I am not anti-makeup. I am not anti-skincare. But I am also not anti-aging.

Women have always struggled with looking their age. Whatever era you were raised in, I am sure you have memories of mothers and grandmothers lamenting loosening skin, deepening eye bags, or graying hair. Even in our culture, which is quick to denounce prejudices such as ageism, women are trapped in anxious cycles of trying (and failing) to look younger as they grow older. I know girls in their twenties who are getting “baby Botox”—preventative injections to ensure that, although they may age, their faces do not.

I admit that, sometimes, I feel a twinge of envy as I consider these women. My conscience—not to mention my schedule and wallet—will not permit me to take anti-aging measures beyond a drug store retinol and some tinted moisturizer. I still cringe as I remember attending a wedding where women several years older than me looked several years younger. I was keenly aware of my age-appropriate skin.

Beyond envy and self-consciousness (which is really just vanity’s pseudo-humble sister), I find that I am indignant. Why are we so eager to erase our faces, to eliminate evidence of lives well-lived? Why are we desperate to look like children when we are adults, and to exchange our uniquely beautiful countenances for artificially blank canvases? When did we start hating ourselves for living longer and looking it?

Why should I be ashamed of the “elevens” between my eyebrows? I’m certainly not ashamed of the intense studying and practicing that put them there.

Why should I be embarrassed by the creases in my forehead? They were etched into place by laughter, surprise, and awe. They continue to multiply and deepen through choir rehearsals as I motivate vocalists to sing with joy and in tune. I am absolutely not embarrassed to have a sense of humor (and pitch), so why do I cringe at these marks?

Why should I want to fill in the little crevices on either side of my mouth? They bracket my lips like parentheses and hint at a quickness to smile and frown. Do I really want to live in dull neutrality just for the sake of smoother skin?

These lines speak to the story God is telling through my life. Why would I wipe them out?

I wonder, too, if part of our distaste for the appearance of age is related to our fear of anything beyond comfortable numbness. Emotions more extreme than a flatlined “a-okay” are diagnosable. Strenuous work is to be avoided with a few taps and swipes. Rigorous learning is easily offloaded to machines.

So consider this rambling ode to my aging skin a cry of resistance. I will not avoid genuine affections, hard work, or intense study. I will continue to smile wide at a good joke, pull funny faces at my son, purse my lips when thinking, frown at injustices, and mirror the music I make with my eyebrows. I will brazenly continue to erode channels into my face through smiling, studying, squinting, singing, and, yes, sobbing. I will keep living, and welcome the signs of my multiplying years as badges of honor (Proverbs 16:31).

Who’s with me?

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue,
and those who love it will eat its fruits.” – Proverbs 18:21

What if we saw our speech for what it is?
What if we saw its power performed
In the beauty and brutality of life
—and death?

Our tongue ought to act as midwife,
Made and trained to bring life—
To echo experimental coos
And inspire smiling shrieks of surprise,
Bubbling over with unaffected delight
As gurgles give way to giggles
And lead, at long last,
To a baby’s full-bellied laugh.

But too often it proves more deft
As an angel of death—
Battering breath into bruised ribs
And wracking them with the reaper’s rattle,
Puncturing thinned skin
Again and again and again
Until it can bleed no more
In the face of the final say.

But having a baby?

Having a baby has slowed me down.

It’s made me slower to be pressured into gigs I don’t really want and slower to cave to performance anxiety. I have bigger concerns now.

It’s made me slower to fret about my body or my hair or the deepening lines on my forehead. I am created to nurture and feed, not just to be seen.

It’s made me slower to judge families for struggling into church late and slower to be annoyed when a baby dares to cry during service. I am part of the car-seat crew now. And crying? Well, it’s just what babies do.

It’s made me slower to pop into shops, perusing and purchasing what I don’t need and what will not bring lasting pleasure. My arms are overflowing with better things now.

It’s made me slower to throw on a podcast to drown out the silence. Silence, punctuated only by thumb-sucking and tiny snores, has become unspeakably precious.

It’s made me slower to scroll mindlessly past horrific news and slower to push through heavy emotions. I have joined that intangible fellowship of mothers who feel the weight of each other’s responsibility.

It has made me slower to scorn others, no matter how messy or needy or bitter they may be. I see now that everybody is somebody’s baby.

As I observed the eagles, the river, and the lush green around me, I could not help but note the difference from my desert homeland, the Phoenix suburbs. Moving from Arizona to Iowa meant exchanging year-round brown for a whirlwind cycle of color. It meant leaving temperate weather with the occasional dust storm for tornado season and blizzard season. It meant swapping cacti for oak trees, scorpions for spiders, and lizards for squirrels. I do not have to scare javelina away from my car as I once did, but I do have to avoid hitting deer with it.

I don’t think these changes are arbitrary. The Lord called us to Iowa to serve his church here, but I think there is more to it than that. I believe God places his servants not just in specific communities but ecologies. He calls us to particular places not only for us to do something but for those places to do something to us.

Think about all the times in Scripture when the Lord draws his people to mountaintops, deserts, seas, or gardens to teach them something.

So I began to wonder: Why Iowa? Why this region of cornfields and rivers? Of abundant birds and overgrown yards? Or gusty winds and pollen allergies? What is it I am meant to learn here that I could not have learned in the desert?

Perhaps the tumultuous weather is meant to teach me dependence. Maybe the seasons are to teach me patience and timeliness. The comedy of the squirrels hopping about my yard may be to teach me levity, though their propensity for being struck down by cars may be to remind me that creation is groaning in painful expectation. The flourishing cherry tree in my yard may be to teach me about fruitful generosity, while the withering apple tree may stand as a warning. Perhaps the eagles swooping over my running trail are simply to encourage me to run with diligence—both on my favorite trail and in my faith. And maybe the oak trees over my house are to impress upon me that I am small and that sturdiness is slow-growing.

I may have learned such lessons had I stayed in the desert. But then again, maybe not. Maybe desert-planted Christians are meant to learn different lessons. At the very least, they are likely to learn differently.

Perhaps growing up in parched places was to teach me to thirst, literally and spiritually. Maybe it was to remind me of the fierce heat of God’s love—and wrath. As in Scripture, it seems that my years in the desert were never the goal but, instead, a time of intense preparation for what lay ahead.

All this to say, take stock of where you live and have lived. Notice what makes these environments distinct. Consider what their dangers and delights may be doing to your soul. Don’t just “bloom where you are planted,” as the old cliché goes. Instead, be mindful of the material metaphors the surround you. Pay attention to the pedagogy of place.

Marmee stands not only as an ideal mother, but a pastor’s wife I would do well to emulate. Indeed, while rereading Little Women a few years ago, I found myself wishing she could pop in to give advice to other literary pastors’ wives, much as she does for her four daughters. To Mrs. Morland, she might recommend wiser reading material, though the two would revel in their lively, full households. To Charlotte Collins, she would gently say that love is as necessary as financial stability in a happy marriage. To Mrs. Norris, she would probably let a bit of her zeal loose as she denounced her love of money. To Mrs. Hale, Marmee certainly would cry, “Hope, and keep busy!”

While her husband is away, serving as a Union chaplain, Marmee holds down the fort. Even when he returns, she manages her home and children with remarkable independence. Her husband is a devoted husband and father, but she is completely competent in her own right. She keeps the home afloat through poverty, serves her less-fortunate neighbors, endures the loss of one child, and safely sees three others into motherhood themselves. Like Odysseus returning to his faithful Penelope after years of voyaging, it is easy to imagine Mr. March and their children declaring of Marmee, “This woman has a heart of iron within her!”

All that said, I’d like to share four lessons from this favorite fictional mother.

1. Read Well, Live Well

Little Women is a book about books. The March sisters live in a thoroughly literary household: performing Shakespearean plays, singing Isaac Watts’ hymns, visiting monuments to Goethe and Schiller, enjoying Harriet Beecher Stowe, Oliver Goldsmith, and Sir Walter Scott, and, of course, imitating the journey of Christian in John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress. Later in the novel, Professer Bhaer gifts Jo a Shakespeare collection, saying, “You wish for a library; here I gif you one; for between these two lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read him well, and he will help you much; for the study of character in this book will help you to read it in the world, and paint it with your pen.” These words aptly describe Little Women, too. It is “many books in one,” a full library of references and insights.

