One of the challenges I face as I write these popcorn devotions is deciding what to focus on! Sure, some mornings my heart and thoughts stop on something very specific, but most days there is just so much. I love the exercise of praying through those passages and asking God to focus my attention on one takeaway to process and share.

This morning, I read Matthew 4 and stayed with verses 1–11. In verses 8–11, we read:

Next, the devil took him to the peak of a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory. “I will give it all to you,” he said, “if you will kneel and worship me.”

“Get out of here, Satan,” Jesus told him. “For the Scriptures say,

‘You must worship the Lord your God
and serve only him.’ ”

Then the devil went away, and angels came and took care of Jesus.

Satan takes Jesus to a very high mountain, shows him the kingdoms and says, “I will give it all to you if you will kneel and worship me.”

Satan was offering Jesus something the Father already intended to give him. So the temptation wasn’t simply about what Jesus would receive. It was mostly about how he would receive it.

Satan was offering a shortcut.

We like shortcuts! We like them because they get us where we want to go, or get us what we want, without requiring as much effort or time. We also like to chart our own path. One that, at least on the surface, guarantees us what we think we need.

And this isn’t the first time we see something like this in Scripture.

• God promised Abraham a child, but, tired of waiting, Abraham and Sarah eventually took matters into their own hands with Hagar. Their decision created chaos instead of peace.

• God had already told Rebekah that the older son would serve the younger, yet Jacob and Rebekah resorted to deception to secure the blessing. Their decision caused conflict.

• Israel demanded a king like all the other nations because they believed this would fast-track their position as a nation. Their desire for a king wasn’t necessarily the problem. God had already anticipated that Israel would one day have one. The problem was that they wanted human leadership to give them the security and strength they were supposed to trust God to provide.

There is a recurring temptation to take into our own hands what God has already promised to give or do.

Jesus arrives as the true heir to the throne. All will be his, but Satan offers him an easier way to get there. Skip the cross that is to come. Bow to me instead, and there will be no need for a cross.

Jesus says no.

Just before this, Satan tempts Jesus in a couple different ways as well. “Jesus, if you are the Son of God, use your power for your benefit. Turn these stones into bread.” And then, “Jesus, if you are the Son of God, challenge him and force his hand.”

He refuses to abandon trust and obedience just because someone offers him what seems like an easier way to get where he is going. A way without suffering. A way without perseverance or obedience.

A while back, when the Lotto Max jackpot was sitting at $70 million, I decided to buy a ticket. I vaguely remember my thought process, and even my prayer, being something along these lines:

God, you know I want to follow you and do your will. If you could let me win this jackpot, it would make all of that much easier. Imagine what I could do without having to worry about working a regular job. Imagine all the people I could help. I could get right to doing what you want me to do without wasting time.

Sounds pretty spiritual, doesn’t it? And maybe some of it genuinely was. I really did want to follow God, and helping people certainly wasn’t a bad desire. But behind that prayer was fear. Fear that I would have to wait. Fear that God didn’t necessarily know what I needed. If only I could secure this money, the way forward would be clear and simple. Right?

$70 million sure seemed like it would make everything easier.

Sometimes what we want isn’t necessarily wrong. We may even genuinely believe we’re pursuing something God wants for us. The temptation can be in how we go about getting there. The shortcut looks reasonable. It might even look like an answer to prayer.

Near the end of Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus is hanging on a cross when he hears something that sounds familiar:

He saved others, but he can’t save himself! … If he really is God, let him come down from the cross now, and we will believe in him.

It sounds a lot like the wilderness temptation all over again. If you really are the Son of God, prove it. Save yourself. Come down.

In Matthew 4, Jesus refuses the shortcut that would give him the kingdom without the cross. In Matthew 27, when he is actually hanging on that cross, he refuses the shortcut again.

Jesus trusted the Father enough not only to believe what the Father had promised, but also to remain obedient in how he got there.

… Because of the joy awaiting him, he endured the cross, disregarding its shame. Now he is seated in the place of honour beside God’s throne.

Hebrews 12:2

Maybe that’s one of the more subtle forms temptation takes in our lives. It doesn’t always try to convince us to abandon what is good or even what God wants. Sometimes it simply convinces us that there must be an easier, faster or more convenient way to get there. One that doesn’t require as much trust, waiting or obedience. Just take the matter into your own hands. Give God a break.

And if we’re not careful, we can make the shortcut sound pretty spiritual and end up with chaos instead.

Jesus refused to abandon trust and obedience just because there was what seemed to be an easier way.

Maybe the question isn’t only whether I trust God with where I’m going.

Do I trust him enough not to take a shortcut to get there?

Do you sometimes feel like you’re in the wrong place? You find yourself in a situation that doesn’t seem to make sense. You’ve been asked to do something that isn’t aligned with the way you thought things would play out. Or perhaps you are waiting for God to lead you down an expected or desired path, but he doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.

This morning, as I read Matthew, chapter 3, my heart was drawn to verse 15:

Jesus answered: “Accept that it be this way for now. For this is how we will accomplish what God considers to be right.”

(I translated this from my French version, La Bible du Semeur, because I like the way it’s worded.)

John the Baptist, wearing clothes woven from camel hair and living on a diet of locusts and wild honey, knew his calling. He understood his place in this world (throwback to Michael W. Smith).

His job was to prepare the way for Jesus. He was to preach repentance (see previous post) and tell people the long-awaited Messiah was near. He fulfilled this calling dutifully, faithfully and with conviction.

When Jesus comes, John recognizes who he is, and this causes a problem for him. A few verses earlier, we see how John viewed himself in comparison to Jesus. He says to the crowd, “But someone is coming soon who is greater than I am, so much greater that I’m not worthy even to be his slave and carry his sandals.”

We can understand why, when John sees Jesus next in line to be baptized, he becomes conflicted. “You should be baptizing me, Jesus. Not the other way around!”

Back to my earlier question, we too, like John, can find ourselves conflicted about where we are at a certain point in our lives. We can become confused when God allows certain things that we thought weren’t supposed to happen that way. Even as we faithfully go about our daily lives and follow Jesus, we can get tripped up when circumstances don’t quite align with what we had simply thought or assumed would be our reality.

Jesus understood that submitting to John’s baptism was part of the path the Father had placed before him, even if John could not yet understand it.

It was 37 months ago that God graciously restored my faith. As I’ve shared here, it has since been a journey of restoration and renewal. One of the areas where I needed healing was with regard to the local church. I had gone from being a pastor, fully engaged in the day-to-day life of the church, to being completely disconnected and disengaged. On this side of healing, I am in the process of reconnecting with church life and figuring out what that looks like. It feels very strange not to know how when you were once so deeply rooted in it.

All that to say, one of my conversations with God these days is around this whole question. Will I ever be able to use my gifts again in the context of the local church? Am I supposed to be where I am? My questions might not be the same as John’s, and neither might yours, but there are still questions. There is still a wondering. Is this it? If not, I don’t see the path forward.

This is where Jesus’ response to John went straight to my heart this morning: “Accept that it be this way for now. For this is how we will accomplish what God considers to be right.”

Jesus wasn’t inviting John into passivity. This is not accepting in the sense of throwing in the towel. It’s not a “fine, whatever” sort of accepting. It’s fully embracing what is in front of you now, trusting that God is doing what is good.

What might that look like for you today?

Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the reign of King Herod. About that time, some wise men from eastern lands arrived in Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the newborn king of the Jews? We saw his star as it rose, and we have come to worship him.”

King Herod was deeply disturbed when he heard this, as was everyone in Jerusalem. He called a meeting of the leading priests and teachers of religious law and asked, “Where is the Messiah supposed to be born?”

Matthew 2:1-4 (New Living Translation)

A lot is going on in these opening chapters of Matthew, and my brain is going in a few different directions. Last time I wrote about Joseph. It’s safe to say that he was a humble man who listened to God.

