s grace that I live
this day, and it is by that same grace that I pray hope will continue
to manifest in the lives of countless others.
To Zachary Alan—the child of winter, the child of hope—your
life reminds us that every birth is a miracle. And to the Hope
Pregnancy Clinic, may you continue to be the hands and feet of Jesus,
offering love and light to every mother and child who enters your
care.
Forty years of life. Forty years of hope.
For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me my
petition that I made to Him. – 1 Samuel 1:27 (ESV)
Mark Schultz 'What It Means To Be Loved' .... The birth of a child often brings circumstances out of our control. Regardless .... the miracle of birth is just the beginning of 'What It Means To Be Loved' .... Enjoy!
Years past … there
were two best friends, Maya and Lila. They had been inseparable since
childhood, their bond forged in laughter, shared dreams, and endless
games of soccer on the neighborhood field. Maya was fiery, driven,
and unstoppable—a natural leader on and off the field. Lila,
quieter and gentler, was the heart of their friendship, always there
to encourage Maya and keep her grounded.
But Maya had a shadow inside her: a quick
temper that burned hotter than the sun. Lila had seen it flare up
before, but she always stayed patient, calming the storm with her
steady presence. Until one day, during an intense high school soccer
match, Maya’s temper exploded in a way that shattered everything.
It was a close game, and Maya’s team was
losing. Lila, trying to help, accidentally stepped into Maya’s
path, causing her to miss the winning goal. The whistle blew. The
game was over. Maya spun around, her face twisted with rage.
“Why
do you always ruin everything?!” she screamed, her voice echoing
across the field. “You’re useless! I don’t even know why I put
up with you!”
Lila froze, her eyes wide with shock. Tears
welled up, but she didn’t say a word. She simply turned and walked
away, her shoulders hunched, her heart breaking. Maya stood there,
too angry to chase after her, too proud to apologize.
Days turned into weeks, then months. Maya
buried herself in soccer, winning games and earning accolades, but
something was missing. The friendship that had been the anchor of her
life was gone, and though she wouldn’t admit it, she missed Lila
deeply. She thought about calling her, about apologizing, but the
words never came. And soon, years had passed, and they were
strangers.
Maya’s life, once so promising, took a turn
she never expected. Injuries ended her soccer career, and without the
sport that had defined her, she felt lost. She drifted from job to
job, struggling to control the anger that had alienated so many
people. One day, sitting on a park bench with eviction notices in her
lap and tears streaming down her face, she felt like the world had
swallowed her whole.
“Maya?”
She looked up and froze. There, standing before
her, was Lila. Older now, but still with that same gentle smile, that
same warmth in her eyes.
“Lila,”
Maya whispered, her voice trembling. “What… why are you here?”
“I
heard you were going through a rough time,” Lila said, sitting
beside her. She handed Maya a cup of coffee, as though no time had
passed.
Maya took it, her hands shaking. “Why would
you help me after everything I said? After the way I treated you?”
Lila smiled softly. “Because I forgave you,
Maya. A long time ago. Carrying that anger wouldn’t have done
either of us any good. And… I never stopped caring about you.”
Maya broke down, the weight of years of guilt
and shame finally crashing over her. “I’m so sorry,” she
sobbed. “I was horrible to you. I let my anger destroy the best
thing I ever had.”
Lila placed a hand on her shoulder. “Maya, we
all make mistakes. What matters is what we do next.”
From that day on, Lila became Maya’s
lifeline, just as she had been years ago. She helped Maya find a job,
encouraged her to seek therapy, and stood by her as she rebuilt her
life. Slowly, Maya learned to control her anger and rebuild the
person she wanted to be.
But life has a way of testing us in ways we
never expect.
One evening, as they walked together after
dinner, a speeding car came careening around the corner. Maya froze
as the headlights bore down on them. In an instant, Lila shoved her
out of the way, taking the full impact herself.
Maya screamed, "Lila, no!" She rushed to her friend’s side.
Lila was conscious but pale, blood pooling beneath her. “No, no,
no,” Maya cried, cradling her. “Stay with me, Lila. Please, you
can’t leave me.”
Lila’s lips curved into a weak smile. “Maya,”
she whispered, her voice barely audible, “you’ve always been
the stronger one, more than you think. You don’t need me to save you anymore.
You’ve found your way.”
“I
need you,” Maya sobbed. “I can’t do this without you.”
Lila’s hand brushed Maya’s cheek. “You
can. Promise me… you’ll help someone else the way I helped you.
Don’t let my leaving be the end of this.”
And with that, Lila’s hand fell limp. Maya
held her as the life slipped away, her heart breaking into pieces.
Years passed. Maya never forgot Lila’s final
words. She built a life she was proud of, honoring Lila’s memory in
everything she did. But her greatest calling came one day when she
met a girl named Sophie.