As the daughter of an English teacher, I can say for certain that mothers have the marvelous opportunity to fill their children’s minds with good books. There is perhaps no more impactful librarian than a mother who searches out excellent stories to nurture her children’s discernment, resilience, and imagination. Marmee does exactly this. In the opening chapters, she gives her daughters a gift that keeps on giving: a very good book. Recognizing that fiction is formative, Marmee gives each daughter a copy of Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress. Then, she advises them to live in this story so much that it becomes natural also to live it out—to conquer temptation and remain steadfast in virtue like the protagonist they come to know so well. Similarly, reading Little Women is an invitation to imitation, to copy its characters’ growth in our own lives until their virtues become not just the traits of characters we admire but our character as well.

As Alcott biographer John Matteson writes, “To a very large extent, the March sisters are who they are because of what they read.” Let this sink in: you are what you read. At the very least, you are likely to reflect what you consume. Marmee clearly knows this and has fed her mind fruitful books, which she then shares generously with her children. We can assume, too, that Marmee is who she is because of the books she has read deeply and repeatedly. This should be encouraging and convicting, leading us to read widely as well as wisely.

Louisa May Alcott viewed children’s novels as more than casual entertainment; she viewed them as “companions” to usher children into mature adulthood, where dreams do not always come true but, instead, happiness may be found through courage, commitment, honor, humility, self-sacrifice, and kindness. The March sisters, guided by their mother, grow in maturity not just alongside the Great Books but because of them. Likewise, Little Women has been a constant friend and mentor to many of us since girlhood—as it should. I invite you to join the host of readers who have found maternal, familial comfort and strength in this humorous, sad, real book.

2. “Hope and Keep Busy”

Throughout Little Women, Marmee remains industrious and cheerful in the face of genuine loneliness and loss. She chooses optimism and activity when it would have been easy to sink into despair and continually follows her own advice: “Hope, and keep busy!” This motto seems to have originated with Alcott’s mother, who advised her daughter to write as a productive means of channeling and combatting anxiety.

Marmee teaches her children that “work is wholesome, and there is plenty for every one; it keeps us from ennui and mischief; is good for health and spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than money or fashion.” Like the March sisters, we may find that we are overly anxious because we are underly busy. It is tougher to succumb to worry when we consistently apply ourselves to useful activities.

Marmee is a working pastor’s wife. She does not earn an income, but she is not idle. She is generous to those in need and involved in her daughters’ lives. The novel Marmee indicates that she would have been active in supporting Union troops and promoting better living conditions for poorer classes, as well as managing the day-to-day functions of her household. By keeping busy, she staves off worry over her husband, who is far away at war. Although a devoted wife, she ensures that Mr. March is not her entire universe; she has passions and pursuits to keep her occupied and optimistic in his absence.

While each March sister grows into a productive adult, Jo seems to possess most of Marmee’s zeal for hard work. She writes this poem in a letter:

“I am glad a task to me is given,
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say,—
‘Head you may think, Heart you may feel,
But Hand you shall work away!’”

It is strangely comforting to remember that there is always something we can do—be it taking a meal to someone, digging into a Bible study, or simply folding another pile of laundry. Like Marmee and Jo, we may find that the best remedy to a heavy heart or anxious mind is a working hand. If we imitate Marmee in hoping and keeping active, I believe we will find that “youth will be delightful, old age will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success.”

3. Prioritize Properly

Alongside keeping busy, Marmee remains unflappably energetic and optimistic because she has her priorities in order. We see this in the counsel she gives to Meg, who becomes so consumed with caring for her babies that she neglects her husband, housework, and friends. Marmee, who is clearly a devoted mother, offers this surprising advice:

“You have only made the mistake that most young wives make—forgotten your duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be remedied before you take to different ways; for children should draw you nearer than ever, not separate you—as if they were all yours, and John had nothing to do but support them…Make [home] so pleasant he won’t want to go away. My dear, he’s longing for his little home; but it isn’t home without you, and you are always in the nursery…too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well as to the babies; don’t neglect husband for children—don’t shut him out of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it…Go out more; keep cheerful as well as busy—for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no fair weather…take an interest in whatever John likes, talk with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help each other in that way. Don’t shut yourself up in a bandbox because you are a woman, but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to take your part in the world’s work, for it all affects you and yours.”

If we unpack this, we see that Marmee prescribes the following steps: 1) Prioritize your husband, alongside and even over children, 2) care for your house, 3) let your husband be involved in parenting, for your sake as well as your children’s; 4) have enjoyable activities and friendships beyond the home; 5) don’t neglect your own education. This advice squares with Alcott’s philosophy that the nuclear family should be a blessing to society—not an island but a foundation—and that women should refine their minds and engage society. We can learn from Marmee and Alcott here, viewing our homes not as our own private queendoms but as the launching point for our service to our husbands, children, churches, and communities.

But how does Marmee manage to keep busy and maintain her priorities so gracefully? Why doesn’t she seem frantic or burdened? Because she knows that she is a servant, and she has faith in her Heavenly Father. When missing her husband, she says, “Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty…? If I don’t seem to need help, it is because I have a better friend, even than father, to comfort and sustain me.” She prioritizes properly because she looks to God and recognizes that she is not in control: all she can do is manage what she has been given with diligence and trust.

4. “Be Angry and Do Not Sin”

As the novel progresses, we learn that Marmee’s determination to keep busy is not merely to keep her spirits up but to keep her from sin. Productivity channels her anger into usefulness. In Marmee, Sarah Miller imagines Marmee’s mother teaching her to control her anger, to “make of it an oven rather than a conflagration…Fire consumes, but an oven transforms.” As is so often the case, Marmee’s greatest strength—her passion and determination—is also her greatest weakness.

In one critical scene, Jo confides in her mother, lamenting her anger and wondering whether she will ever conquer it. Marmee gives her the predictable advice: “Watch and pray…never get tired of trying.” However, this does not help Jo, who feels alone in her battle against her personal Apollyon. What proves more helpful is when Marmee confesses that she, too, battles anger—and that it is an ongoing battle: “I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo; but I have learned not to show it; and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so.”

This confession of mother to daughter does more than any reproof. Knowing that her mother—who she respects above anyone else—shares her sinful tendencies but is valiantly warring against them bolsters Jo’s courage more than anything else. But what have we as readers to learn from this? Perhaps we, too, can take comfort that our struggles are not unique to us. Others—even those whom we most respect—are battling them as well. We do not fight alone. We can also learn from this gentle confidence between Marmee and Jo. Marmee does not advertise her “bosom enemy” but restrains her anger in front of her daughters. She only admits her struggles in private to build up a young “pilgrim.” We can also learn from her proactivity; she asks her husband to keep an eye on her temper and warn her when she needs to cool off. She is humble and wise enough not to fight alone.

Conclusion: Proverbs 31 (For Real)

The “Proverbs 31 woman” has become a cliché that makes me cringe. It brings to mind my years in a church where the women were almost exclusively allowed to study Proverbs 31 and Titus 2, as if the rest of Scripture was too much for them to handle. Now, my social media algorithm is trying to convince me that a Proverbs 31 woman lives on a homestead, makes her own endocrine-safe soaps, and gives birth to baby after baby in a bathtub. That might be one way to be a Proverbs 31 woman, but it isn’t for me. I like my smelly soaps and modern medicine. I also can’t afford livestock.

But Marmee is a Proverbs 31 woman in the most basic and beautiful sense. Whether we are homesteaders or professionals, newlyweds or matrons, we can all learn from her example, just as all Christian wives can aspire to the following verses:

“Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come. She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue. She looks well to the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise and call her blessed. Her husband also, and he praises her: ‘Many women have done excellently, but you surpass them all.’” –Prov. 31:25-29

Marmee is strong, enduring poverty, grief, loneliness, and hard work without crumbling. She is dignified, remaining a gentlewoman even when her fortune is lost and she cannot keep up with the latest fashions. She constantly discerns how to instruct her daughters in wisdom and virtue, adjusting her delivery to their unique personalities. She is always serving others, looking for ways to be faithful even in her hours of leisure, which are often given to singing hymns. Her husband trusts her, serving his country without worrying about her ability to manage the household in his absence.

Most significantly, Marmee’s children grow up and call her blessed. Their maturity is the greatest testament to her endurance, wisdom, and character. John Matteson writes:

“At the novel’s end, not one of the girls’ wishes is fulfilled. Even Beth’s poignantly humble prayer for health and togetherness is cruelly denied. If happiness means nothing more than getting what one wants, the world of Little Women seems less one of dreams come true than one of thwarted youthful desires. But Alcott had a more mature idea of happiness. The March girls do not cry because their childish fantasies have been denied. Instead, they acquire the wisdom to accept fate when necessary and the courage to build less selfish dreams when possible. They find happiness not in narrow self-gratification, but in self-improvement and service to others.”

