God chose Israel to reflect Him, obey Him, and show the world who He is. Over time, they slowly moved away. They worshiped other gods. They copied the practices of other nations. They bowed to idols. They refused to trust the LORD. They ignored His warnings. Eventually, they forgot who the LORD is. None of this happened all at once. It happened through small compromises made day after day.

So the question is: can people who are worthless to God still think they are useful?

The answer is yes.

People can be very busy and still be spiritually worthless. They can feel successful, moral, productive, and even religious, while being completely disconnected from God’s purpose. They may be useful in their own eyes, useful to society, useful to a cause, yet still useless to God because they are no longer aligned with His truth or will. Self-deception is powerful. Scripture warns us, “There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way of death.”

Drifting away from God is slow and quiet. Prayer fades. Obedience becomes selective. God is not rejected outright, just slowly replaced. The conscience grows dull. The heart grows comfortable. And usefulness fades without the person realizing it.

But there is hope. While drifting away from God takes time, repentance is immediate. The moment a heart turns back to God in humility, usefulness can be restored. God does not need years to forgive years of compromise. He responds instantly to repentance.

This is the difference between worthless and useful.

Worthless means existing without fulfilling God’s purpose. Useful means being aligned with God’s truth, listening to His voice, and obeying even when it is hard. Usefulness is not about activity. It is about faithfulness.

The warning of 2 Kings 17 is not written to shame us, but to wake us up. God’s people did not fall because they stopped believing overnight. They fell because they stopped remembering who God is. What happened to them can happen to us, unless we guard our hearts, resist compromise, and return quickly when we drift.

God never stops loving His people. But usefulness must be protected. And when it is lost, it must be recovered through repentance, obedience, and remembrance.

There are more than eight billion people on this earth, and every one of them carries emotions shaped by fear, pain, belief, and experience. Emotion itself is not wrong. It is human. But when emotion is allowed to rule, people become easy to control. Those who tell the most emotional story gain the most power, regardless of whether the story is true. Emotion does not need facts to move crowds. It only needs a feeling to follow.

We see this every day in the news. Tragedy becomes verdict. Headlines replace facts. People choose sides instantly, not because the law is unclear, but because emotion has already decided the outcome. The same event is called justice by one group and cruelty by another, depending entirely on how it makes them feel. In this environment, truth struggles to breathe.

This is why laws must have no emotion. Laws exist to slow us down when feelings run high, not to speed us up. If laws bend with outrage or sympathy, they stop being fair. Emotion can alert us that something is wrong, but it cannot tell us what is right. When emotion becomes the final authority, it stops being a guide and becomes a weapon. A society cannot think clearly if it only feels loudly.

When emotion rules, complexity disappears. There is no patience for process, no respect for restraint, and no tolerance for uncertainty. Leaders are condemned whether they act or hesitate. Authority is labeled weakness one moment and tyranny the next. Governing becomes impossible because emotion refuses to wait, and wisdom cannot be rushed.

This is why families matter now more than ever. Truth must be taught early, and it must be allowed to overrule emotion. Homes are where children should learn that feelings are real but not always right, and that truth does not change based on how something makes us feel. A society that loses this lesson in the home will eventually lose it in the law.

So how do we move forward? We slow down. We resist the urge to react to every headline as final truth. We defend process, even when it is uncomfortable. We allow facts to emerge before judgment hardens. We practice discipline in thought and restraint in speech. And we rebuild strong families where truth is valued above feeling and responsibility is taught alongside compassion.

A world ruled entirely by emotion may feel compassionate, but it cannot be just. And without justice, no society can endure.

“Because you have obeyed Me and have not withheld even your son, your only son.”

That verse leads me to a hard but honest question: What would I withhold from God? Would it be my health, my family, my security, my reputation, or the things I love most? Whatever I am unwilling to place in God’s hands often reveals what I fear losing the most.

God already knows what I want to hold back. The test is not for Him—it is for me. Fear is usually the reason I withhold something. Job understood this when he said, “What I feared has come upon me; what I dreaded has happened to me.” Fear tightens my grip and convinces me that surrender will lead to loss. But Scripture shows the opposite. God does not ask for surrender to take from us, but to be first in our lives.

When I place what I love on the altar and release my grip, I am not losing it—I am trusting God with it. And what God receives, He is faithful to provide for in ways I could never imagine. As Jim Elliot famously said, “He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.”

Genesis 22 reminds me that obedience comes before provision, and Job reminds me that fear only robs me of peace. The answer to both is trust. And the promise that remains true, even when obedience feels costly, is this:

God will provide.