Sophie was fiery and talented, just like Maya
had been. But she had the same anger that had once consumed Maya, and
it was driving people away. Maya saw herself in the girl—the anger,
the pride, the loneliness—and she knew what she had to do.
Through patience, love, and persistence, Maya
became a mentor to Sophie, teaching her how to channel her anger, how
to forgive herself, and how to let others in. As Sophie grew and
thrived, Maya felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known in years.
One day, as they sat together after practice,
Sophie turned to Maya and said, “Why do you care so much about
helping me?”
Maya smiled, her eyes misty. “Because someone
once cared enough to save me when I didn’t deserve it. And now, I’m
paying it forward.”
Sophie frowned. “Who was it?”
Maya looked up at the sky, the fading sunlight
casting a warm glow. “Her name was Lila. And she taught me that
forgiveness can change a life.”
As Sophie ran off to the field, Maya stayed
behind, whispering a quiet “thank you” to the Lord of heaven and
earth. Lila was gone, but her legacy lived on—through Maya, through
Sophie, and through the countless lives that forgiveness had touched.
Stories ... Our lives are FULL OF STORIES ... This blog is in fact the story of my life. This story along with the incredible song by Matthew West, is a story that is able to change a life. ~~ That said, the greatest story of all is about a man ... His story is of Love ... of Humility ... of Sacrifice ... He died on a cross to bridge the brokenness of our lives ... with His very own life. He Loved us so very much ... that He humbled Himself ... and He sacrificed His life upon a cross, shedding His blood for our sins.
I hope this this kind of Love ... Humility ... and, Sacrifice ... might always be the model illustrated in my life. ~~ I asked you ... Where are you? ... What is your brokenness? Will you, as Paul ask in Romans 10 ... Call upon the name of the Lord? ... He can ... He will set you free & change your life!
The borders of the rising sun spill over the eastern mountains of Uzbekistan, bathing the wondrous city of Tashkent in a golden light. The borders of daily life emerge as a woman sweeps the walk around the fountain park, her quiet work a stark contrast to the chaos of the world around her. Poverty emerges with unyielding persistence—its hand extended, its face pleading for mercy.
The borders of traffic press uncomfortably close, with Damas vans darting through narrow gaps, squeezing past with mere inches to spare. Their speeds are astonishing, their movements reckless.
Abdulvahob all Smiles
The borders of labor are relentless, stretching across six days a week, ten to twelve hours a day. These lives ache for rest, for renewal, for the Lord of the Sabbath to bring them peace.
Our mission in Tashkent was clear: to teach an Emergency Medicine
First Responder course to police, fire, and military personnel. In a
nation bridging past and future, we sought to impart knowledge and
skills to those tasked with saving lives. From classrooms to
practical demonstrations, we watched as our students absorbed every
detail with eagerness and determination. It was a humbling reminder
of how borders of understanding can be bridged with patience,
compassion, and the desire to serve.
There are the borders of hospitality—a warm Russian welcome on a Thursday evening. Toasts of vodka flow freely. “Men drink vodka in Russia, don’t you know?” she says with both determination and laughter. The room is alive with smiles, camaraderie, and warmth. What a difference eleven years can make in a land once cloaked in Soviet oppression. Now, the borders of Uzbekistan slowly open, embracing a new way of life, a cautious but hopeful freedom.
On Friday evening, the borders of Uzbek hospitality take center stage. Pilaf is served, Nurullo extends friendship, and the floor becomes our table, where conversation, laughter, and stories are shared. Photographs capture these cherished moments, snapshots of lives intertwined for a brief but meaningful time.
The borders of their minds are radiant, their intellects sharp. Their hunger for education is palpable, their eagerness to apply new skills inspiring.
The borders of the market burst with vibrancy, offering a kaleidoscope of sights and scents: fruits and nuts, meat, and the unmistakable aroma of bread. Spices are bartered for, eggs exchanged, and melons savored for their splendorous taste.
Children of Uzbekistan
Yet, amidst this cultural richness lie the borders between two distinct worlds—the Russian and Uzbek cultures, each with its language, faith, and personality. Their coexistence tells a story of adaptation and, at times, tension.
There are deeper borders still, those within the hearts of men—prejudice, sin, and darkness. These are the borders I have encountered on this remarkable journey. These invisible walls surround us all, no matter where we are. We live within the bounds of a universe so wonderfully created, and yet we constantly invent new borders—barriers that grow into walls, walls that prevent the love of our fellow man from reaching our hearts.
Might I be so bold as to say I know the answer to these borders? He is the Creator, the one who declared, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” He came to tear down these barriers, to provide a new and perfect way.
May my life be free of borders—open to my family, my friends, and my neighbor, even those halfway across the globe.
This felt like a beautiful anthem to showcase a life without borders ...