From beginning to end, Little Women is about four girls growing in maturity—rising to the standards set by their mother. Although each sister matures into a different expression of womanhood, each reflects a distinct facet of Marmee: her generosity (Amy), her tenacity (Jo), her gentleness (Beth), and her hospitality (Meg). The girls rise up from dreamy childhood to pragmatic yet happy adulthood. In this, they call their mother blessed not only with words but their entire being. Sarah Miller captures this beautifully, writing from Marmee’s perspective, “Which of my girls am I most proud of? It is like asking which of my four limbs is most essential. Each of them has blossomed into a woman that embodies one of my fondest aspirations.”

From the opening chapter, when the girls follow Marmee’s example by giving their Christmas breakfast to a poorer family, to the final chapter, when they bring their own children to celebrate her sixtieth birthday, this book proves to be not only a tale of four sisters but a testament to the power of an excellent mother. Marmee’s influence is perhaps best summed up by Jo, who marvels, “How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven’t any mothers to help them through their troubles?”

Such is my personality. I can fixate on something to the point of forgetting it—you know, like when you repeat a word so many times it ceases to look like a real word. I remember, as a child, losing my ability to hold a fork because I thought about it too hard.

I was reflecting on this tendency today, Holy Saturday 2026. Liturgically, today ought to be a day of quiet, a hallowed space between the crucifixion and resurrection. I like to imagine this day as a dissonant chord, echoing through an empty sanctuary as it yearns toward resolution.

But for those of us in ministry (and, perhaps, especially music ministry), this day more often tends to be one of sound than silence and movement more than meditation. Year after year, I’ve spent this day practicing—and mildly panicking.

But this year, I refuse to over-practice. (Realistically, with a seven-week-old baby, I just don’t have the time.)

I write in Spirit-Filled Singing about how the fruit of faithfulness calls us to the utmost reliability. Faithful worship musicians, whether volunteers or vocational leaders, can be counted upon to prepare diligently. But faithfulness does not just require trustworthiness; it is rooted in trustfulness. It invites to set aside our labor and to rest. It invites us to rely on others. It beckons us to fall back on belief, trusting not in our works but in the Lord who sustains us by his grace.

Even as we sing of Sabbath rest, we can so easily spend our Saturdays and Sundays running ourselves ragged, feverishly trying to ensure everything goes smoothly. But I urge you to relax your burdened shoulders and release that breath you’ve been holding since Lent began. Tomorrow’s worship services will be far more enjoyable for everyone—yourself included—if you embrace faithfulness not only in trustworthy preparation but trusting in Providence.

Besides, if there’s one thing I learned from my years as a piano performance major, it’s that if you are not ready by the day before a recital, you’re not going to be ready, period. So if you’ve been faithful in your rehearsing, now is the time to be faithful in your resting.

An old man. Muscles previously sinewed from hard labor and long hikes have atrophied. Hands once tanned and leathered from daily chores shiver in too-thin sheets of papery skin. His broad shoulders declare that he was once a champion wrestler. Now, slightly stooped, they denote him a determined worshiper.

He stands. Perhaps he wobbles a bit. Those around him are nervous. But he does not fall. He has his cane. It is an unwanted yet trusty companion. Leaning upon it, he clears his throat and opens his mouth.

This is a familiar scene. I could have taken it from any of a hundred church sanctuaries. But I didn’t. I found it in Scripture’s “Hall of Faith.”

“By faith Jacob, as he was dying, blessed each of the sons of Joseph and worshiped as he leaned on his staff” (Heb. 11:21, NET).

I’d never noticed this detail before. Jacob leaned on his staff as he blessed his family and praised the Lord. Essentially, he used a walker to support his worship.

A friend and choir member of mine shattered her leg last year. Her recovery had been agonizing, long and full of setbacks. While I know she longs to stand and sing unaided, she remains unflappable. Whether in a wheelchair or with a walker, she will find a way to worship.

But I’ve been in the church long enough to know that this is not so common. Whether youthful or elderly or somewhere in between, we forget that worship is not a performance. We put on our Sunday best and discard anything that hints of weekday weaknesses. Canes and walkers are fine at home, but at church? No, we must put our best foot forward—whether or not that foot is as steady as it once was.

This seems to have been Jacob’s instinct, too.

Jacob was a strong man. If you doubt this, remember that he wrestled with the Lord and succumbed only after the Lord dislocated his hip (Gen. 32:25). Afterward, he walked with a limp so pronounced it was commemorated in his descendants’ customs (Gen. 32:31–32).

Jacob’s dislodged hip was most likely painful in more ways than one. I’m sure it hurt, having dealt with severe hip pain myself in the not-so-recent past. Every step would have been excruciating and uncertain. He may never have known when his joint would hold up and when it would buckle beneath him. I suspect that his limp was also embarrassing. He was the proud patriarch of a massive family—a provider and protector. People are people, no matter the era, and to go from being strong enough to contend with the Lord to limping slowly along with frail children and livestock was surely a blow to Jacob’s self-esteem (Gen. 33:12–15).

But the Hall of Faith does not commend Jacob for wrestling the Lord in unbounded strength but worshiping Him in unashamed dependence. Charles H. Spurgeon writes that the author of Hebrews “gathered the best out of each biography; and, perhaps, the finest thing in Jacob’s life was the close of it. He was…greater in the hour of his weakness than in the day of his power.”

According to Scripture, Jacob’s greatest feat was to worship in his weakness. And, leaning upon his staff, Jacob exemplifies a deeper spiritual reality. He has been forced to lean on the Lord, to accept this difficult prerequisite for proper worship.

I rejoice when I see worshipers with walkers. I do not want them to struggle with pain or mobility issues, and, with them, I look toward the restoration of all things. But I give thanks for the way in which these believers model physically the posture we must all adopt spiritually.

One way or another, we all must give up our pretensions to self-sufficiency. I am being taught this as I trip into service with a car seat tipping me sideways. I have never needed so much help (and grace) from those around me as I do now with my infant son in tow. But my singing, although softer, is sweeter for it. I am coming to terms with the fact that, to truly worship, I must stop flaunting my strengths and begin boasting in my weakness (2 Cor. 12:9).

Like Jacob, we all must die to stubborn independence and learn to lean.

Note: The painting featured at the top of this post is “Jacob Bowed Down” by Spanish artist Fransisco de Zurbarán (1598-1664). To learn more, visit Artway.eu.

Both of his eyes open fully now, and his vision grows clearer week by week. He loves to examine his high-contrast books and gawk at his dad’s goofy expressions. He seems mesmerized by warning labels—proof that the apple did not fall far from me, the ever-cautious and rule-following tree. But sometimes controlling those little eyes is tough. They slide in and out of focus. They often cross one way or the other and roll back into his head when he is drowsy.

Every time he wakes, it seems he has to remember how to wield this amazing new power of sight. Fixing his gaze requires a great deal of effort.

I am reminded of one of my favorite hymns, “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus.” As we grow, our eyes become stronger and steadier, but are we fixing them upon things eternal? For that matter, are we fixing our gaze at all? As I watch little Martin spend long minutes mesmerized by black-and-white books, shadows, faces, and ceiling fans, I have to conclude that, while our eyes become stronger, our vision often becomes less focused.

Our eyes dart from distraction to distraction. They are hungry for stimulation—an ancient problem made worse in the digital age (Eccl. 1:8). But our restless eyes testify to a more pernicious problem: restless hearts. As we grow out of infancy, our eyesight improves. But we still need to train our hearts toward clarity and steadiness. Like newborn babies, every time we wake, we have to refocus on our Lord and, like babies, this takes all our strength (Deut. 6:4–7).

If you would, hum along with me as we wrap up this meandering post:

1. O soul, are you weary and troubled?
No light in the darkness you see?
There’s light for a look at the Savior,
And life more abundant and free!

Refrain:
Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.