Energy tells the story clearly. California’s policies have pushed oil refineries out of the state, shrinking supply and driving fuel prices higher. When fuel costs rise, everything rises with it, from food and goods to construction and emergency services. For many people, driving to work is no longer a choice but a burden. The pressure is not subtle. Make traditional living too expensive, and people are pushed toward one approved way of life whether they are ready or not. That is not leadership by example; it is leadership by cost.

This approach is spreading across California lawmaking. Regulations block housing from being built, so scarcity becomes permanent. Business rules raise costs until employers leave or never come at all. Transportation and environmental laws raise prices long before alternatives exist. Life in California now feels like a narrow hallway with fewer doors each year. When government limits options and raises prices at the same time, freedom fades quietly, without a single dramatic moment.

The solution is clear and unavoidable. California needs change in government and new leadership. We need leaders willing to remove regulations that harm workers, families, and businesses, not defend them out of pride. We need leaders who understand that affordability is not a luxury, it is survival. Policies must be judged by what they produce, not by how noble they sound. As Milton Friedman warned, “One of the great mistakes is to judge policies by their intentions rather than their results.” And as Ronald Reagan reminded us, “Government does not solve problems; it subsidizes them.”

California is not beyond saving, but it is dangerously close to accepting decline as normal. If 2026 feels like a breaking point, it is because many people sense that the state is being steered by ideology instead of reality. Change will not come from speeches or slogans. It will come when leadership respects the people who work, build, and keep California running, and stops punishing them for living ordinary lives.

I have also learned that anarchy in the home breeds anarchy in society. Disorder does not begin in governments or streets; it begins around kitchen tables where responsibility is avoided, truth is softened, and leadership is absent. When families lose structure, discipline, and purpose, society pays the price later. A culture cannot be stronger than its homes, and no law can replace what is missing in the hearts of fathers and mothers.

Along the way, I learned not to take the trip, but to let the trip take me. The more tightly I tried to control outcomes, the more frustrated I became. Growth often comes not from mastering the road, but from being shaped by it. The journey teaches lessons that no destination ever could, if we stop fighting it long enough to learn.

I have noticed that when I become afraid, it is usually because I do not understand the future. Fear thrives in uncertainty, especially when faith is replaced with control. The unknown exposes our limits, and that exposure can either humble us or paralyze us. Understanding may not remove fear completely, but trust gives us the courage to move forward anyway.

What I believe is needed now more than ever are desperate men. Not reckless men, not angry men, but men desperate enough to pray, desperate enough to take responsibility, and desperate enough to stand in the gap for their families. Comfort has made too many passive, but desperation can awaken purpose. When men realize what is at stake, they return to their knees and reclaim their place as protectors, leaders, and servants.

Thomas Paine once wrote, “The real man smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, and grows from reflection.” That line has proven true with age. Hardship reveals character, pressure refines it, and reflection completes the work. Strength is not found in avoiding difficulty, but in allowing it to shape wisdom, patience, and resolve.

These are not conclusions I reached quickly, and they are not lessons I learned without cost. They are simply truths revealed over time, written slowly by experience, failure, faith, and reflection.

That music does not just tell a story; it remembers one. It carries the grief of a people who have been hunted, scattered, and nearly erased. It led me to think about three realities that have stood at the center of human hatred and conflict for thousands of years: the Jewish people, Christianity, and the city of Jerusalem. These are not random targets of history. They are connected by one unchanging reason: God declared them His own.

The Jewish people have endured persecution unlike any other group in human history. From slavery in Egypt, exile in Babylon, and dispersion under Rome, to medieval pogroms, expulsions across Europe, and the Holocaust, generation after generation has tried to erase them. Entire empires committed themselves to their destruction and failed. Egypt, Assyria, Babylon, Rome, and Nazi Germany are gone. The Jewish people remain. This endurance is not accidental. God said, “I will take you as My own people, and I will be your God.” Hatred toward the Jews has never been merely political or racial at its core; it is spiritual. Satan has always opposed what God has chosen, believing that if he could destroy the people of covenant, he could call God’s promises into question.

Christianity bears the same mark of opposition. From the first century onward, believers were imprisoned, burned, crucified, and fed to lions, not for violence, but for confession. Rome persecuted Christians because they would not declare Caesar lord. Today, Christianity remains the most persecuted faith in the world, with believers imprisoned or killed simply for naming the name of Christ. Scripture explains why: the church is called the bride of Christ. Jesus Himself warned, “If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated Me first.” The enemy understands that to attack the bride is to defy the Bridegroom. Yet history shows that martyrdom has never weakened the church. As Tertullian observed long ago, “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.”