First thoughts... what might they be? Not the father I would have
chosen. But... it seems the opportunity to choose your own father is
yet to come.
One time—yes, only one lone time—do I recall
him ever saying, “Son, I’m proud of you.” I do remember hugs
and hearing, “I love you.” Indeed, that is good!
Then there were the baseball games—two hundred
of them. Can you say, “Less than a handful”? I cannot picture,
even in the faintest corners of my mind, a single moment of him
watching me play. I cannot envision his face at any game. But...
surely, he must have been there. Don’t you think?
The above—yes, they are important, but are they
foremost? What is the most important responsibility of a father?
As I ponder this question, my eyes drift skyward
through the bay window. Another sunrise is lost behind the gray skies
of Oregon. Branches sway gently, shedding their final leaves, which
descend softly to the dampened earth. The sight of rain—a comfort
to me as refreshing as the Nevada desert—might be unwelcome to
others. Yet, to many, the anticipation of moisture for the coming
months is neither a welcomed sight nor thought.
This reflection delivers three amazing images of
what a father should be. And some might say, “Only Rick would put
it that way.” But consider this: the astonishing promise,
provision, and anticipation found in a sunrise and rain.
A Great Day!
Born without the choice of who our fathers will
be, I wish that every father would embrace the simple yet profound
promise to provide for their children. A fundamental responsibility
of fatherhood, don’t you think? And while both father and mother
have long since died, I am fairly certain that Richard Ray provided
little for his four children. This truth testifies to the strength of
Elizabeth Anne, who never once complained. How is that possible? How
does a father strike out on this, his most vital responsibility?
Then, there is anticipation. Just as each person
on this incredible planet eagerly awaits another sunrise, or as an
Oregonian anticipates months of gray skies and rainfall, should not a
son or daughter anticipate time with their father? Should they not
look forward to pearls of wisdom born from years of experience,
challenges, and growth? Sadly, we received little of that.
But... this reflection is entitled Three
Fathers.
From Richard Ray, I gleaned lessons primarily
about what not to do as a father. I mean no disrespect,
but...
Papa & Moma Jopp
Then, like a refreshing breeze on a scorching
summer day, in steps Robert Earl. As children, we immediately recognized his
love—not only for our mother but also for us, her children. He made
a promise to her, and that promise extended to us. The
responsibilities our mother once shouldered alone became shared
through marriage.
One rainy fall weekend, a scout trip nearly fell
apart. For Southern California boys, camping in the rain was worse
than being stuck at home writing a book report—remember those? Yet,
in stepped Robert Earl. Unfazed by the rain, he set up camp with the
same joy and energy as if it were a perfect, sunny day. His
infectious smile and cheerful demeanor transformed the dreary weekend
into a vibrant adventure.
Or consider the day I was thirteen, playing on my
Colts Babe Ruth baseball team. A meeting of managers and parents had
determined the fields required maintenance before the season. A
workday was scheduled, but like the scout trip, the weather was
dreary, and many opted to reschedule. Not Robert Earl! As others
debated what to do, he grabbed tools and led the charge. His
determination inspired others to follow, and with far fewer
volunteers than promised, the work got done.
Dad, these simple yet powerful acts have remained
with me for over fifty years. They stand as examples of some of the
most valuable lessons I have ever learned. A father’s promise
provided an example—the example of what it means to be a man. Thank
you!
Now, at sixty-six years old, I continue to
anticipate your promise and provision. You have profoundly influenced
my life and the lives of my siblings and all those you love. Robert
Earl, your steadfast example has shaped me, and I have made it my
mission to pass these same treasured principles to those in my life.
And who is this “Third Father”?
The concept, “I will never leave you, nor
forsake you,” is a promise that echoes throughout Scripture. First
spoken to Moses in Deuteronomy 31:6 as he prepared to pass the torch
of leadership, Moses reassures the Israelites and their new leader,
Joshua, of God’s unwavering presence. This promise is reaffirmed in
Joshua 1:5-9, where the Lord speaks directly to Joshua, calling him
to lead Israel into the Promised Land. Both passages are intertwined
with a powerful command: “Be strong and courageous.”
In the New Testament, Hebrews 13:5-6 expands this
timeless promise, applying it to human relationships and daily
provision. We are reminded that God’s presence is not confined to
moments of leadership or conquest but extends to every aspect of
life. His promise assures us that He is with us in every season,
weaving people into our lives in ways we may not expect.
Whether they are beloved companions, adversaries,
or strangers, each plays a role in His divine plan. Additionally,
God’s provision teaches us to place our trust in Him rather than
material wealth or human solutions. In all things, He is our ultimate
source of security and sufficiency.
Our Heavenly Father’s promise is unchanging: He
will never leave us nor forsake us. He walks with us through every
joy, every challenge, and every relationship. His steadfast presence
gives us the courage to be strong, the assurance to move forward in
faith, and the peace to be content, knowing that He is—and always
will be—enough.