2. Through death into life everlasting,
He passed, and we follow Him there;
O’er us sin no more hath dominion–
For more than conquerors we are! [Refrain]

3. His Word shall not fail you–He promised;
Believe Him, and all will be well:
Then go to a world that is dying,
His perfect salvation to tell! [Refrain]

“The Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing.” – Zephaniah 3:17 , KJV

Each morning, I am confronted anew with the astonishing love I have for my three-week old son. No matter how fussy he was in the night, no matter how many diapers he went through during the wee hours (pun intended), and no matter how exhausted and generally disgusting I feel, I cannot help but greet him in song. I see his sleepy little face, messy mop of hair, and footie pajamas, and I rejoice over him in sweet rhyming nonsense. I can’t stop myself from singing, even in the face of spit-up.

I am reminded of Zephaniah 3:17, where God rejoices over Israel, his restored Bride and redeemed children. Spurgeon writes of this passage, “God is so happy in the love he bears to his people that he breaks the eternal silence, and sun and moon and stars with astonishment hear God chanting a hymn of joy.”

Here, the Lord rejoices over a people that, previously, brought him immense grief. His love is that deep. He does not tolerate them in stony silence or accept them with a begrudging grunt or sigh. He welcomes them into his very presence with jubilant, unrestrained song.

Motherhood is giving me a glimpse—a mere glimpse, mind you—of such love. Can you imagine it in full? How marvelous. How truly astonishing.

I was three years old in the back of my mom’s car.

“Mom, what’s a Christian?” I asked.

She explained that a Christian was a person who acknowledged that he or she was a sinner in need of a savior, and who trusted in Jesus for this salvation. Although young, I understood. Again, sometimes I wonder if people believe me. But the gospel is simple enough to comprehend early and rich enough to contemplate endlessly. I prayed, unprompted, and put my trust in Christ. Then, I marched joyfully into the house and announced to my dad, “I’m a Christian now, just like you and mommy!”

I know many pray the sinner’s prayer as children, and it can be simply rote, but from that moment, I have known no other life than that of one beloved by Christ. This is not of my doing; he was gracious enough to capture my heart early and to hold it fast ever since.

So I shared my boring testimony and, as I did, was struck by a simple, beautiful thought: Was Narnia any less magical because Lucy found it as a child? Far from it! Stumbling through the wardrobe was only the beginning of her adventure. And, as we discover throughout the series, Narnia does not follow the logic of the ordinary world. It does not get smaller as its child-citizens grow larger. Instead, it grows as they grow.

“Aslan,” said Lucy, “you’re bigger.”
“That is because you are older, little one,” answered he.
“Not because you are?”
“I am not. But every year you grow, you will find me bigger.”

– C.S. Lewis, Prince Caspian

I think those of us with “boring” testimonies fear that they make our faith seem small—as if it stays the same as when we were children or grows insignificant with age. But it’s the opposite. In Christ, our faith operates according to Narnia’s growth scale. The more we mature in it, the more marvelous and majestic it becomes.

All that to say, if your testimony is rather plain like mine, rejoice. Don’t think that it’s not worth sharing just because it’s not filled with trials and thrills leading up to a shocking conversion. Coming to Christ

is not the end but the beginning of the adventure.

I knew even at the time that I was being ridiculous, but my fourteen-year-old mind was made up: I was lopsided and uncool and it was quite possibly the end of the world. I suspect nearly every woman has memories like this—of scrutinizing her body beyond all rationality before it has even had time to develop fully. As I’ve confessed in other blog posts, body dysmorphia struck me fast and hard, and it took me far too many years to see through its lies.

As much as I lament the time I wasted worrying over my appearance, understanding and navigating body dysmorphia has provided some useful ministry insights. The church, after all, is repeatedly described a body and I have found that “church body dysmorphia” is a common ailment.

Definition & Diagnosis

The UK’s National Health Services define body dysmorphic disorder (BDD) as “a mental health condition where a person spends a lot of time worrying about flaws in their appearance. These flaws are often unnoticeable to others. People of any age can have BDD, but it’s most common in teenagers and young adults.”¹

This is a helpful definition. It communicates a few key diagnostic details for noticing and combating body dysmorphia—in ourselves and in our churches.

1. Body dysmorphia is a mental illness.

When I stood before the mirror staring at my legs, the problem was not really with my hamstrings. It was in my mind. Body dysmorphia is due more to mental fixation than physical deformity. Consequently, it cannot be cured through merely physical means. Doing extra lunges on my left side could, perhaps, have balanced my legs, but it would not have stabilized my mental state. True healing had to begin, as Scripture suggests, with the renewing of my mind (Rom. 12:1–2). To view my body properly, I had to think differently.

When it comes to overcoming church body dysmorphia, we must all pursue the mind of Christ (1 Cor. 2:16). We are to think as Christ, our Head, would think: according to the spirit and not the flesh. This means that we we look beyond our needs and wants. We remember that our favorite ministry is not our church’s only ministry. We overlook perceived slights. We endure logistical inconveniences with patience and good humor. We seek to serve rather than to be served. We think rationally about resources. We give our leaders the benefit of the doubt.

In short, when we think about our churches, our first instinct must be to do so with gratitude and charity—not grumpiness and cynicism. Why? Because this is how a level head thinks of its body parts, and how Christ thinks of his beloved Bride.

2. Body dysmorphia is concerned with trivialities.

Next, notice that body dysmorphia is characterized by excessive concern over appearances—not actual injuries or illnesses. Body dysmorphia tempts us to pick at pimples while bleeding out from a gunshot wound.

Just so, church body dysmorphia distracts us from serious issues by immersing us in petty conflicts. It’s griping that our pastor didn’t pay us enough attention between services without considering that he might have been shepherding another member through a tragedy or solving a last-minute logistical crisis. It’s arguing over carpet colors or facility use while ignoring doctrinal and moral drift.

So, how do we fix this? The quickest cure for my body-focused anxiety was—believe it or not—more anxiety. Or, at least, anxiety over more important things. Scripture calls us to “be anxious for nothing,” but there is something to be said for letting a serious fear cast out a silly one. In fact, Scripture warns against lesser worries but commends anxiety—careful concern—over “the things of the Lord” (Phil. 4:6; 1 Cor. 7:34).

When I went to college, for example, my fear of not having the energy to excel in my coursework superseded my fear of gaining the freshman fifteen—which, for a very twiggy 18-year-old, was a healthy thing to do.

For church body dysmorphia, we must consider: Are we too busy examining our fingernails to check on our cardiovascular health? Are we obsessing over our individual comfort and preferences or concerning ourselves with the growth, longevity, and health of our churches as a whole? In moments of frustration, we must discern whether we are thinking big enough.

3. Body dysmorphia is a subjective struggle.

No matter how many times I complained about my body as a teenager, my friends could not see what I saw. Even if they did, they certainly did not see my “flaws” as significant.

Similarly, in the church, we can become consumed with individual grievances that may not be as severe or intentional as we imagine. We may feel that our needs are being purposely ignored. We can stew on perceived slights and become soured toward others. We can become curved in on ourselves.

That said, when we are frustrated with our church, we need to bring others into the conversation—not to gossip but to determine whether we are thinking properly. We should seek insight beyond ourselves and, ideally, beyond our immediate circle. It is tempting to find confidants who will agree with us no matter what, but it’s crucial to find people who will challenge, if necessary, and correct you.

It is also worth seeking objective information in place of your subjective perspective. When I was struggling with dysmorphia surrounding my weight, the best thing was to see a healthcare professional who could show me metrics proving that I was, in fact, healthy. In the church, too, it is helpful to seek out concrete information. Once, a church attendee began circulating false claims about our ministry engagement, causing ripples of trepidation and doubt among other members. She likely did not intend to be untruthful; she was simply sharing her perspective. But her perspective did not align with reality and church records—carefully kept and checked over the years—readily disproved her claims and dispelled the impending storm.

4. Body dysmorphia is most common during seasons of growth.

Have you noticed that those who struggle the most with body dysmorphia are young? This isn’t to say that adults don’t—most of us will always have some grievance with our messy, quirky, uncooperative bodies. But body dysmorphia hits adolescents particularly hard.

Summarizing Symptoms & Solutions

To recap, I want to summarize how a proper understanding of body dysmorphia can instruct us in combating “church body dysmorphia,” which might be defined as follows: “a spiritual condition that arises when church members spend a lot of time worrying about trivial grievances. These concerns tend to be personal and subjective, rather than holistic and objective. Churches of any age and size can suffer this disorder, but it’s most common during seasons of growth and transition.”

1. Because body dysmorphia is a mental issue, we treat church body dysmorphia by thinking with the mind of Christ.

2. Because body dysmorphia is concerned with trivialities, we treat church body dysmorphia by concerning ourselves with serious matters and the things of God.