Let’s contrast that with King Herod. He was proud, power-hungry, deeply insecure and violently paranoid.

We should probably place quotation marks around “King of the Jews.” Herod really was a king, but not in the way Israel’s Old Testament kings had been. He was not descended from the tribe of Judah or the royal line of David. He was Idumean, a people historically associated with Edom and Esau rather than Jacob.

Herod’s ancestors had been incorporated into Judea and converted to Judaism several generations earlier. Herod was raised as a Jew, but many of the Jewish people still viewed him as an outsider. More importantly, he had not received his throne through Israel’s royal line. Rome had given it to him.

Around 40 BC, the Roman Senate named Herod “King of the Jews,” and a few years later he took control of Jerusalem with Roman support. He governed Judea as a client king, ruling under Rome and serving Roman interests.

Then strangers arrived in Jerusalem asking, “Where is the newborn king of the Jews?”

But how did these Magi know?

Matthew never explains how they went from seeing a star to looking for the King of the Jews. Reading royal significance into the heavens would have been quite natural for men from the East who were accustomed to interpreting such signs. But why did this particular sign lead them to Israel?

We don’t know.

Jewish communities had lived in Babylon and Persia for centuries, so the Magi may have encountered Israel’s Scriptures and hopes. Intriguingly, Numbers 24:17 had spoken long before of “a star” coming from Jacob and “a sceptre” rising from Israel. Was that prophecy part of what sent them looking? Maybe. Matthew doesn’t tell us, but it’s an interesting possibility.

Whatever led them there, these foreign visitors arrived in Jerusalem asking a provocative question:

“Where is the newborn king of the Jews?”

It’s no surprise, then, that Herod was disturbed by their question. Matthew tells us that all Jerusalem was disturbed with him.

For Herod, this newborn king represented a direct threat. For the people of Jerusalem, his arrival may have awakened hopes of liberation, but it also threatened turmoil. They knew what could happen when Herod felt his throne was in danger.

So here we are. At the centre of the story is Jesus. Converging around him are Herod, the Magi, the people of Jerusalem and the religious leaders.

Herod’s heart is filled with fear, and he is ready to kill.

The Magi’s hearts are filled with anticipation, and they have come to worship.

The people of Jerusalem are disturbed, uncertain about what the arrival of another king might mean.

The religious leaders know where the Messiah is supposed to be born, but they do not appear interested enough to go looking for him themselves.

Everyone has heard about the same King, but his arrival reveals something different in each of them.

Where do you find yourself today as you read this?

Is your posture like Herod’s? You sense Jesus asking for something you are not ready to surrender. You are holding tightly to the throne of your own heart, afraid of what it might mean to let someone else rule. You may want Jesus close enough to help, comfort and bless you, but not close enough to be King.

Maybe you are like the Magi. You are seeking Jesus. You are curious and want to know him more. Your heart is filled with anticipation and a desire to see him and worship him.

Or perhaps you are like the people of Jerusalem. It’s complicated! The thought of Jesus brings up a mixture of hope and fear. Is he the Saviour I need or simply another ruler who wants something from me? Can I trust him? Does he really want what is best for me?

Lastly, maybe you are like the religious leaders. You know your Bible well. You can answer the questions and say the right things about Jesus. Yet, somehow, all that knowledge has stopped short of drawing you closer to him. You know where others can find him, but your own heart has remained at a distance.

Jesus is at the centre of the story, and everyone must decide how they will respond to him. We can resist him like Herod, remain at a distance like the religious leaders, or move toward him like the Magi.

Remember Joseph. He did not have all the answers, but when God spoke, he listened.

What is God whispering to your heart right now? What is his voice stirring or revealing inside you? And are you willing to listen?

Matthew’s genealogy ends in familiar territory.

Jacob was the ancestor of Joseph.

— Matthew 1:16

Matthew has a very interesting way of introducing Jesus. He crafts his genealogy very intentionally to make what seem to be two points:

1. What comes next picks up the promise storyline of the Old Testament. God promised Abraham that through him all nations would be blessed. This promise, and the hope that came with it, had pretty much died. Israel’s national identity and purpose were lost. Hope is now reawakened.

2. David, David, David. Matthew emphasizes the Davidic lineage not only by including David in the genealogy but by dividing the genealogy into three groups of 14. In Hebrew, the letters spelling David have the numerical value of 14.

Ok, as interesting as all that is, it’s not the point of this post. My focus as I read this morning was on Joseph. Not the Joseph, son of Jacob, we read about in Genesis. Not the Joseph who wound up in Egypt and was used by God to save his people. Not the Joseph whom God spoke to through dreams.

I’m talking about the other Joseph, the descendant of Jacob (not that one), who wound up in Egypt and was used by God to protect the one who would save his people. The one God spoke to through dreams.

You following? 😉

Joseph, the one who named Jesus, received him as his own and raised him with his wife, Mary. That Joseph.

We don’t know much about this Joseph, but here are a few highlights. There is no record of anything he ever said. He was a carpenter. He was a God-fearing man. He was a just man. A really good guy. He seems to have loved Mary.

What stood out to me is what we read in verse 19 of chapter 1:

Joseph, to whom she was engaged, was a righteous man and did not want to disgrace her publicly, so he decided to break the engagement quietly.

He had just found out his soon-to-be wife was pregnant, and he was not the father. This was serious. He was well within his rights to split and, in doing so, leave her to be humiliated. I don’t know how that conversation went down when Mary tried to explain to him that she had not been with another man. I’ll leave that to your imagination.

What I’m interested in is how he reacted. Rather than exploding and looking for ways to make her suffer for it, because of his love for her and because he was a just man, he decided he would quietly separate and avoid making a fuss so as not to draw too much attention. He wasn’t going to stay with her, but neither was he going to humiliate her.

He was a righteous man. He was a God-fearing man. He listened to God. While he was considering the best way to leave Mary without drawing attention, God spoke to him in a dream and explained what was going on.

Joseph believed. He didn’t just believe; he said “yes.” Yes to naming the child. Naming the child symbolized taking him as his own. Yes to trusting God. Yes to remaining with Mary.

The following verses give us more examples of how he was someone who paid attention and listened to God’s prompting in his life. Through two other dreams, we read that he took Mary and the child down to Egypt to be spared from Herod’s psychopathic wrath. Later, again, he listened to God and took Mary and Jesus to Nazareth.

It’s no wonder this man is the one God had brought into Mary’s life. Jesus, the Righteous One, would be raised by a righteous man. A loving man.

Joseph pretty much disappears from the account after that. Other than seeing him again when Jesus is about 12 years old, we don’t read or hear anything else about him. He was not the point; Jesus was. Yet he had a pivotal and important role to play in the story.

Not unlike Joseph, maybe your life seems simple, insignificant and uneventful. Like Joseph, through faithfulness, love and obedience, you never know the great acts God might be working through you.

About one and a half years ago, while I was sitting in my living room reading chair, my attention was drawn to this very large printed canvas we have hanging on our dining room wall. It’s about 60 inches high and 80 inches wide. It has hung in a few places in our home and, a while back, ended up where it is today.

By that time, my faith had been reawakened for a little over one year, and I was still in therapy, working my way through some issues.

That morning, as I was trying to settle into some prayer time, the canvas came into focus. Although I was sitting a few feet away with many other things in my line of sight, in that moment I was drawn to the canvas, and like in the picture above, I was standing directly on the edge of the bridge.

I was seeing an illustration of my prayer life. Not my prayer life per se, but rather my relationship with God. Although I had turned back to him, looking at the canvas, I could feel my apprehension about drawing closer.

The tree across the bridge was God waiting for me to sit at his feet and enjoy his presence. It was the place I needed to be to listen and be free of distractions and fears.

The bridge was my hesitation. It was shaky. As much as I wanted to cross and sit at the foot of the tree, both hands on the ropes, I trembled and realized how much resistance I had built throughout my years of deconstruction. Even then, months after my faith in God was restored, that resistance was there, holding me back. The fog represented all the distractions. Each plank was a step of faith. Closer and closer.

