The joy of being found out

by Noel Due

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Blessed is the one whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered (Psalm 32:1).

Read Psalm 32

Psalm 32 opens not with instruction but with blessing. Before David describes confession, discipline or repentance, he announces the outcome: forgiveness. This order matters. Grace is not the reward at the end of repentance; it is the ground that makes repentance possible at all.

David speaks from experience. When sin was hidden, not denied but concealed, it hollowed him out. Silence before God did not preserve dignity; it consumed him. ‘My bones wasted away … day and night your hand was heavy upon me.’ This is the law doing its proper work – not to destroy, but to expose. God’s hand presses in until self-justification collapses. The sinner learns that secrecy before God is not safety but bondage.

Then comes the turn: ‘I acknowledged my sin to you … and you forgave.’ No bargaining. No improvement plan. No delay. Confession is not performance; it is truth spoken into mercy. Here, the Lutheran distinction between law and gospel is unmistakable. The law uncovers sin; the gospel covers it. What David could not hide, God chooses to cover – not by ignoring sin, but by forgiving it through its destruction on the cross.

The psalm then widens from personal testimony to communal instruction. ‘Let everyone who is godly offer prayer.’ Forgiveness is not a private spiritual technique; it is the pattern of life for the whole people of God. Those who trust this mercy are freed from panic and self-defence. Importantly, Psalm 32 does not end in introspection but guidance. The forgiven are taught a new way to live, no longer driven by fear like a horse or mule, but led by trust. Obedience follows forgiveness; it does not precede it.

Thus, Psalm 32 teaches the rhythm of the Christian life. Sin confessed. Forgiveness given. Joy restored. The blessedness David proclaims is not moral success but absolution. To be forgiven is to be released – from silence, from self-accusation, from the crushing labour of pretending. This is why the psalm ends with rejoicing. The righteous are not those without sin, but those who live from forgiveness.

Dear Father, you have given us all in giving us Christ. In him is our forgiveness, righteousness, life and love. In him is hope and true faith. Let us this day cease to hide from you, but to open our hearts to your gaze, so that our experience may be like David’s: ransomed, healed, restored and forgiven. Amen.

Noel is a semi-retired Lutheran pastor, writer, teacher and professional supervisor. He is married to Kirsten, a medical doctor, and they have three children and nine grandchildren. They also have two cats.

Help my unbelief

by Noel Due

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I believe; help my unbelief! (Mark 9:24b)

Read Mark 9:14–29

The scene at the foot of the mountain is chaos. The glory of the Transfiguration has faded, and Jesus descends into argument, failure and desperation. A father brings his tormented son to the disciples, but they cannot help. The contrast is deliberate: the power of God revealed above meets the weakness of human faith below.

Jesus’ rebuke – ‘O faithless generation’ – is not aimed only at the scribes or the crowd, but at everyone present, disciples included. This strips away any confidence in technique, spiritual rank or past success. The disciples had cast out demons before, but yesterday’s faith cannot be relied on today. Faith is not a possession we store; it is a relationship of continual dependence.

The father’s cry stands at the centre of the passage. When Jesus says, ‘All things are possible for one who believes,’ the man does not pretend confidence. He does not offer polished faith or heroic trust. He brings what he has – and names what he lacks. ‘I believe; help my unbelief!’ This is not a contradiction but true faith speaking honestly. Faith is not certainty about oneself, but reliance on Christ precisely where certainty fails.

Jesus receives this prayer. He does not demand stronger faith before acting. He delivers the boy while the crowd thinks him dead. The resurrection language is intentional: Jesus takes him by the hand and lifts him up. God’s saving work often looks like defeat before it looks like life.

Later, the disciples ask why they failed. Jesus’ answer – ‘This kind cannot be driven out by anything but prayer’ – is not a technique but a diagnosis. Prayer confesses dependence. It refuses self-trust. It places the entire burden back onto God.

Mark 9 teaches the church how faith actually lives in a broken world. Not triumphantly, not confidently, but honestly. True faith does not hide unbelief; it brings it to Jesus. And Jesus, who does not despise weak faith, answers with mercy and power all the same.

Father, the cry of this dear man is also our cry. We believe, but help our unbelief. Receive our prayer and raise us up. For Jesus’ sake, Amen.

Noel is a semi-retired Lutheran pastor, writer, teacher and professional supervisor. He is married to Kirsten, a medical doctor, and they have three children and nine grandchildren. They also have two cats.

When worship forgets the neighbour

by Noel Due

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Render true judgements, show kindness and mercy to one another (Zechariah 7:9b).

Read Zechariah 7:4–10

The question that frames Zechariah 7 is a religiously sincere one: Should we continue fasting as we have done? The context is important: for decades, the people have observed ritual fasts commemorating Jerusalem’s destruction. They are not at home; they are in exile. God’s answer, however, bypasses the calendar and goes straight to the heart. The issue is not whether the fasts were kept, but for whom they were kept. ‘When you fasted … was it for me?’ the Lord asks. Here is a searching word of law: religious practice can be meticulously correct and still be curved inwardly.

God’s response is not to abolish fasting, worship or feasts. Instead, he exposes a deeper problem – ritual without repentance, devotion without love. True worship is never merely vertical. The God who hears our prayers also hears our cries. Thus, the command follows: justice, kindness, mercy, protection of the vulnerable – the widow, the orphan, the sojourner, the poor. These are not optional ethical add-ons, but the fruit God has always desired.

Zechariah does not teach that acts of mercy earn God’s favour. The people were already God’s covenant people. Yet faith that trusts God’s promises cannot be sealed off from love of neighbour. Where faith clings to God’s mercy, mercy flows outward. Where religion becomes self-referential – fasting for ourselves – the neighbour disappears. All we see is ourselves.

The warning embedded here is sobering. God reminds them that earlier generations heard these same words ‘by the Spirit through the former prophets’ and yet refused to listen. Hardened hearts did not lack information; they lacked trust. The result was exile – not because God delights in punishment, but because unrepentant self-righteousness cuts itself off from life.

For the church today, Zechariah speaks clearly. The call is not to abandon worship, but to let worship reshape the heart. True fasting, true prayer, true devotion are received first as gifts of grace – and then lived out as mercy toward others. Where God’s mercy is trusted, it is never hoarded.

Dear Heavenly Father, we thank you for loving us with an everlasting love. Even when we have cut ourselves off from you, you have still had your face set toward us. You keep coming to us to give and redeem. Let your love for us truly reshape our hearts into your image day by day. Amen.

Noel is a semi-retired Lutheran pastor, writer, teacher and professional supervisor. He is married to Kirsten, a medical doctor, and they have three children and nine grandchildren. They also have two cats.