3. Because body dysmorphia is self-focused and subjective, we treat church body dysmorphia by seeking objective insight and information.

4. Because body dysmorphia is common in seasons of growth, we treat church body dysmorphia by pressing through discomfort for the sake of maturity.

Our bodies can be aggravating, but God created us as embodied creatures and declared this to be good. Likewise, church life can be strenuous and uncomfortable, but God has called us to this corporate life for our good. Rather than living like self-conscious teenagers, let’s make the most of our church membership. Let’s seek to think with the gracious mind of Christ, to concern ourselves with what truly matters, to pursue rationality and accountability, and to endure growing pains with patience and perspective.

1. https://www.nhs.uk/mental-health/conditions/body-dysmorphia/#:~:text=Body%20dysmorphic%20disorder%20(BDD)%2C,in%20teenagers%20and%20young%20adults. ↩︎

These videos leave a sour taste in my mouth. I’m tempted to make one that says, “Don’t know what to post? Try not posting!”

If I don’t know what to post, I don’t post. But this common-sense approach is completely counter to internet culture, which incentivizes the constant production and consumption of content—regardless of whether that content contributes anything meaningful, beautiful, or helpful.

I am reminded of Proverbs 30:15–16:

The leech has two daughters:
Give and Give.
Three things are never satisfied;
four never say, “Enough”:
Sheol, the barren womb,
the land never satisfied with water,
and the fire that never says, “Enough.”

Paraphrased for our social media age, these verses could easily read:

The internet has two daughters:
Give and Give.
Three things are never satisfied;
four never say, “Enough”:
Sheol, the barren womb,
the land never satisfied with water,
and the algorithm that never says, “Enough.”

I’ve found through personal experience and dissertation research that the pressure to constantly curate and share digital content is particularly strong among writers. Because so much of communication is online, our work relies on digital engagement. The more we post, the more visibility we are awarded by digital platforms, which means more users follow our accounts and (in theory) support our work.

Not posting, then, feels like a missed opportunity. It can be anxiety-inducing to watch engagement and followers decline after a spell of digital quietude. Is it any wonder that digital FOMO (the fear of missing out when not active online) is notably more intense among gig workers and content creators such as writers?

But my fear of God outweighs my fear of algorithms. I am constantly drawn to Matthew 12:36. Here, Jesus says:

“I tell you that on the day of judgment, people will give an account for every worthless word they speak.”

I appreciate that the New English Translation renders the Greek term here (ἀργὸν) as “worthless,” for that is what so much online content is: worthless words written in a desperate bid to keep viewers’ attention. Even the word “content” perturbs me. It has a nasty feel to it, reducing particular art forms to generic slop and treating digital users like livestock who will consume anything offered to them. (On that note, did you know that social media companies actually refer to their users as “data cows”?)

As I set aside my phone the other day, disgusted by yet another “Don’t know what to post? Try this!” reel, I was reminded of my current devotional reading: Precious Remedies Against Satan’s Devices. This gem of a book by Puritan preacher Thomas Brooks advises Christians on how to recognize and resist common temptations and deceptions—a far from “worthless” topic.

But while the main chapters of this book have been deeply edifying, I was most struck by the introduction, in which Brooks offers an apologetic for writing a book at all. He acknowledges the danger of unchecked publishing, and humbly explains why he felt Precious Remedies was a necessary resource. He addresses his readers, writing:

“Beloved, I think it necessary to give you and the world a faithful account of the reasons moving me to appear in print, in these days, wherein we may say, there was never more writing and yet never less practising…”

This was in 1652.

Nearly four centuries later, we live amid a literary abundance Brooks scarcely could have imagined. Self-publishing has not only become normalized but popular. Traditional publishers pump out books as consumer products, trying to keep pace with the commercial demand of Bookstagram and BookTok. More ISBNs are assigned annually than ever before. Public domain works are available for free online. We post and comment with reckless abandon and unrelenting regularity, trying to attract algorithmic favor. Our reading has never known such quantity, though the quality is often dubious. What are we reading? “Words, words, words,” we reply with Prince Hamlet’s lack of specificity and comprehension.

If ever there was an age in which there was never more print and never less practice—never more content and less character—we are living in it. We are drowning in it.

I am an avid reader and passionate writer, as you likely know. I hope to blog for the rest of my life and to publish many more books. However, I wish we would recapture something of Brooks’s circumspect approach—not being pressured into posting and publishing except when we are sure that we have something worth sharing.

There is value to having a writing and publishing schedule, and I admit that I could do with more regularity. I would like to get into a routine of blogging at least once a week. But I would rather err on the side of under-posting than over-posting. When I stand before my Lord, I would rather give an account for the words I did not share than those I posted thoughtlessly, hastily, or pointlessly.

All that to say, my Instagram followers may decline in the coming days. I don’t have anything urgent to share on that platform just now. And my blogging has slowed a bit as I focus on other duties. But I want to serve my followers and subscribers quality music and writing—not stuff them with vast quantities of empty content. I do not simply want to contribute to their scrolling addictions for my own superficial gain; I want to help them curate thoughtful reading and listening habits that will transcend the digital sphere to truly enrich their lives.

If you’re looking to read better—not just more—this year, consider keeping your GoodReads goals modest in order to foster the following freedoms:

The Freedom to Read Deeply

I see so many GoodReads users celebrating reading over 100 books per year, but their literary diet is often comprised of shallow books—i.e., many contemporary romances and few (if any) classics. Reading is fun, and I don’t want to discourage anyone from enjoying a wholesome and entertaining story now and then. However, just as our diet should not be primarily Hershey’s kisses, our reading habits should include “meaty” texts as well.

This year, I wanted to read deeply. I wanted to resist the pull of the secular publishing industry, in which books are increasingly treated as consumer products and produced with all the care of fast fashion. I wanted to read thoughtfully, with the freedom to linger over beautiful phrases and challenging ideas. I didn’t want to binge on under-nourishing books simply to boost my GoodReads stats.

The Freedom to Read Longer Books

On one of my favorite podcasts, the hosts joked about how when they were falling short of their GoodReads goals, they read a bunch of children’s picture books to catch up. Now, I love children’s literature and will never scorn a well-written book, no matter how short. But I didn’t want to bypass hefty tomes simply because they would not increase my final tally. Instead, I wanted the freedom to spend two months enjoying War and Peace rather than fifty kids’ books. I wanted to live in long texts, getting to know their characters and settings, and letting them sink into my soul in a way that fly-by reads can’t.

The Freedom to Read Selectively

I wanted to read with greater selectivity. In the past, I’ve felt pressured to finish books I thoroughly hated simply so I could check them off as “read” on GoodReads. But now I am determined not to waste my time on books that are neither significant nor enjoyable. For instance, this year, I slogged through Catcher in the Rye despite not enjoying it because it is a culturally significant work and, therefore, worth finishing. But why, oh why, did I force myself to finish Where the Crawdads Sing when I found it neither important nor interesting?

But there is freedom in selective reading. This summer, I felt such relief in putting aside a highly recommended book that I did not find edifying or entertaining. I skipped to the conclusion, jammed it back on its shelf, and gratefully moved on to a better book (in my opinion) without a second thought.

The Freedom to Read Purposefully

2025 was filled with homework. I did an independent study on pastors and poetry, which was fascinating, but which led me to read books in bits and pieces. For instance, I could not in good conscious rate, review, and log The Complete Poetry of John Donne on GoodReads when I only read a quarter of it. Similarly, I’ve read chapters from dozens of books for my dissertation, but have not read most of them in full.

But while last year’s reading was partial, it was purposeful. I wanted the freedom to use books for intentional research, to dig around in their indexes and flip through the chapters most relevant to my work. Such focused reading turned out to be just as (and perhaps more) informative than reading full texts.

The Freedom to Reread

You can log rereads on GoodReads, but it’s a bit tedious. Another problem with contemporary book culture is that we tend to prioritize novelty. But I love rereading. Even now, I am happily enjoying another trek through Yorkshire with James Herriot in

The Freedom to Read without Logging

I foresee reading quite a few board books this year once my son is born. I’ll log some of them—especially those written by authors I want to support—but do I really need my GoodReads “Year in Review” filled with

Conclusion: Reading Responsibly

On the whole, I am a big fan of GoodReads challenges. Anything that motivates people to read more is a win in my book—pun intended. But this was perhaps one of my most memorable years of reading because I kept my goal attainable. I knew that, so long as I read daily, I would have no trouble reaching it. But I also knew that it would allow me to be a responsible reader—not just a ravenous one.