It was like that for a few weeks. Morning after morning, I would stare at that canvas, fully aware of my predicament. I stood there, talking to God from this side, struggling to identify what was holding me back.

Then, one morning, I heard Jesus calling, “Come to me, and I will give you rest.”

Crossing that bridge meant letting go of fear, excuses, hurt, unanswered questions, and anything else.

It meant resting. It was only on the other side that I would find my footing again.

I confessed my resistance and crossed. In the months that followed, I experienced breakthroughs like never before in my emotional and spiritual health. Hope returned.

Every morning since, when I am home, I start my morning in that same chair. The canvas is an invitation to name anything holding me back that day and, by faith, to embrace what God is doing and calling me to.

Some days I cross more slowly than others, but I cross.

You might not have a huge canvas on the wall in front of you, but what if you did? What if it was this same one? Where are you standing in relation to God? What is shaky in your life? What is scary? What is holding you back or keeping you stuck in the middle?

Pray with me, “Jesus, today, I accept your invitation, and I come, trusting that you know what I need.”

After reading Genesis and Exodus this summer, I’m taking a break and jumping back into the New Testament.

Honestly, I really didn’t feel like trekking through Leviticus! It felt like a chore.

So here we are in the first Gospel, the book of Matthew.

If you’ve watched The Chosen, like me, you probably now have a mental image of this Gospel writer.

Particular. Observant. Good with numbers, although they didn’t make him responsible for keeping track of the money.

Matthew could put two and two together.

He seems to have been quite familiar with the Old Testament, always jotting down notes when something Jesus said or did jogged his memory. This becomes abundantly clear through the numerous Old Testament references in his Gospel.

Matthew watched and listened to Jesus, connecting the dots between what he witnessed and what the prophets had written.

That’s why I say he could put two and two together.

I’m jumping straight to two verses that drew my attention in the early chapters: Matthew 3:2 and 4:17. Both repeat the same words, spoken first by John and then by Jesus:

Repent of your sins and turn to God, for the Kingdom of Heaven is near.

New Living Translation

Or, as The Message puts it:

Change your life. God’s kingdom is here.

The contrast between where our lives are headed and what the kingdom of heaven looks like cannot be overstated.

Hence the invitation to repent.

For a variety of understandable reasons, the word repent leaves a bad taste in many people’s mouths. This is unfortunate.

To repent means to change. To reorient yourself.

We’re not talking about small tweaks. This is a 180-degree change.

You are heading east until you realize you need to be going west. Not northeast or southeast. West.

You are headed in the wrong direction, and if you continue that way, you will not find what you are hoping for.

The trouble is, you might think you are already headed in the right direction.

This is what makes repentance, turning around, so difficult. It requires faith.

Why faith?

Because I think I’m doing okay. I believe what I want is somewhere ahead of me. Now I need to trust the person who is telling me, contrary to everything I had thought until then, that I need to turn around.

I don’t just need to change direction to find what I am looking for. Continuing in my present direction may actually ruin me.

Jesus, and John preparing the way for Jesus, both invite us to turn around.

Change direction.

Repent.

Why?

Because the kingdom of heaven, God’s kingdom, has come near. And apparently we weren’t headed that way.

Jesus brought the kingdom near and demonstrated what heaven-life looks like. He showed us what life truly is and what it means to experience it to the fullest.

Our internal GPS is not quite leading us there.

Do you trust Jesus enough to undergo the 180-degree change required to follow him?

We are not simply following him to some random destination. We are following him into abundant life.

This isn’t only about life later, in some distant future after we die, although, yes, it includes that too.

Jesus invites us to turn around and begin living the life of his kingdom here and now.

Intimacy begins when we become honest about what is happening inside us and are willing to share it with our partner.

That means moving beyond surface-level answers and learning to recognize our fears, disappointments, desires, wounds, and struggles. It also means learning to express them truthfully and graciously.

It’s easy to assume that intimacy is broken when something goes wrong, when someone wrongs the other, or when one partner does something explicitly hurtful.

Yes, those situations can and do hurt our intimacy. But let’s look at it from a different angle.

Intimacy can also be broken because we mean well.

Intimacy can be broken when our heart is in the right place, so to speak. It can be lost when we are actually trying to protect it.

If intimacy is so fragile that we are not only at risk of losing it when we do something wrong, but also when we are trying to do something right, we’re screwed!

What does this have to do with telling the truth?

Telling the truth can be difficult, not because we want to lie, but because it exposes both us and our partner. It brings to light uncomfortable things we would rather avoid, if at all possible.

It reveals what is going on inside us. It may also reveal something about our partner that we are not sure they are ready to hear.

When something is off

Last week, my wife and I were enjoying a meal and having a conversation. At one point, she responded to something I said, and her response hurt.

She didn’t say anything mean. She didn’t yell. She simply responded to something I had said. She could not have known that her statement would hurt me.

I stumbled through the next few minutes, trying to keep my thoughts straight. Meanwhile, she noticed that my composure had changed. My breathing was short, my words were mumbled, and my voice was low.

We paused and acknowledged that something was up. We talked it through. I explained what had hurt me and why, and then we went on with our evening.

Along with other details that I will spare you, that situation raised a fear in my wife. Suffice it to say that over the next few days, she struggled to tell me what she was thinking and feeling.

It was obvious that something was up. She was trying hard to “get over it” and move on.

We remained stuck in a sort of limbo for nearly a week. Neither of us was mad at the other. We had not argued. Neither of us had deliberately done anything wrong.

Yet our emotional connection was hindered. Intimacy was running away. We could both see it happening, but we kept cycling without being able to regain our footing.

What was going on?

Why was my wife worried about telling me what was on her mind? Why was she struggling to tell me the truth?

Telling the truth can be hard even when we have no desire to lie. It can be hard even when we want what is best for one another.

Here are three reasons I believe we struggle to tell the truth and, in the process, lose some of our intimacy.

1. We don’t understand what is happening inside us

Sometimes we don’t tell the truth because we don’t quite know what the truth is yet.

That is fair. It can take time for our thoughts, feelings, and emotions to sync up. Our immediate reaction may tell us that something is wrong without telling us what is wrong or why it affected us so deeply.

On the one hand, we want to find our bearings before we start speaking. That can be wise. Not every emotion needs to be expressed the moment we feel it.

On the other hand, we can remain stuck in an endless cycle of mixed thoughts and emotions while waiting to understand everything perfectly. Sometimes we don’t begin to understand what is happening inside us until we start talking about it.

We may need to begin with an incomplete truth:

“I know something is going on inside me, but I don’t understand it yet.”

We don’t need a finished explanation to invite our partner into what we are experiencing.

2. We don’t want to hurt the other, be rejected, or get hurt ourselves

My wife’s primary hesitation was the fear that she would hurt me if she shared her thoughts truthfully.

She meant well. She wanted to preserve my peace by not telling me things she feared might be painful for me to hear.

The red lights tend to go off when the truth we need to speak concerns our partner. If it is about something random or outside the relationship, it is not too bad. But when it directly touches our partner’s actions, habits, patterns, or words, we hold back.

We tell ourselves we are protecting them.

What happens, though, is that in our effort to spare our partner from potentially being hurt by our words, we hurt them through emotional distance. They notice that we are no longer fully present, but they don’t know why. They become stuck along with us.

Silence does not leave the relationship untouched. It creates a space that our partner will usually try to fill with guesses, fears, and assumptions.

If we are still struggling to think clearly, we may also worry that our partner will react and hurt us when we are genuinely trying not to hurt them. We may fear being misunderstood, dismissed, criticized, or rejected.

Or we may worry that we simply won’t be heard. More on that later when we explore the principle of listening.

These fears are real. Telling the truth does involve risk. Intimacy always does.

But telling the truth is not the same as unloading everything we feel without thought or restraint.