So, there it is... three fathers and their son.
Though Richard Ray was not the father I would have
chosen, I know that our Heavenly Father placed him in my life for a
reason. Many of those reasons taught me what not to do, yet
they also guided me to different conclusions.
And even in the imperfections, I am grateful.
Grateful that reflection and grace allow me to glean positive moments
and meaningful lessons. Every experience, even those shaped by flaws,
has contributed to who I am today.
Our Heavenly Father, in His infinite wisdom, uses
every circumstance to shape us, grow us, and teach us. And for that,
I remain deeply thankful.
I recognize that the significance of the father is deeply woven
throughout Scripture, offering us profound insights into its meaning
and importance. From the faith and legacy of Father Abraham
to the tender compassion of the father who runs toward the
Prodigal Son, the role of the father is a recurring theme of
strength, love, and reconciliation. Scripture also commands us to
"Honor your father and mother" (Exodus 20:12),
highlighting the sacred bond and responsibility inherent in this
role.
These examples—and many more—point to the rich possibilities
within the idea of 'father.' My prayer and hope are that I, and we as
fathers, can continually seek wisdom and grace to fulfill the calling
of fatherhood, striving to become the fathers our children need. Let
us reflect the love, guidance, and faithfulness of our Heavenly
Father, whose example is perfect and unwavering.
It has been framed as a contest between the “worst person ever” and the
“most unintelligent woman,” with each side claiming the other is
a “threat to democracy.” One thing remains clear: this has been
another vile display of how not to behave.
No matter how harshly people treat each other, I am grateful to
serve a King, not a president.
In the first verse of 1 Peter 2, Peter begins by instructing us to
“put aside” five traits, starting with one that takes me back to
childhood. Back then, using “bad words” was strictly
forbidden—just the threat of the proverbial bar of soap kept me in
line. But we could say “caca” for some reason. Interestingly, the
Greek word Peter uses here is κακία (kakia), meaning evil or
malice. Close enough to caca for me! We’re to “put aside” all
forms of caca, so to speak—not malign others or act without shame
in breaking moral laws. It means to avoid pure evil in both action
and intent.
Sadly, this word may be the best descriptor for certain candidates
for office. But I digress! As a follower of Christ, I am personally
called to put aside these very traits.
Peter goes on, listing deceit, hypocrisy, envy, and slander. Lord,
help me put these aside! Yet, how often do we see adults exhibit the
exact opposite of these virtues? Rarely! Peter instructs us to be
like newborns, longing for pure spiritual milk. This should be the
goal for each of us who follow Christ, our Living Cornerstone.
Scripture often uses an imperative tense, which gives weight to
commands. In this chapter, Peter employs six imperatives, beginning
with ἐπιποθέω, or “to greatly desire.” This longing for
spiritual milk is meant to help us grow in salvation, the very gift
Christ offers through the cross.
The second imperative Peter uses is ὑποτάσσω, meaning “to
line up under” or “to be subject to” all human authority—yes,
even lowercase kings. This can be challenging, especially if the
person in power is not our choice.
Today is the morning of November 6, 2024, the day after the U.S.
election. I’ve chosen not to check the results yet; at this moment,
I don’t know who the nation has chosen. It will be what it will be,
and I hope those in authority fulfill their duty to punish evil and
promote good.
Our task, however, is laid out in verse 17: Honor, Love, Fear,
Honor. The first command to honor applies to all, regardless of our
differences. Interestingly, “honor” has a heightened significance
when it comes to authority. The Fifth Commandment and Paul’s words
in Ephesians 6 both state, “Honor your father and mother,” the
first commandment with a promise. Authority deserves honor; we’re
not commanded to love those in power.
Love, however, is specific to the brotherhood of believers. Again,
honor is for authority, while love is reserved for fellow Christians.
This theme of loving one another permeates the New Testament. As
Jesus says in John 13:34, “A new commandment I give you, that you
love one another.” And in 1 John 4:11: “If God so loved us, we
also ought to love one another.” Paul reiterates in Romans 13:8:
“Owe nothing to anyone except to love one another.” Even Peter,
earlier in this letter, commands, “Fervently love one another from
the heart.”
So, I ask, will Christians—whether Democrat, Republican,
Independent, or otherwise—truly be able to “love one another,”
no matter who our next president may be? More importantly, can I live
up to this call?
Peter continues: “Fear God.” While scripture often instructs
us to honor and love God, here Peter emphasizes our need to revere
Him. This reverence is due to the Almighty, the One who has brought
the message of salvation to us (Acts 13:26).
And now, who has won the election? I’ll soon find out.
Regardless, my reverence belongs to the Creator, our Redeemer, and
I’ll honor the new president—whoever they may be.
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