“Mary, did you know?”
Yes, she knew. Stop asking.

I have even heard the song described scornfully as “mansplaining.”

But I continue to love this song, and believe it’s okay if you do too.

So, let’s take a moment and seriously ask: What did Mary know? Is this song completely inaccurate? This article from Logos by Robby Lockett is the most helpful resource I’ve found so far. In it, he argues that Mary, being familiar with messianic prophecies, would have known quite a bit about her Son. Based on her song in Luke 1:46–56 alone, it is clear that Mary grasped the broad implications of who he would be. It seems that she was a sharp and scripture-saturated young woman, so it is not a leap to assume that she would have known certain things about Jesus in advance—including his ability to heal the blind, his role in delivering her people, and even his divinity.

Marveling Mary

Although Mary would have been able to glean much about the coming Messiah from Scripture, she is repeatedly awestruck and even baffled by her Son. After presenting Jesus at the temple, she and Joseph “marvel” at Simeon’s prophecy regarding him. “Marvel” here means to “wonder” and, by implication, to “admire.” Mary appears surprised by what Simeon says regarding her Son, who is to be a light not only to her people, Israel, but also to the Gentiles! (Luke 2:29–35).

Then, just a few verses later, when twelve-year-old Jesus goes missing, Mary and Joseph look for him frantically. Finding him in the temple, they are “astonished”—again, a word that conveys wonder and amazement. Jesus explains that they should not be surprised; wasn’t it only natural for him to be in his Father’s house? And yet Mary, who knew her Son’s divine origin better than anyone, does not understand what he means. Instead, she “treasures up all these things in her heart.” In other words, Mary observes and ponders and learns about Jesus as he grows (Luke 2:41–52).

So, in a very real sense, Mary did not know. At least, she did not know everything, and certainly not fully or perfectly. And how could we expect her to without falsely ascribing to her Godlike omniscience? How could any woman—no matter how smart or faithful—anticipate every particular movement and ministry of the Incarnate Son of God? After all, as John later writes, all that Jesus did and said while on earth could not be contained in books, even if the whole world were a library (John 21:25).

Knowing and Knowing

A particular weakness of the English language is its single word for “know.” I remember studying Spanish and being delighted to find that there are two types of knowing with two distinct words: saber, which refers to knowing facts or information, and conocer, which is more intimate, concerned with knowing people, places, or things through experience or acquaintance

I often wish that we had such a distinction in English, but we have to make due with our blunt, multipurpose “know” for both types of knowledge: intellectual and experiential, head and heart, faith and sight.

Mary knew by faith who her Son would be and what he was destined to do. But did she know-know? She knew he was the Son of the Most High and destined to reign over the house of Jacob forever, but she clearly did not fully grasp all that this would entail (Luke 2:32–33). She knew Jesus and his mission, but came to know-know her Son and his gospel in a deep, painful, personal way (again, see Simeon’s prophecy in Luke 2:35).

Mary had faith from the beginning and, as she watched Jesus’s growth and ministry, that faith became sight. Anticipation became experience. Knowing became knowing. So, for example, while Mary likely trusted that Jesus could—and would—bring sight to the blind, she had yet to actually see him do so. She knew in part, but came to know in full (1 Cor. 13:12).

Sing On

All this to say, I will continue to enjoy “Mary, Did You Know?” this Christmas season and in the years to come. I believe this song is true to the character of “marveling” Mary as a faithful, knowledgeable woman whose belief became sight as she watched her astonishing Son grow, minister, die, and rise again.

But aside from what this song says about Mary, it preaches Christ clearly and boldly. It proclaims him not only to be a sweet baby in a manger, but the all-powerful Messiah—our one source of redemption, renewal, and resurrection, the very Son of God made flesh.

So listen and sing on. Enjoy this song. Marvel with Mary. Anticipate with her the joy of when your faith shall become sight.

P.S. My graciousness does not extend to “The Little Drummer Boy.” If anyone tries to bring a drum to the birth of my son, he will be met with a very, very cold audience.

Knowing that a freshly-tuned organ awaited me, I was more excited than usual to practice this week. But barely five minutes into my practice session, I stumbled upon a dead note.

And another.

And then one that seems to be on its last legs.

I called the tuner, who was as baffled as I was, and I trust we will sort out the issue when he is back in town. But that did little to alleviate my annoyance as I sacrificed the time I’d hoped to spend rehearsing difficult repertoire to, instead, rearranging my registrations to avoid the dead pipes.

Fortunately, my twin vocations provided balance and perspective, as my frustrations in music produced fodder for writing. As I fiddled with the unresponsive stop (basically, the tab/pull that triggers a pipe to play), I heard no sound. But I caught an echo, I believe, of God’s heart.

Is this how my Lord feels when I refuse to sing? Or serve? Or pray? Am I like a stuck pipe in an instrument he has lovingly built and tuned and is eager to play?

Scripture describes the church physiologically as a body made up of many members (Rom. 12:4–5; 1 Cor. 12:12–20). I also like to think about the church musically. Like an expert organ builder, God fits many different pipes into one instrument—the church—and sets them singing with the wind of his Spirit (Eph. 5:18–21).

When I climb back into an organ’s chamber, I am always struck by the number and diversity of its pipes (see above). There are building-rattling reed pipes, sturdy cylindrical foundation pipes, and tiny, needle-like pipes for the highest pitches. There are pipes that imitate trumpets, strings, and flutes—even, on some organs, pipes that sound akin to the human voice.

And yet, each of these pipes has the same basic construction and mission. They are each built to channel wind from the organ’s bellows and to lend their unique pitch and timbre to a worshipful chorus. And when one pipe dies, the entire instrument suffers. The organist must then figure out how to produce the same music without all the necessary players.

As an aside, I often think it takes more skill—or at least, a distinct type of skill—to play a faulty organ than a flawless one. Praise God, then, as the Greatest of Organists! He continues to build his church and advance his kingdom through a continually “under-maintenance” instrument.

But back to the dead pipe. As frustrated as I am with that unresponsive note, I relate to it. A single F# from a rank of flutes, it’s not a powerful or prominent pipe, but it adds a clear and bright tone when playing its part. I did not realize until this week how much I rely on it. It is not as bombastic as the trumpet nor as foundational (pun intended) as the principle. But I use it in every service and, right now, its absence is more noticeable than its presence. I am eager for it to sing again, and to lend its sweet little voice to worship. The gap where this note should be pains my ears and heart.

Once more, I wonder: is this how the Lord feels when one of his church’s members stops showing up? Or stays silent instead of singing? Or begins to think that, just because his voice is small, it does not matter? Or, because her service is often unnoticed, it is not important?

We are prone to be stubborn people—stuck pipes. But may we be content to play whatever part God has assigned to us, to let him work in and through us by the Spirit as we joyfully join ranks with saints whose gifts and roles differ from ours. Like organ pipes, we have little say in how we are designed and where we are placed. But we can serve and sing wholeheartedly, no matter how “small” we might feel.

As for me, I want to be the best little flute pipe I can possibly be.

In this episode, Mary Magdalene succumbs to temptation and returns to her previous life of debauchery. Eventually, she is found and brought back to Jesus by Peter and Matthew.

Temptation is real. Being restored through the intervention of faithful friends is real. The problem? This story is most likely not real.

Scripture gives no indication that Mary Magdalene returned to her old ways. We first meet her in Luke 8:2, where she is introduced as a woman miraculously healed and saved by Jesus. Previously, she had been in the grip of seven demons, indicating that she was under total demonic control. But Christ cast out these demons and, throughout the Gospels, Mary Magdalene is portrayed as one of his most devoted followers.

All the biblical evidence points toward Mary Magdalene being an extraordinarily faithful woman whose life was completely changed by Christ. So, when The Chosen portrayed her as a backslider, I was appalled. I by no means believe that Mary Magdalene was sinless, but, rather than tarnishing her reputation through creative speculation, we should accept her as she is portrayed in Scripture: a woman previously enslaved to sin who was utterly transformed by grace.

A sinner turned saint.

A Particularly Protestant Problem

I am frustrated by our tendency as believers to bash the heroes of the faith. We forget that “doubting Thomas” believed in Christ enough that he was prepared to die with him (Jn. 11:16). “Anxious Martha” was one of the first to recognize Christ as the resurrection and the life (Jn. 11:27). “Cowardly Peter” died a martyr’s death (Jn. 21:18–19).