Truth-telling requires us to take responsibility for what is happening inside us while remaining curious about what is happening inside our partner.

There is a significant difference between saying, “You don’t care about me,” and saying, “When that happened, I felt unimportant to you. I know that may not have been your intention, but I want to help you understand what happened inside me.”

One closes the conversation. The other gives intimacy somewhere to begin.

3. We would rather avoid tension and awkwardness

I will return to this often throughout the series:

Intimacy is often on the other side of tension and awkwardness.

Only those who learn to navigate through this tension and face the awkwardness will taste the depth of intimacy.

Most of us would prefer for intimacy to feel natural and effortless. We want the meaningful conversation but don’t quite know how to get through an uncomfortable beginning. We want to be understood, but we fear that may not be possible when we struggle to find the words.

The awkward moment is often the place where we stand at a crossroads. We can back away, pretend nothing happened, and slowly move toward indifference. Or we can remain present long enough to discover what is happening between us.

We can say, “Forget about it.”

Or we can say, “This is uncomfortable, and I’m not sure how to talk about it, but I don’t want it to create distance between us.”

The tension is not necessarily evidence that intimacy has failed. It is an invitation to go deeper.

What can we do to help one another tell the truth?

First, acknowledge what is happening before you can fully explain it.

You don’t need to have everything sorted out.

“Something feels off between us.”

“I’m afraid to tell you what I’m thinking because I don’t want to hurt you.”

Those statements reassure your partner that the distance has been noticed and that you intend to return.

Second, find ways to begin the conversation that release some of the pressure.

For some couples, speaking face-to-face is best. Others need a different entry point. You might write an email or a letter. You might take turns telling your experience of the situation without being interrupted. You might go for a drive or take a walk so you aren’t staring directly at one another.

Someone once suggested putting a sock on your hand and letting the puppet speak for you. We never tried it, but if it helps you tell the truth, the sock may be worth a shot.

The method is not the point. The goal is to create enough safety to begin speaking.

Third, tell your experience without pretending that your experience is the whole story.

Speak about what you felt, feared, wanted, or assumed. Be truthful, but remain humble enough to recognize that your partner experienced the same situation differently.

Finally, learn to receive the truth as well as speak it.

If honesty is repeatedly met with defensiveness, correction, mockery, punishment, or immediate explanations, your partner will eventually stop risking it.

You do not have to agree with everything your partner says. You do not have to accept an unfair interpretation of your motives. But before explaining yourself, try to understand what it cost your partner to speak and what they are trying to help you see.

Truth-telling requires courage from both people: courage to reveal and courage to remain present when something difficult is revealed.

Practice telling the truth

At the end of the day, practice is the only way to get there.

We learn to tell the truth by telling it, imperfectly at first. We learn to remain present by staying in the awkward moment a little longer than we did last time.

The goal is not to say everything perfectly. It is to become increasingly unwilling to let fear, confusion, or good intentions quietly create distance between us.

Intimacy grows when I allow you to see what is happening inside me and when I make room for what is happening inside you.

Sometimes the truth will be clear. Sometimes it will come out awkwardly. Other times all we will be able to say is:

“I don’t completely understand what is happening inside me yet, but I’m trying.”

That is often enough to begin.

Throughout this series, we have watched God steadily move closer.

He descended upon Mount Sinai. He travelled with Israel in the tabernacle. He established his dwelling among them in the temple. Then, in Jesus, God came to live among us in human flesh.

Matthew introduces Jesus as Immanuel, which means “God is with us” (Matthew 1:23).

When the curtain tore, the way into God’s presence was opened.

But God was not finished moving closer.

Before his death, Jesus told his disciples that the Holy Spirit would not simply be near them. He would live within them.

But you know him, because he lives with you now and later will be in you.

John 14:17b (New Living Translation)

Through the Holy Spirit, the presence of Jesus would remain with his followers, guiding them, transforming them and empowering them to represent him in the world.

After his resurrection, Jesus sent his disciples out with a promise that would have sounded familiar.

When God sent Moses back to Egypt, he told him, “I will be with you.” Now Jesus was sending his disciples into the world with the same assurance:

And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.

Matthew 28:20b (New Living Translation)

Matthew’s Gospel begins with Jesus being called God with us and ends with Jesus promising, I am with you always.

But Jesus was about to ascend. How would he remain with them?

Through the Holy Spirit, who would not merely dwell among them, but within them.

But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you. And you will be my witnesses, telling people about me everywhere.

Acts 1:8a (New Living Translation)

God’s dwelling would no longer be centred in a particular building. His people would become his dwelling.

Together, we are his house, built on the foundation of the apostles and the prophets. And the cornerstone is Christ Jesus himself. We are carefully joined together in him, becoming a holy temple for the Lord.

Ephesians 2:20–21 (New Living Translation)

This is true of us personally, but it is also something we share collectively. Paul writes, “All of you together are the temple of God” (1 Corinthians 3:16).

God dwells within each of us by his Spirit, but none of us represents him fully on our own. We are being joined together into a living temple, with Jesus himself as the cornerstone.

The temple continues in human form. The Church is not another physical building, such as the tabernacle or the temple.

Wherever the people of God (the Church) go, into homes, workplaces, neighbourhoods, conflicts, interruptions and ordinary routines, the God who dwells within us is already present. Through his Spirit, he guides us into truth, transforms us into the likeness of Jesus and empowers us to bear witness through both our words and our lives.

No mountain to climb. No sanctuary to visit. No curtain to wait behind.

God is closer than we realize.

The question is no longer simply, “How can we enter God’s presence?” It is also, “How will the presence of God within us become visible through us today?”

(This popcorn devotion will be a little longer than usual)

In the book God Looks Like Jesus: A Renewed Approach to Understanding God, Greg Boyd opens the introduction with this quote:

This is central to understanding why we must grasp the fullness of what Jesus accomplished through his life and ministry, and most importantly, through his death and resurrection.

As we’ve seen throughout the last few Popcorn Devotions, God came near and dwelled among his people throughout the Old Testament. Yet a distance remained. Access was guarded, surrounded by boundaries, sacrifices and ceremonial laws.

Remember what I wrote in Through the Layers:

So much of the Old Testament takes place within layers we don’t quite understand.

There was the culture of the day, with its customs, laws and assumptions. God entered that world and began reshaping it through his covenant with Israel. Over time, additional religious traditions and interpretations accumulated. Layer upon layer.

All this talk about Mount Sinai, the Ark of the Covenant, the tabernacle and the temple, along with the protocols and sacrifices surrounding them, is foreign to us. Quite frankly, some of it does seem excessive.

For the people at the time, however, much of it would have made sense. God met them in a world they understood to lead them further.

Step by step until his ultimate revelation.

The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.

John 1:14

When John says that Jesus “made his dwelling among us,” the word carries the idea that he tabernacled among us. This directly echoes the Old Testament picture of God dwelling among his people in the tabernacle and later in the temple.

For in Christ lives all the fullness of God in a human body.

Colossians 2:9 (New Living Translation)

Long ago God spoke many times and in many ways to our ancestors through the prophets. And now in these final days, he has spoken to us through his Son. God promised everything to the Son as an inheritance, and through the Son he created the universe. The Son radiates God’s own glory and expresses the very character of God, and he sustains everything by the mighty power of his command. When he had cleansed us from our sins, he sat down in the place of honour at the right hand of the majestic God in heaven. This shows that the Son is far greater than the angels, just as the name God gave him is greater than their names.

Hebrews 1:1–4 (New Living Translation)

Through his life, death and resurrection, Jesus dealt with the sin that kept humanity at a distance and opened a new way into God’s presence.

It was not by accident that the temple curtain tore at the moment Jesus died. Its tearing from top to bottom points to this being initiated by God himself. Humanity had not finally discovered a way to force its way into God’s presence. God was signalling that the way was now opened for us.

Then Jesus shouted out again, and he released his spirit. At that moment the curtain in the sanctuary of the Temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.