Then there is Jerusalem, a city no larger than many modern towns, yet fought over more than any other city in history. Destroyed and rebuilt, conquered by Babylonians, Romans, Crusaders, and empires long forgotten, Jerusalem continues to draw the world’s attention and conflict. Why? Because God said, “I have chosen Jerusalem, that My name may be there.” Jerusalem is more than land; it is testimony. As long as it stands, it declares that God enters history, chooses places, and keeps His word. Satan believes that if he can destroy the city God chose, he can deny God’s authority and escape judgment. Yet Jerusalem still stands, scarred, divided, and contested, but enduring.

As that music faded this morning, one truth remained clear to me. The enemy’s strategy has never changed: destroy what God loves, oppose what God chooses, and silence what God declares His own. History tells a different story. The Jewish people endure. The church continues to grow. Jerusalem remains. What was meant for destruction has instead become evidence of God’s faithfulness.

The enemy resists, history records, and God remains faithful.

But we must be honest: defending our rights will never give us our heart’s deepest desire. No court ruling will cause America to honor God. No legal victory will cause His truth to stand in a nation that no longer wants it. Courts can protect space for the church to exist, but they cannot give the church power. They may restrain evil for a season, but they cannot produce repentance, revival, or obedience to God.

The danger comes when the church begins to believe that righteousness can be secured through law rather than lived through surrender to the One who holds our future. The enemy is content to let us win arguments if it keeps us from winning hearts. He does not fear a church that is loud in courtrooms but quiet in prayer. James Madison understood this when he wrote, “We have staked the whole future of American civilization, not upon the power of government, but upon the capacity of each of us to govern ourselves.” Without moral and spiritual self-governance, no system of law can hold.

The court that ultimately shapes a nation is not the Supreme Court, but the throne room of God. His judgments are eternal. His truth does not bend with culture, elections, or public opinion. When the church prays instead of postures, repents instead of reacts, and lives under God’s authority rather than demanding the world submit to it, God is honored—and only then does His truth stand.

Yes, we must defend our rights. But we must never place our hope in them. Our hope is not that judges will rule rightly, but that God would rule in our hearts, and through transformed lives bring light to a darkened nation. Laws may restrain evil for a time, but only God can redeem a people.

Ecclesiastes presses hard against that way of living and reminds me that wisdom is not formed in noise. We live in a culture that thrives on speed and reaction, yet a good life has always required something deeper and more enduring. Abraham Lincoln captured this truth simply when he said, “In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” Looking back, I can see how easily outside events can steal attention, joy, and perspective when they are allowed to set the pace.

That is why 2026 calls for a different way of living. Not louder, faster, or more demanding—but quieter, steadier, and more grounded. Slowing down matters, but not because stillness itself produces a great life. A quieter pace only has value if it creates space for what truly matters. Tim Keller put it this way: “If you live for anything besides Jesus, it will demand everything from you and give nothing back.” If my life slows down but remains centered on myself, I have gained nothing.

A truly good life is not found in calm, balance, or simplicity alone. It is found in knowing Jesus Christ and living in a way that brings glory to Him. Slowing down is not the goal; surrender is. Clarity does not come merely from fewer distractions, but from a heart rightly ordered toward Christ.

A good life in 2026 will not be found in having more opinions, more possessions, or more certainty. It will be found in seeing clearly who Jesus is, accepting our limits, and ordering our days around His will rather than our own urgency. The world will continue to shout, divide, and demand our reaction, but we do not have to follow its pace. A quiet life centered on Christ may look smaller to the world, but it brings glory to God—and in the end, that is the only life that truly lasts.

One of those truths is simple and unavoidable: death is part of life. I don’t say that to bring sadness, but to speak honestly. Scripture tells us there is a time to be born and a time to die. From the moment we are born, we begin moving toward an appointed day. This past year reminded us of that again. The young and the old, the well-known and the unknown—lives ended, stories closed, and the world kept moving forward.

Yet death is not the end of the story. It is only a doorway.

The body grows weak and returns to dust, but the soul never dies. God has set eternity in the human heart, and what we do with Jesus Christ determines where that eternity will be spent. Jesus spoke without hesitation or fear when He said that He is the resurrection and the life, and that whoever believes in Him will live even though they die. That truth changes how we see everything. Fear loosens its grip, loss finds meaning, and hope begins to rise where uncertainty once lived.