If the Roman Catholic and Orthodox Churches make too much of the saints found throughout Scripture and history, Protestants tend to make too little. Rather than unduly lifting up human beings, we seem to take a cruel pleasure in putting them down. We too readily ignore their spiritual fruit and too eagerly latch onto their more “relatable” flaws. Likely, it makes us feel better about ourselves to describe heroes of the faith as “sinners like us.” And yes, they were. But in both the Old and New Testaments, Scripture more frequently refers to God’s people as saints—not to suggest that they are perfect, but to clarify that their identity lies in being saved and set apart by God. Indeed, “sinners” typically refers to the past identity of redeemed people and the current reality of unsaved people (Rom. 5:8, 19). Accordingly, when I use the term “saints” in this post, I am using it as Scripture does, to refer to those saved by grace through faith and adopted into the family of God.

Scripture is not sentimentalized. It is honest about sin and evil. It describes the failings of human beings, sometimes in shocking detail, and commands us to expose such evil (Eph. 5:11). It is clear that only God is holy and worthy of adoration (Is. 46:9). But Scripture also emphatically tells us to dwell on whatever is noble and praiseworthy, to learn by imitating faithful examples, and to give honor to whom honor is owed (Phil. 4:8; 1 Cor. 11:1; Rom. 13:7).

Why are we so loath to do this as Protestants and, particularly, as evangelicals? Even today, we seem more eager to tear down church leaders than to build them up. There even seems to be a sort of malicious glee among internet users when a famous Christian is exposed for a moral failing. We have a terrible tendency to focus on the worst in others.

I am certainly not advocating for the canonization or veneration of saints but I do hope to see a healthier sense of honesty and honor take root in our hearts. We should not gloss over the weaknesses and failings of the people we encounter throughout Scripture and history, but neither should we ignore their strengths and triumphs.

This All Saints’ Day

If you’re not in a liturgical church, you might not even be aware that November 1st is All Saints’ Day, a holiday where Christians have traditionally remembered and honored those who have died in the faith. Perhaps your initial reaction is skepticism, born of a proper desire to avoid over-emphasizing sainthood in any formal sense. But over the years, I have come to appreciate this holiday as a time to remember those who have passed, and to thank God for the testimony of their lives.

As we observe All Saints’ Day this year, I encourage you to take the following balanced approach:

1. Dwell

Again, Scripture calls us to expose “the unfruitful works of darkness” (Eph. 5:11). But we are called to dwell on “whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things” (Phil. 4:8).

Do you see the difference?

Expose evil but meditate on goodness. When we look at those who came before us in the faith, we should not ignore sin, but neither should we ponder it disproportionately. Instead, we should be unafraid to dwell on the goodness of God that permeated their lives.

With this approach, we can acknowledge Thomas’s doubts but marvel at his loyalty. We can recognize Martha’s failure to choose “the good portion” but remember her as a woman who recognized Christ as the Messiah. We can preach on Peter’s betrayal of Christ, but celebrate his restoration, ministry, and ultimate courage.

This weekend, I urge you to celebrate the triumphs of those who came before. Thank God for his work in their lives, and focus on their fruitfulness far more than their failures.

2. Imitate

In Philippians 4:8–9, Paul not only tells us to focus on whatever is true, honorable, just, pure, and so on, but to imitate whoever demonstrates these qualities. He writes, “What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me—practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you” (Phil. 4:9, emphasis added).

No person is perfect, but this doesn’t mean we should not have role models. From infancy, we learn via imitation; it’s how we are designed. So, too, spiritual babes need to look to and learn from spiritual adults. We need mature examples, and we should be unafraid to copy godliness wherever it is found. In other words, we should boldly imitate those who are imitating Christ (1 Cor. 11:1).

This week, consider making a list of faithful role models, noting which characteristics and fruits you most admire in them. If they are alive, make a point of telling them. If they have passed, thank God for the gift of their example.

3. Honor

A few years ago, I read Practicing Affirmation: God-Centered Praise for Those Who are Not God by Sam Crabtree. This lovely little book reminds Christians that, while only God deserves our worship, we are commanded to encourage and even honor one another.

Romans 13:7 reads, “Pay to all what is owed to them: taxes to whom taxes are owed, revenue to whom revenue is owed, respect to whom respect is owed, honor to whom honor is owed.” Here, the word “honor” seems to tie the various phrases in this verse together. It can refer to paying monetary dues, as well as to recognizing someone’s dignity and affording them the utmost esteem. This honor may be due to someone’s position, but it seems likely that it is also an honor given to someone’s character.

“Honor to whom honor is owed,” therefore, should lead us to readily respect, recognize, and rejoice in others’ strengths. It is dishonest to ignore blatant sin in other Christians, but it is also dishonest to ignore what is godly in them. When we see a brother or sister growing in Christlikeness, we should acknowledge it!

This All Saints’ Day—and, really, every day—I hope you will remember that we are called, as Christians, to correct and encourage one another.

4. Yearn

As we pursue a more balanced view of the saints—not just those found throughout Scripture and church history, but those worshiping alongside us today—we must expect dissatisfaction. Even the most godly person should leave us with a nagging sense of “this isn’t quite it.”

Why? Because only Christ is altogether true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, commendable, excellent, and praiseworthy. Because even as we imitate other believers, our goal is, above all, to grow in Christlikeness. Because only Christ is worthy not only of our honor but our worship.

We need to regain a healthy approach to sainthood because, both in their victories and failures, Christ’s people sharpen our yearning for Christ.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoy my writing and would like to support my work, consider subscribing using the button below:

Subscribe now

You might also consider ordering a copy of my book, which releases in just a few days!

Church, then, represented something of a perfect storm. A weekly gathering that involved co-laboring and communal celebrating? I protested that I could learn more about the Bible independently, perform acts of service on my own time, and find more refreshment on Sunday mornings in solitude.

Fortunately, my family was never convinced. Nor, really, was I.

I knew in my soul that church attendance mattered. Moreover, church participation mattered. As my pastor husband said on Sunday, “Christianity is not a spectator sport.” I could not live the Christian life solely ensconced in a solitary study. I could not learn the heart of genuine service by doing everything on my terms and in my timeline.

So to church we went. Even when I felt like an outsider in a cliquey youth group. Even when serving on the worship team meant playing songs I didn’t know or love. Even when sitting through a sermon meant enduring the unyielding metal of folding chairs, which we then had to stack after the service.

But actively participating in church was worth it, even—and, really, especially—with these discomforts. My brother and I learned not only patience as we endured various minor discomforts, but we discovered the immense privilege of being part of a body of believers. I can count on one hand the number of times I have missed Sunday services in the last several years—and all of these are because of illness or travel.

Weekly church attendance and regular church involvement have become necessary rhythms in my life—not merely because my Lord (and my vocation) requires them but because they are health to my bones and strength to my spirit. My church family serves me and lets me serve them. They draw me out of myself. We share meals and joys and griefs. We ask and give forgiveness. We check in on one another during absences and rejoice in reunions. We encourage one another with Scripture and are challenged by the same sermons.

For all the difficulties of church life—and there always will be some this side of eternity—I know that I would be much more callous, lonely, sickly, pessimistic, selfish, stingy, and arrogant were it not for regular involvement in a local church body.

In short, second to receiving Christ as my Lord and Savior, committing to his Body and Bride has been the best and healthiest blessing in my life. (And, really—as in any good marriage—Christ and his Bride cannot be separated. You cannot really have Him without her.)

This is exactly what Rebecca McLaughlin captures in her wonderful little book, How Church Could (Literally) Save Your Life.

About

How Church Could (Literally) Save Your Life considers the ways in which regular church participation benefits our mental, physical, moral, and spiritual health. Going beyond speculation, this book provides scientific data indicating a strong correlation between religious involvement and both quality and longevity of life.

I immediately wanted to read this book because it is by Rebecca McLaughlin, whose style is at once academic and accessible. McLaughlin holds a PhD in English Literature from Cambridge, as well as a degree in theology from Oak Hill College, London. She writes with grace and intelligence, and I’ve heartily enjoyed her other books, including Confronting Christianity, Jesus Through the Eyes of Women, and The Secular Creed.