Matthew 27:50–51 (New Living Translation)

Jesus does more than grant access to a building. He identifies himself as the true temple and becomes both sacrifice and high priest. In his incarnation, he identifies with us in our humanity.

And so, dear brothers and sisters, we can boldly enter heaven’s Most Holy Place because of the blood of Jesus. By his death, Jesus opened a new and life-giving way through the curtain into the Most Holy Place. And since we have a great High Priest who rules over God’s house, let us go right into the presence of God with sincere hearts fully trusting him. For our guilty consciences have been sprinkled with Christ’s blood to make us clean, and our bodies have been washed with pure water.

Hebrews 10:19–22 (New Living Translation)

Entering the Most Holy Place at the wrong time, without the proper credentials, and without the required sacrifices meant death. Now, through Jesus, the way into God’s presence has become “a new and life-giving way.”

God has not become less holy, nor has sin become inconsequential. The barrier has been dealt with, at immense cost, by Jesus himself.

We do not need to read the Bible as though we must somehow juggle the loving and merciful God revealed in Jesus with an Old Testament God who sometimes appears violent and vengeful.

Jesus is the final layer. He reveals God fully and completely. As Greg Boyd points out, we need not, and should not, consider every depiction of God equally accurate or authoritative.

Jesus does not merely tell us what God is like. He shows us.

The curtain tore because, through Jesus, God opened the way back into his presence.

The stage was now set for something even more intimate: for God to make his dwelling not merely among, but within his people.

(Among the popcorn devotions, this is part 5 of 8 in the mini-series inspired by Exodus 19)

For nearly five centuries, the Ark of the Covenant and the tabernacle remained portable or were housed in temporary structures.

The ark’s unsettled journey taught Israel that God’s presence was with them, but it was not theirs to control.

They had already tried using the ark as a weapon, assuming God would do whatever they wanted as long as the ark was with them. They carried it into battle like a religious good-luck charm, expecting God to support them regardless of their faithfulness (1 Samuel 4).

Under Solomon, God’s dwelling among Israel took on a stable architectural form. God established his dwelling at the heart of the nation in the temple, while reminding them that no building could contain him and no sacred structure could guarantee his favour.

Then the priests carried the Ark of the Lord’s Covenant into the inner sanctuary of the Temple—the Most Holy Place—and placed it beneath the wings of the cherubim. The cherubim spread their wings over the Ark, forming a canopy over the Ark and its carrying poles.

Then Solomon prayed, “O Lord, you have said that you would live in a thick cloud of darkness. Now I have built a glorious Temple for you, a place where you can live forever!

But will God really live on earth? Why, even the highest heavens cannot contain you. How much less this Temple I have built! Nevertheless, listen to my prayer and my plea, O Lord my God. Hear the cry and the prayer that your servant is making to you today. May you watch over this Temple night and day, this place where you have said, ‘My name will be there.’ May you always hear the prayers I make toward this place. May you hear the humble and earnest requests from me and your people Israel when we pray toward this place. Yes, hear us from heaven where you live, and when you hear, forgive.”

1 Kings 8:6–7, 12–13, 27–30 (New Living Translation)

In verse 10, we read that when the ark enters the Most Holy Place, the glory of God fills the temple. God genuinely chooses to make his presence known there.

This was a significant moment of stability. The ark, the altar and Israel’s national worship were finally brought together in Jerusalem (the ark and the tabernacle had become separated some time before).

Yet, as Solomon acknowledged, the temple was God’s gracious gift, not a container that confined him.

The tabernacle emphasized that God travelled with his people. The temple emphasized that God had established his dwelling among them.

However, access to the Most Holy Place remained restricted and guarded. Again we see the cherubim. Only the high priest could enter, and only once a year, with sacrifice and great care.

God had moved closer, but the way into his immediate presence was not yet open to everyone.

God had moved closer, but the way into his immediate presence was not yet open to everyone. The story of God dwelling among humanity, however, would take an unexpected turn.

This is part 4 of the mini-series within the regular popcorn devotions. If you haven’t already, read the first 3 (1 here, 2 here, 3 here)

I find it helpful, as I read through Exodus, to take a step back to better appreciate who Jesus is, what he has done, and what has been made available to us through him.

After God’s descent on Mount Sinai, we find nearly a dozen chapters in the second half of Exodus dedicated to the building of the ark of the covenant and the tabernacle, and to the way Israel was to approach God there.

Why is this significant?

Have the people of Israel build me a holy sanctuary so I can live among them.

Exodus 25:8

God transforms the temporary encounter at Sinai into a portable sanctuary so that his presence can travel with his people.

We move from a seemingly untouchable God on Mount Sinai to God setting up his tent in the middle of the camp, at the heart of their existence.

Of course, access remains limited. The problem introduced to us in Eden has not yet been fully resolved, but God continues to move closer.

Remember the cherubim?

The tabernacle carried echoes of humanity’s exile from Eden. Cherubim had guarded the way back into the garden after Adam and Eve were driven out. Now their images were woven into the curtain before the Most Holy Place, reminding Israel that the way into God’s sacred presence remained guarded.

But they also appeared above the ark, surrounding the place where God promised to meet with his people.

The boundary remained, but God had provided a way to approach him and had chosen to dwell among them.

What began for me as a gut reaction of, “This seems excessive,” when reading Exodus 19 has become an appreciation for the way God teaches and leads. He is who he is, and his holiness could literally crush us. This is what would have happened if he had not established limits for our protection and provided a way for us to approach him.

God’s desire has never been simply to visit his people from a distance, but to dwell among them.

As noted in the previous post, there is a difference between intimacy and informality. We are invited into relationship with God, but we are cautioned against treating him casually. The tabernacle holds these two truths together: God is holy and cannot be approached carelessly, yet he chooses to make his home among his people.

And this is where the story helps us better appreciate Jesus. The God who set up his tent in the middle of Israel’s camp would one day come even closer and make his dwelling among us.

To appreciate what is happening here, I think it’s important to recognize that Exodus 19 is not so much about God keeping people away as it is about him coming toward them.

Although humanity could no longer safely enter God’s presence, God came down on Sinai to meet his people and draw them into covenant with him.

The Lord descended to the top of Mount Sinai and called Moses to the top of the mountain.

Exodus 19:20 (New Living Translation)

Throughout Scripture, mountains often become places of divine encounter. Their height evokes the meeting of heaven and earth, places where God reveals himself to humanity. But at Sinai, the most important movement is not Moses climbing the mountain. It is God coming down.

He descended. He came to them.

You’ll remember that in the early chapters of Genesis, we find God walking among humanity in the cool breeze. The scene is serene.

Here, hundreds of years after the events of Genesis 3, God descends and comes near again. Only this time, he comes with the full weight of his holiness.

Mount Sinai was covered with smoke because the Lord descended on it in fire. The smoke billowed up from it like smoke from a furnace, and the whole mountain trembled violently.

Exodus 19:18 (New Living Translation)

Because of sin, humanity could no longer safely experience that holiness. Thunder, fire, smoke, and trembling surround the God who has just called Israel his treasured possession. They were not yet ready to approach him. This is why, as we saw a few days ago, respecting the boundary was so important. It was not a threat; it was a safeguard.

The boundary does not mean that God wants to remain distant. All of this is happening precisely because he has come near.

At a time and in a cultural context where gods were common, this encounter reminds us that there is a difference between intimacy and informality. We are invited into relationship with God, but we are cautioned against treating him casually.

When the cool evening breezes were blowing, the man and his wife heard the Lord God walking about in the garden.

Genesis 3:8a (New Living Translation)

Yesterday, we found the Israelites at the foot of Mount Sinai, standing behind a boundary they were explicitly told not to cross. They could not enter God’s sacred space.

It was not always so.

In Genesis, we find humanity inhabiting sacred space. Adam and Eve are in the garden of God, the garden of Eden. God walks among them. There is unhindered communion and relationship.