As I’ve grown older, these truths have become clearer—not heavier. When I was young, life was about goals, schedules, and getting ahead. I measured days by accomplishment and progress. I still carry some of that drive, but something shifted this past year. I’ve slowed enough to notice more—the people around me, the quiet conversations, the beauty in ordinary moments, and the small mercies I once rushed past without seeing.

When I was young, death felt distant and unreal. In my twenties, I began thinking ahead, wondering what my life might become. By my forties, life settled into routine—working, providing, and looking forward to weekends, vacations, and holidays. Now, in this later season, my thoughts have shifted again. I think less about career and more about character, less about success and more about meaning, less about making a living and more about how a life is lived.

Moses prayed that God would teach us to number our days so that we might gain a heart of wisdom. That prayer carries weight, because wisdom comes when we understand that time is short, but eternity is long, and that our days are meant to prepare us for what lasts forever.

C.S. Lewis once wrote that if we aim at heaven, we get earth thrown in, but if we aim only at earth, we get neither. Knowing Christ gives life its true direction. Death no longer has the final word—hope does.

That is why this reflection does not end in sorrow, but in peace. The grave is not our destination. Jesus is. And because He lives, so shall we.

That is why I write—just some thoughts. Not because I have all the answers, but because each passing year helps me see more clearly what truly matters, and where real joy is found.

Habakkuk is watching his nation come apart. He sees violence in the streets, corruption in leadership, and justice twisted until it no longer resembles justice at all. Laws exist, but they no longer protect what is right. Truth is shouted down, arguments never end, and the righteous feel outnumbered and unheard. Everywhere he looks there is conflict—people angry, divided, and unwilling to listen. Habakkuk does not soften his words. He looks at God and asks how long this can go on, why evil seems unchecked, and why misery appears to be winning. It sounds uncomfortably close to the world we wake up to every day—headlines filled with outrage, neighbors divided, families fractured by politics and ideology, violence normalized, and justice questioned depending on who you are or where you stand.

Moses, in Numbers 20, is facing a different angle of the same storm. He is not watching society unravel from a distance—he is carrying it on his shoulders. His sister Miriam has just died, a loss deeply personal and impossible to separate from his calling. She was there at the beginning, watching over him as a baby, helping shape the course of his life. Before he can grieve, Moses is surrounded by nearly two million exhausted, frightened, and angry people. They are thirsty, uncomfortable, and nostalgic for a past that was never truly good. They complain loudly, accuse freely, and blame Moses for their hardship, even though God has been faithful at every step. The noise never stops. The pressure never lifts. And eventually, Moses absorbs what is around him. His anger boils over, and in one moment, frustration speaks louder than faith. God tells him to speak to the rock—but Moses strikes it instead. Water still flows, but the moment is damaged. The miracle happens, yet the opportunity to honor God fully is lost.

Both men were under immense strain. Both lived in hard times. But their responses took them in very different directions. Habakkuk brought his fear, confusion, and frustration to God and stayed there long enough to be changed. Moses carried the anger of the people until it came out through him.

By the end of his book, Habakkuk has not seen conditions improve. Violence has not vanished. The future is still uncertain. Crops may fail. Fields may sit empty. Livestock may disappear. Yet he makes a decision that redefines everything: even if nothing around him changes, his trust will not move. He declares that he will rejoice in the Lord anyway, that God Himself—not circumstances—will be his strength. The promise does not erase the pain, but it gives it meaning.

We are living in a moment much like theirs. We are surrounded by noise, division, outrage, and constant pressure to react. We are told every day what to fear, who to blame, and why everything is falling apart. It is easy to grow angry, impatient, and sharp-edged. It is easy to let the atmosphere shape our spirit. But as we step into this next year, the question before us is not whether the times will get easier. The question is whether we will respond like Habakkuk—or like Moses in that moment of exhaustion.

This year must bring a change in us. We must decide now that anger will not lead our obedience, that fear will not dictate our faith, and that frustration will not silence our worship. We must settle it in our hearts that even if the news remains troubling, even if the culture grows louder and harsher, even if answers are slow in coming, we will stand firm.

Habakkuk teaches us that faith is not denial—it is defiance. It looks at reality and still chooses God. As we move forward, let our declaration be clear and settled:

Even though the world shakes, we will rejoice.

Even though answers delay, we will remain faithful.

Even though the times are hard, the Lord is our strength.