Although tremendously encouraging for active church members, this book specifically addresses those who have fallen away from and those who are skeptical about church participation. Gently but definitively, McLaughlin presents the evidence for church involvement as an overlooked but significant contributor to overall health. She points out how the “listicles” that populate the internet—peddling “The 7 Keys to Longevity” or “21 Healthy Habits to Improve Your Physical and Mental Health”—frequently fail to include this clear, evidence-backed contributor to longevity and quality of life: Go to church.

I was reminded of what Bill Bryson says about exercise in his delightful book The Body: A Guide to Occupants:

“If someone invented a pill that could do for us all that a moderate amount of exercise achieves, it would instantly become the most successful drug in history.”¹

The benefits of regular, even gentle, exercise are disproportionately great. Most people recognize this, even if they do not act on it. Church attendance can also be likened to something of a miracle pill. McLaughlin cites Harvard School of Public Health Professor Tyler VanderWeele and journalist John Siniff, who write:

“If one could conceive a single elixir to improve the physical and mental health of millions of Americans—at no personal cost—what value would our society place on it? Going a step further, if research quite conclusively showed that when consumed just once a week, this concoction would reduce mortality by 20% to 30% over a 15-year period, how urgently would we want to make it publicly available?”²

This miracle prescription is this: go to church at least once a week.

Isn’t it astonishing that online lists would overlook such a simple suggestion? And one backed by a Harvard health expert, at that?

Review

The rest of How Church Could (Literally) Save Your Life continues along such lines, providing compelling evidence for the overall healthfulness of church involvement. My one concern would be that, while McLaughlin provides resources for finding biblical churches, readers might fall into either 1) believing any church is worth attending or 2) attending church simply for its benefits, rather than out of the desire to honor God and be with His people. But, then again, if the desire to live a healthier life drives a person into a church where he or she is confronted with the gospel, how can I do other than rejoice?

That said, I wholeheartedly recommend this book to you—whether you’re already an enthusiastic member, struggling with disillusionment, or have never willingly set foot in a church. It took me about an hour to finish, so I urge you to pick up a copy of this little book and read it with an open mind and humble heart.

Purchase Information

How Church Could (Literally) Save Your Life can be purchased on Amazon, directly from Crossway, or anywhere else you order books. Compact and accessible, it might be worth ordering several copies so you can pass them out to those interested.

Note: I received a copy of How Church Could (Literally) Save Your Life from Crossway in exchange for an honest review. Additionally, any purchases made using the Amazon links in this post help cover the costs of maintaining this blog.

1. Bill Bryson, The Body: A Guide for Occupants, First Anchor Books Edition (Anchor Books, 2021), 179. ↩︎

2. Rebecca McLaughlin, How Church Could (Literally) Save Your Life (Crossway, 2025), 21. ↩︎

I recently enjoyed Isaac Asimov’s The Naked Sun. In it, a detective from Earth is shipped off to the planet Solaria to investigate a murder. Why? Because, unlike crowded and crime-ridden earth, Solaria has never had a murder before. Its population is too sparse and widely spread. People rarely see each other long enough to engage in violence, let alone to premeditate murder.

Indeed, on Solaria, seeing one another in person is taboo. Physical presence is offensive to the point of being socially and even psychologically damaging. Viewing, however, is another matter. Consider the following exchange between Baley, the detective from Earth, and Gladia, a woman from Solaria:

At first, Gladia is naked and Baley is thoroughly embarrassed. He requests that she put on some clothing before they continue their conversation, to which she responds with mild surprise: “It was only viewing, you see.”

Baley protests that he should not see her in such a state of indecency, but Gladia still cannot comprehend his discomfort.

“But that’s exactly it,” she says. “Seeing isn’t involved…I hope you don’t think I’d ever do anything like that…It was just viewing.“

“Same thing, isn’t it?” asks Baley.

“Not at all the same thing,” assures Gladia. “You’re viewing me right now. You can’t touch me, can you, or smell me, or anything like that. You could if you were seeing me. Right now, I’m two hundred miles away from you at least. So how can it be the same thing?”

“But I see you with my eyes,” says Baley.

“No, you don’t see me. You see my image. You’re viewing me.”

“And that makes a difference?”

“All the difference there is.”¹

On Solaria, citizens regularly view one another through holographic communication systems. They perform their work, chat as they walk, show off their artwork, and play chess—all from the comfort of their sanitary solitude. They lack the modesty of Earthmen, thinking nothing of nakedness when it is not accompanied by nearness. Seeing is intimate. It is distasteful and and dirty. But with viewing, all bets are off. A man can chat daily with another man’s wife. A doctor can diagnose patients without ever touching them. A woman can participate in an interview from the shower.

Frighteningly prescient for a book first published in 1956, isn’t it?

At the end of the novel, Detective Baley shares his findings with his supervisor on Earth. The supervisor scoffs at the Solarians for their illogical lifestyle. But Baley is more perceptive: the Solarians emigrated from Earth. The citizens of Earth have similar blind spots; they, too, live complacently in cognitive dissonance. Without awareness, Earth was sure to follow the moral and cultural trajectory of Solaria.

This is why we need quality science fiction: because these fantastical tales can familiarize us with ourselves. Because by traveling to far-off, futuristic realms, we see with fresh eyes the pitfalls of the present. Historical fiction can help us appreciate where we came from, but I believe that the mission of truly great science fiction is to help us understand where we are going—for better or for worse.

The Naked Sun, for all its Agatha-Christie-meets-RoboCop fun, does just this. Writing from the past about the future, Asimov forces us to admit that our present age has become much too Solarian. We are far too comfortable with projected images in place of personal intimacy. We are far too willing to broadcast our private lives via screens while avoiding those actually near to us. We are far too easily satisfied with self-centered holographic fantasies in place of the demands of genuine, embodied community—with viewing in place of seeing.

1. Isaac Asimov, The Naked Sun, Paperback Edition (Harper Voyager, 2018), 55–57. ↩︎

So what happened yesterday?

I had the evening off work and found myself checking a social media platform I usually avoid (mistake number one). There, I caught a glimpse of an old peer's life. Rather than closing the window, I did some investigating (mistake number two). I fell into comparison, trying to make myself feel better by looking for shortcomings in this peer. Predictably, this approach only left me feeling rotten.

German pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer once wrote, "Self-justification and judging others go together, as justification by grace and serving others go together."¹ Envy arises when we try to justify ourselves over and against others, rather than resting in justification in Christ alone—when we look for others' flaws to make us feel superior rather than finding satisfaction in our Savior.

I was convicted, quickly shutting my browser and tending to my own life once more.

Today as I mulled this episode over, I had a gentle epiphany: This peer is not my competitor but my compatriot. We are fellow soldiers. She has her marching orders and I have mine. She may be stationed amid foreign castles while I am quartered among rolling cornfields, but who am I to question our Captain's battle plans? Who am I to doubt our General's wisdom? Has He not seen and won far more victories than me? Does He not know where I will be most useful for the protection and expansion of His Kingdom?

And so, I will march on. I will keep my eyes locked on my mission, rather than looking skeptically at the missions of others. I will keep stewarding the work and ministries that I've been given. Through it all, I will keep thanking God that He is the one leading the charge. Like a skilled chess player, He is planning and directing my steps. I can't even see one move ahead, no matter how hard I try. So why do I so often fall into comparison and envy, which are as pointless as a pawn complaining to its Player? (Or, to be more biblical, a pot critiquing its Potter.)

I do not want to waste my time staring at my fellow soldiers and questioning my Captain. I want to march straight and steady in the full faith of contentment.

Thank you for reading! Please consider subscribing for free, as this is truly the best way to support my work.

Heavenly Father, you command us to “rejoice always,” to treat our singing not merely as a celebratory outburst but as a regular discipline (1 Thess. 5:16). Whatever we are feeling or facing, bring us together tomorrow for purposeful praise. Quiet our restless hearts, still our busy minds, and strengthen our tired bodies so that we might worship you with clarity and intentionality.

We confess that we often treat singing as an “extra,” as something we can skip over so long as we make it to our seats in time for the sermon. Convict us, Lord. Remind us that when we prioritize singing, we practice self-control (Eph. 5:18–21). Use our musical worship to set our minds on higher things and align our hearts with your truth.

Thank you for instituting singing as a rhythm in our lives. Thank you for this pleasant and useful discipline. Help us to make the most of our time together tomorrow, magnifying your name through both our singing and self-control.

Amen.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoy my work, consider subscribing for free using the box below:

Subscribe

You might also be interested in my book on musical worship and the fruit of the Spirit, which releases in exactly one month! (I can hardly believe it!) You can read more and pre-order a copy using this link.