Then something happens, and everything changes.

They go from being unashamed in God’s presence (Genesis 2:25) to being afraid and hiding from him (Genesis 3:8b).

Humanity was made to live with God, but sin turned intimacy into hiding and eventually resulted in exile from his sacred space.

Then the Lord God said, “Look, the human beings have become like us, knowing both good and evil. What if they reach out, take fruit from the tree of life, and eat it? Then they will live forever!” So the Lord God banished them from the Garden of Eden, and he sent Adam out to cultivate the ground from which he had been made. After sending them out, the Lord God stationed mighty cherubim to the east of the Garden of Eden. And he placed a flaming sword that flashed back and forth to guard the way to the tree of life.

Genesis 3:22–24 (New Living Translation)

The movement in Genesis 2 and 3 is from presence with God to mistrust and taking matters into their own hands; then to fear and hiding; and finally to exile from God’s sacred space. Humanity could no longer inhabit it. Sin had made unhindered access impossible, and the way back was guarded.

Keep the cherubim in mind. We will return to them in a few days.

The point of tracing the story back to the garden of Eden is to highlight the contrast between this sacred space and the one that came down on Mount Sinai.

The tragedy is not merely that humanity lost paradise. Humanity lost unhindered communion with God.

And yet, at Mount Sinai, God came down.

The boundary remained, but his descent showed that exile would not have the final word. If humanity could no longer freely enter God’s sacred space, God would make a way to dwell among us once again. In Exodus 19, he begins to show what it would take to bring us near again.

Many parts of the Bible can trip us up, especially in the Old Testament, where we encounter a way of life that is so, so far removed from ours.

Genesis has a lot of family drama that hits closer to home. Exodus starts taking us into more intense territory: stories and events that can leave us scratching our heads and wondering, What in the world?

When I read Exodus 19:10–13, my gut reaction was, “Okay, this seems excessive!” Why would stepping across a boundary, even accidentally, deserve death?

Then the Lord told Moses, “Go down and prepare the people for my arrival. Consecrate them today and tomorrow, and have them wash their clothing. Be sure they are ready on the third day, for on that day the Lord will come down on Mount Sinai as all the people watch. Mark off a boundary all around the mountain. Warn the people, ‘Be careful! Do not go up on the mountain or even touch its boundaries. Anyone who touches the mountain will certainly be put to death. No hand may touch the person or animal that crosses the boundary; instead, stone them or shoot them with arrows. They must be put to death.’ However, when the ram’s horn sounds a long blast, then the people may go up on the mountain.”

Exodus 19:10–13 (New Living Translation)

The second you, or anyone, even your dog, touches that boundary, it’s over. No one will come get you. No one will extend a hand to bring you back. Nope. You’re done.

So done that you are to be shot with an arrow from afar so that you don’t accidentally take someone else with you.

You are cooked!

I’ll be camping out here for the next few Popcorn Devotions to unpack this a bit.

What is going on here? s God being unfriendly, or are we simply catching a glimpse of the fact that he is dangerously holy, and we are not?

Here are a few thoughts to ponder between now and the next post:

The boundary was a reminder that God could not be approached casually or on our own terms.

If you read the chapter, you’ll notice that God repeatedly warns Moses because he wants to protect the people, not because he is looking for ways to punish them.

We read this today, and it all seems out of this world. We forget the seriousness of sin and what it took to bring us to a place where approaching God is something we can so easily take for granted.

How did humanity, created for God’s presence, reach the point where coming too close could kill us?

Moses didn’t even have time to realize what was happening. The events came like waves, crashing one after another after another after another.

One day, he’s living a quiet life as a shepherd.

Then comes the burning bush, the confrontation with Pharaoh, the plagues, the exodus from Egypt, and the journey through the wilderness.

In the span of just a few months, Moses has lost control of his time. There is so much going on that all he can do, from morning to evening, is react to all the responsibilities and projects he has taken upon himself.

Each responsibility and project can be viewed on its own as worthwhile and necessary. But added together, his lifestyle and daily routines have become unsustainable.

Thankfully, Jethro, his father-in-law, comes to visit. He notices what is happening, draws Moses’ attention to the issue, and proposes a way to better structure his life and responsibilities.

When Moses’ father-in-law saw all that Moses was doing for the people, he asked, “What are you really accomplishing here? Why are you trying to do all this alone while everyone stands around you from morning till evening?”

—Exodus 18:14

Moses explains that this is simply the way things are now. It is his responsibility to ensure that the people are heard and given proper direction.

“This is not good!” Moses’ father-in-law exclaimed. “You’re going to wear yourself out—and the people, too. This job is too heavy a burden for you to handle all by yourself.”

—Exodus 18:17–18

Moses, if you don’t make changes and reorganize your life, not only will you burn yourself out, but you will also harm the people you are trying to help.

You can’t do this alone.

Like Moses, life sneaks up on us. We can find ourselves with daily routines filled with a variety of responsibilities, projects, and things to do. It becomes normal, and we become good at finding ways to justify the way things are.

Maybe this is you. You’ve somehow lost control. Maybe you read the last few posts about tasting and seeing the goodness of God, and you realize that, as much as you would like to, you simply don’t have the time.

There is too much to do!

Perhaps, like Moses, you could use an outside voice to help you see what is happening and suggest a better way forward.

I do know that Jesus has given us his Spirit, who may speak through that still, small voice, or through the wisdom of someone we trust.

What has he been whispering to you that you have not felt able to do anything about?

Take a moment today to step back and ask yourself:

What am I really accomplishing here?

(The content of this post is taken from various notes and texts I’ve written over the years for sermons and conference material. For this post, I used AI to bring it all together as a cohesive introduction to the series.)

On our wedding day, 25 years ago, Amélie and I stood before our family and friends and made promises to one another.

Like most couples, we entered marriage with anticipation. We loved each other. We wanted to build a life together. We imagined companionship, closeness, shared dreams, and the joy of knowing and being known by another person.

A few years later, our communication did not always sound quite as poetic as our wedding vows!

We would sometimes communicate via email to help break the ice when there was tension. It would help each of us express ourselves without interruption.

I remember a specific time when my email to my wife and her response back to me were raw and vulnerable. Some of the images we used were not flattering, but they spoke to the depths of what we were feeling.

There we were.

I felt rejected, mistreated, and shut out. Amélie felt unloved, unimportant, and emotionally distant from me. We were both hurting. We both wanted the other to move toward us. We both believed we had already tried. And we were both convinced that the other person was the one creating the distance.

Neither of us was saying, “I no longer want intimacy with you.”

In fact, the intensity of our words revealed the opposite. We were upset because intimacy mattered to us. We wanted to feel close, loved, heard, and understood. But instead of clearly expressing those deeper desires, we experienced them through frustration, accusation, withdrawal, and self-protection.

That is often what intimacy looks like in a real marriage.

It is not only found in romantic evenings, meaningful conversations, shared laughter, or physical connection. It is also found, or lost, in the awkward moments when two people feel hurt, misunderstood, and uncertain about how to reach one another.

One of the greatest differences between marriages is the intimacy a couple cultivates.

Intimacy is more than simply being together. Two people can share a home, a routine, a bed, and years of history while remaining emotionally distant from one another. We can talk regularly without ever getting to the heart of what is happening inside us. Even sex, although it can be a beautiful expression of intimacy, does not automatically create it.

True intimacy is emotional, spiritual, and physical. It is the experience of being deeply known while also seeking to know the person we love.

And it does not happen by accident.

Intimacy is precious, difficult to cultivate, and perhaps even harder to maintain. Even when we experience it, we cannot assume it will remain. It must be pursued, protected, and continually renewed.

Sometimes it feels as though intimacy is always trying to slip away. We think we have finally nailed it down and it escapes us again.

Life becomes busy. Responsibilities multiply. Conversations become practical. Disappointments remain unresolved. We become distracted, tired, defensive, or afraid. Without realizing it, the space between us begins to grow.

This is part of the paradox of intimacy: we deeply desire it, yet we also fear it.

We want to be known, loved, understood, and accepted. We long for a connection that feels beautiful, deep, and almost heavenly. But intimacy also exposes us. It reveals our insecurities, weaknesses, wounds, expectations, and disappointments. It asks us to surrender control and allow another person to see what we would sometimes prefer to keep hidden.

Intimacy draws us in with promises of joy and connection, yet the road toward it can leave us confused, vulnerable, and discouraged. It comforts us, but it can also hurt. It gives life, but it requires courage.

Still, the rewards of intimacy—the joy of being known, the security of being loved, and the strength of facing life together—far outweigh the risks involved in pursuing it.

Our Longing for Eden

Our hearts are wired for connection.

We long for a unity that goes beyond physical proximity. We want to know our partner and to be known by them. We want our individual lives to become part of something shared without losing the uniqueness of who we are.

This longing is reflected in the biblical picture of marriage and in the poetic celebration of love, beauty, intimacy, and sexuality found in the Song of Songs. Beneath our desire for intimacy lies a deeper longing for Eden—a world without fear, shame, hiding, or suspicion.

We chase versions of this longing in love stories and fairy tales. Perhaps that is one reason romantic films remain so compelling. They awaken the hope that somewhere there is a relationship in which we can be perfectly known, completely understood, and endlessly desired.

They offer us a glimpse of Eden.

But intimacy cannot be cultivated within a fairy tale. It must be built in the middle of real life.

Marriage unfolds through work, children, financial pressures, changing bodies, household responsibilities, family complications, disappointments, wounds from the past, and the ordinary exhaustion of daily living.

The beauty of real intimacy, however, is far deeper than the superficial perfection of a romantic story. Fairy tales may awaken desire, but lasting intimacy is created when two imperfect people face the tensions of real life together.

It is there that we begin to create our own small glimpses of Eden—moments when the distractions are pushed aside, the pressures briefly lose their power, and the world narrows down to you, your partner, and the moment you are sharing.

Intimacy in the Middle of Brokenness

We do not enter marriage as complete and perfectly healthy people.

We carry dreams, expectations, strengths, fears, disappointments, habits, ambitions, insecurities, and wounds. Marriage does not erase these things. In many ways, it amplifies them because our lives are now intertwined with someone else who carries their own complex story.

This is the reality in which intimacy must be cultivated.

The challenges are external: work, children, schedules, responsibilities, church, extended family, finances, health, and the demands of others.

They are also internal: our past experiences, personal wounds, fears, assumptions, disappointments, and patterns of self-protection.

There are spiritual realities as well. Sin bends us inward. It encourages selfishness, pride, suspicion, resentment, and the instinct to protect ourselves rather than love the other person well.

Because the obstacles can feel overwhelming, it becomes tempting to give up.

We may convince ourselves that things will never improve. We hide behind statements such as, “This is just the way I am,” or, “You knew who I was when you married me.” We adjust to the distance and stop believing something deeper is possible.

But what we do with intimacy will help determine what our marriage becomes.

We can retreat from the challenge, or we can lean into it. We can accept emotional distance as normal, or we can keep working toward something richer, safer, and more honest.

The path toward intimacy requires resilience, commitment, grace, creativity, and a willingness to transform the raw material of our lives into something beautiful.

The Intimacy We Fear

Often, we are afraid of the very thing we most desire.

Intimacy requires vulnerability, and vulnerability involves risk.

What will happen if I say what I am really thinking?

Will I be understood?

Will I be rejected, corrected, dismissed, or misunderstood?

What if my weaknesses are exposed?

What if the conversation becomes uncomfortable?

At the heart of this struggle is often a tension between pride and humility.

Pride protects itself. It insists that it already understands. It resists help, hides weakness, judges the intentions of others, and prefers independence over vulnerability. Pride would often rather have an audience than a partner.

Humility takes a different posture.

Humility remains open to learning. It accepts that there is always more to understand about ourselves and about the person we love. It recognizes that we need one another. It listens, asks questions, receives correction, and views our partner as an ally in the journey of growth and discovery.

Independence is often celebrated as strength, but marriage calls us toward interdependence. We were not created to live isolated lives alongside one another. We were created to give, receive, serve, support, challenge, comfort, and grow together.

This is why some of the most important moments in a marriage are also the most uncomfortable ones.

They are the points of tension when we must decide whether to move closer or pull away.

Will we retreat and pretend nothing happened?

Will we attack and defend ourselves?

Will we say, “Forget about it,” when what we really mean is, “I do not know how to move through this discomfort”?

Will we assume the worst about our partner?

Or will we remain present long enough to discover what lies beneath the tension?

In the email exchange between Amélie and me, the surface issue was frustration. Beneath my frustration was the fear that I was being rejected. Beneath hers was the fear that she was not loved or precious to me.

That is the deeper work of intimacy.

It requires us to move beyond the accusation and listen for the ache beneath it. It asks us to hear more than the words being spoken. It asks us to remain curious when our instinct is to become defensive.

These awkward moments are not always interruptions to intimacy. Often, they are invitations into it.

The goal is not to eliminate every tension, disagreement, or uncomfortable conversation. The goal is to learn how to navigate them without allowing fear, pride, or self-protection to control the relationship.

Intimacy grows when we choose curiosity over judgment, humility over pride, honesty over hiding, and connection over withdrawal.

Cultivating Intimacy Together

Marriage is not static.

The choices we make, the habits we form, and the ways we respond to one another will shape what our relationship becomes capable of producing and reproducing.

We are either moving toward one another or slowly drifting apart.

We are either creating a relationship where honesty, trust, grace, and connection can grow, or we are allowing distance, resentment, and fear to settle in.

The good news is that intimacy does not need to remain where it is today.

It can deepen.

It can be repaired.

It can be rediscovered.

It can grow through the ordinary practices of listening, confessing, forgiving, speaking honestly, taking initiative, remaining teachable, and learning to see our partner as an ally rather than an adversary.

The gospel does not merely save us as a theory or promise something for the future. It heals our hearts, renews our minds, humbles our pride, and teaches us how to love. It gives us the grace to confess where we have failed and the courage to keep moving toward one another.

Join me over the next several weeks as we dive deeper and explore ten principles that can help us cultivate intimacy in marriage.

Not the flawless intimacy of a fairy tale.

Not a relationship without tension, disappointment, or struggle.

But something far more beautiful: a real, resilient, honest connection formed in the middle of ordinary life.

Yesterday I woke up at 4 a.m. with Psalm 34:8 on my mind:

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.”

I took it as an invitation to stick with the Tuesday morning coffee analogy. This time, though, it’s less about describing the coffee and more about discovering it.

I know coffee exists. I drink it every day. Yet, although I drink multiple cups daily, I’m still unable to properly describe what I’m drinking. I know it’s coffee and that it has caffeine. I understand, at a very high level, that coffee beans are roasted to various degrees and that this somehow influences the colour and taste.

I know coffee has subtleties in its aroma and flavour. Sometimes I can barely notice they’re there, although I would be hard-pressed to identify the particular notes.

But I drink it every day. It is part of my morning routine.

If I want to move from being a casual coffee drinker who enjoys it for the warmth, the idea that it will help me through the morning, and, quite frankly, simply because it has become part of my routine, to someone who can appreciate, taste, smell, identify, and describe its various notes, I need to stop merely drinking coffee and start tasting it.

The more I taste it, the more I will discover how good it actually is.

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.”

I can consume something about God every morning and make him part of my routine. I can describe him in generic terms, repeat stories others have told, or tell you about that one time when I caught a glimpse of him like never before.

But unless I am tasting and savouring and slowing down long enough to notice the particularities, the nuances, and the threads of his presence, I will be hard-pressed to see how good he is.

I can know he is good because I read the words or because someone told me, and I can believe he is good.

But as the second part of that verse says:

“Blessed are those who take refuge in him.”

It is only when I taste for myself, when I slow down, trust him, and learn to discern the subtle notes of his presence, that what I believe about his goodness begins to become something I have experienced.

I’m sitting in my hotel room, quietly enjoying a complimentary Nespresso coffee. It’s a tiny Kazaar pod with “spicy and woody notes”—or at least that’s what the description says.

A quick Google search describes it as “an exceptionally intense, dark-roasted espresso with a thick, syrupy crema,” featuring “prominent woody, spicy, and peppery notes.”

Unlike my friend , whose posts carry you to the various coffee shops he visits, I’ve never quite figured out how to distinguish the subtleties in coffee. I would love to take a sip and describe the flavour notes and aromas. I’m not there yet, and whenever I drink coffee, I feel like I’m missing out.

This morning, I woke up with a runny and partially stuffy nose. After a few sips of coffee, I blew my nose—and something happened.

As I did, I suddenly tasted, or smelled, the subtle notes. I was surprised and impressed. I described them as fruity and woody. I couldn’t break them down any further.

It turns out the woody part was correct, although I couldn’t explain why I described it that way. What I called fruity, I suppose, was the spicy and peppery notes mentioned above.

As I was discovering my ability to taste coffee while blowing my nose, I was also reading Exodus 15.

What stood out to me, as the Israelites celebrated God’s deliverance, was the detail with which they described what had happened.

They didn’t settle for a generic, “Thank you, God, for delivering us from the Egyptians,” or even a slightly more descriptive, “Thank you for getting us across the Red Sea without getting killed.”

They broke into song.

For most of the chapter, they described God, what he did, how he did it, how it affected them, and what it did to their enemies.

Take a moment to read their song.

Here’s a little bit:

“Your right hand, O Lord,
is glorious in power.
Your right hand, O Lord,
smashes the enemy.
In the greatness of your majesty,
you overthrow those who rise against you.
You unleash your blazing fury;
it consumes them like straw.
At the blast of your breath,
the waters piled up!
The surging waters stood straight like a wall;
in the heart of the sea the deep waters became hard.”
—Exodus 15:6–8

Okay, this is a Popcorn Devotion, and it’s getting a little long. So, what am I getting at?

Simple.

As much as I would like to develop my ability to drink coffee and describe its flavours and aromas in detail, I also want to practise retelling and describing—even with poetic notes—the ways God has delivered me, the ways he leads and directs my steps, and the ways that, every day, even in the small things, he demonstrates his grace and love.

Have you ever felt stuck—not just stuck, but trapped?

Whether you look forward or back, there seems to be no way out. You tried. You trusted. You made the decision you thought was right. Maybe hesitantly, but still, you did what you thought was best. Now you’re stuck, wishing you could somehow rewind.

For months, the Israelites had witnessed God performing incredible acts in Egypt to persuade Pharaoh to let them go. Although their lives had become a living hell as slaves, leaving still felt uncertain. But God had clearly demonstrated his ability to handle Pharaoh, so they followed Moses and Aaron into the wilderness.

Off to the Promised Land we go!

Then God told them to camp on the shore of the Red Sea. He even explained what would happen next:

“Pharaoh will think, ‘The Israelites are confused. They are trapped in the wilderness!’”
—Exodus 14:3

Pharaoh would come after them—but God had this.

Fast-forward a little. The Israelites see Pharaoh and his army approaching. The sea is in front of them. The wilderness and Pharaoh are behind them. They have nowhere to go.

They panic.

Why did you bring us here to die? Didn’t we tell you to leave us alone? It would have been better to remain slaves in Egypt than to die in the wilderness!

When we feel trapped, our minds start spinning, and it becomes difficult to think clearly. Regardless of how God has delivered us in the past, in that moment it can feel as though he has forgotten us.

Moses tells the people:

“Don’t be afraid. Just stand still and watch the Lord rescue you today… The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.”
—Exodus 14:13–14

Where are you today? Do you feel stuck? Is it possible that what feels like the end is not the end of the story?

Take a deep breath and step back for a moment. Can you remember where you were and what God has already done to lead you where you are?

You may not see a way forward yet. But that does not mean God has forgotten you.

“The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.”
—Exodus 14:14

“I’m going on an adventure!” — Bilbo Baggins

I wrote this nearly fourteen years ago after taking the city bus for the first time in years. What began as a small personal adventure became a reflection on community, isolation, and the people whose lives quietly intersect with ours every day.

Reading it again now, the details feel like a snapshot from another season of my life. But the question at the heart of it feels as relevant as ever: How have we become so accustomed to living isolated lives, together?

With tuque, gloves, coat, and backpack on, I make my way out the door into the cold, crisp winter morning air. Factor in the wind, and it’s about -35 Celsius outside.

Not cool. Very cold.

With each step, I hear the sound of snow cracking under my feet. Luckily for me, I only need to walk about 300 metres to my stop. I should have worn my boots instead of my shoes. My toes are already getting a bit tingly.

What is a daily routine for many is something of an adventure for me on this cold day. I am about to do something I have not done in nearly 15 years.

I look up at the sign and confirm with the app on my iPhone. Yep, this is the right bus stop.

I’m actually quite excited, for many reasons.

I’m not simply waiting for the city bus. I’m waiting for the bus because I’m headed downtown. I’m headed downtown because I have an awesome new spot where I can go to get some work done. And if I’m headed there, it’s all part of this new and exciting ministry we are now a part of.

Back to the bus stop.

My iPhone app reminds me that I missed the bus I was hoping for by about two minutes. Probably because I let my daughter hug and kiss me five times.

It was worth it.

I have to stand there and wait a few minutes. Fifteen, to be exact.

It turns out to be more like 25.

I hate the cold.

My toes are frozen. I’m shivering. I’m blaming it on the cold, although stress could have something to do with it. I’m not sure how this whole public transportation thing is going to work out.

I’m used to getting around in the comfort of my Grand Caravan. Hey, I’m a family man.

I step onto the bus with my three bus tickets in hand.

“Good morning,” I say to the driver as I slip my tickets into that little ticket hole.

“Sir, don’t forget your POP transfer,” she says, pointing to it.

“Oops. My first time.”

I take a quick look at my surroundings and pick a spot. There are still a few seats left, but it’s crowded. This is not going to be the comfort of my minivan.

I am in observation mode as we make our way downtown.

First, the technicalities.

Wonderful. There is a digital board that announces the upcoming bus stops. I can relax. I won’t miss my stop.

I want to be certain the driver knows when my stop comes along. No worries. There are plenty of buttons to press and cords to pull.

I map out my exit route. Simple enough. I just need to get up out of my seat and make my way to the exit. I might have to squeeze through a few people, but I can make it. I’ll give myself a one-minute head start, just to be sure.

Now that the technicalities are settled, my attention moves to the people.

I start getting excited.

This is like hitching a ride with a bunch of folks from my neighbourhood. We’re travelling together.

As an introvert and a guy who likes his space, you’d think this would be a nightmare.

But it’s not.

I feel connected.

These are my people.

I have no idea who they are, and they probably had no idea I existed until now. Perhaps many of them couldn’t care less that I do. But I’m interested in their existence.

We are fellow suburbanites. We share the same roads. We visit the same stores and restaurants. Some of us walk through the same parks, and maybe our kids go to the same school.

I wonder what they are thinking about. What is preoccupying them? What are their struggles?

This person could be in the middle of a life crisis. That person could be rejoicing over the birth of a child or a promotion.

For the next 30 minutes, this space becomes a teacher.

This space is a reminder of community.

This space is a reminder that our lives intersect.

This space is a reminder that, although we are headed to different places, we share the same road.

This space is a reminder that, in our individualistic society, we have become accustomed to living isolated lives, together.

This must change.

But how?

I get the feeling these bus rides will become filled with connections, conversations, and insights.

As I step off the bus, I catch myself thinking that I can’t wait to get back on for the ride home.