Tag: God

Work At It With All Your Heart

Neal Pollard

That command was given to the Christian slave in the first-century world. It is a convicting call for an approach to life that would have been as unusual then as it is today.

Paul writes, “Bondservants, obey in all things your masters according to the flesh, not with eyeservice, as men-pleasers, but in sincerity of heart, fearing God. And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the reward of the inheritance; for you serve the Lord Christ. But he who does wrong will be repaid for what he has done, and there is no partiality” (Colossians 3:22-25, NKJ).

Paul returns to the overriding thought he preceded this section with, saying, “And whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him” (17). Every group he addresses–wives (18), husbands (19), children (20), parents (21), slaves (22-25), and masters (4:1)–is given a command that would have gone against inclination, preference, emotion, and desire. Yet, since this is divinely-given instruction, we must submit to God’s authority and do it.

Do you notice the how of the command for the slave to obey his master? Do it thoroughly–“in all things.” Do it sincerely. Do it fearfully (obeying them, but fearing God). Do it heartily. Do it purposefully–“as to the Lord and not to men.” Do it prospectively, in view of the heavenly reward. Do it fearfully, acting with an eye toward God’s eternal justice.

In the middle of this instruction, Paul instructs them to do it “heartily.” The NIV has “all your heart.” The word is psuche, found over 100 times in the New Testament. Depending on context and translation, it may be rendered “life,” “mind,” “heart,” or, most usually, “soul.” In the greatest command (Matthew 22:37), it is “soul.” It is the inner self. What is Paul saying to do?

From the essence of your being, work with all your might and with everything you have. Beyond just your emotions or feelings, empty yourself out in accomplishing your tasks. Engage your strength and strain, wringing yourself out to get the work done.

So often, it has been observed that the parallel to the slave addressed in Colossians 3:23 is the employee of today’s world. Contrast what Paul calls for with the lazy, lackadaisical, lethargic way so many approach their work. Whether the one who feels entitled to a paycheck but not engaged in purpose or prefers to get by with as little effort as possible, such a work ethic won’t work with the ultimate Supervisor. He tells us HE is the One we ultimately work for. How does that realization change our approach to the daily grind?

What’s on your to do list today? Whatever it is, “Work at it with all of your heart!”

Books by the Pollards

A Tiny Spark Snail Mail Club (Kathy Pollard)

Who Was Elihu in the Book of Job? The Forgotten Voice Before the Whirlwind

Brent Pollard

Imagine the scene: three friends have argued themselves hoarse. Job has wrung every drop of grief from his heart. The conversation settles into that uneasy silence when men have said too much and helped too little. Then, without preamble, a young man steps forward to speak. His name is Elihu. Until Job 32, no one in the book has even breathed his name.

An Unexpected Fourth Voice in Job

Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar are introduced when they arrange to visit Job (Job 2.11). They arrive, mourn, and argue together. Elihu, by contrast, appears with no warning. He seems to have been present, listening and growing more agitated with each speech. The text never signals his presence; he is simply there.

Why Some Scholars Doubt Elihu’s Place

Within academia, Elihu’s abrupt appearance has prompted many to dismiss him as an interpolation—a later editorial addition to the text. Their reasoning is straightforward: since he wasn’t mentioned at the beginning and the narrative flows without him, they argue he does not belong.

Yet, tidy is not the same as true. Before handing Elihu over to scholars ready to cut him from the Bible, consider three crucial arguments for his place in the narrative.

Elihu’s Genealogy: A Family Tied to Abraham

The author of Job states who Elihu is: “Elihu the son of Barachel the Buzite, of the family of Ram” (Job 32.2). This is presented as verifiable information, not fiction.

The name Buz is not random. When Abraham received word about his brother Nahor’s family, he learned that Nahor had eight sons by his wife, Milcah. The second of those sons was Buz (Genesis 22.21). Elihu the Buzite is thus a descendant of Abraham’s nephew. He is, in the broadest sense, a member of the patriarchal family.

A storyteller inventing a character would not connect him to a well-known family line. The genealogy suggests factual detail rather than fiction.

The Land of Uz and Why Elihu Lived Nearby

Nahor’s firstborn son was named Uz (Genesis 22.21). Job lived in the land of Uz (Job 1.1). The connection is not accidental. As firstborn, Uz would have inherited his father’s holdings. Nahor held enough standing that an entire city bore his name (Genesis 24.10). It’s no surprise if his eldest son had similar honor.

This explains what might seem puzzling. Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar had to travel to reach Job. They came from elsewhere. Elihu, as a Buzite, likely lived in the area where the events unfolded and may have been distantly related to Job. He was a local. That is why he is introduced without explanation—he was already there.

Inspiration Settles the Question

Suppose Elihu’s chapters were added later. Even so, we cannot dismiss his words. The men who wrote the Old Testament were not speaking on their own; they were guided by the Holy Spirit (2 Peter 1.20-21). Whatever they wrote, they did so under God’s guidance (2 Timothy 3.16).

The Bible is not a collection of human opinions. It is the inspired, inerrant word of God. No editor inserted Elihu into the canon by mistake. If Elihu’s six chapters are in the Bible, it is by divine intention.

The Bridge to the Whirlwind

What is Elihu doing there at all? Read the book without him, and you will feel the absence of a voice that bridges the arguments of Job’s friends and God’s response. Read the book with him, and you see how Elihu uniquely prepares both Job and the reader for the encounter with God. He stands as a distinctive mediator, introducing themes and tensions that the others miss.

Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar exhausted themselves accusing Job of secret sin. Their theology was a calculator: suffering equals punishment, righteousness equals reward, no exceptions allowed. They were wrong, and God Himself rebukes them at the book’s close (Job 42.7).

Elihu is different. Unlike the others, his role is to respond not with accusations about Job’s character or secret sins, but by addressing the words Job has spoken in anguish. Those words have grown sharp and have begun to question the goodness and justice of God. Elihu’s complaint is not about Job’s life. It is about Job’s mouth.

And in that complaint, Elihu is not entirely wrong. Job had begun to speak presumptuously. He began demanding an audience with God, as if he could match Him in a courtroom. Elihu sees this clearly and says it plainly. A man may be righteous and still grow arrogant in the face of suffering. A man may suffer unjustly and still answer his God unwisely.

What Elihu’s Words Reveal About God

Notice what Elihu does next. After correcting Job’s tongue, he turns to talk about God. He mentions God’s majesty, wisdom, and control over cloud, lightning, and rain (Job 36.26–37.13). He describes the storm on the horizon: “Around God is awesome majesty” (Job 37.22). As Elihu finishes, the storm breaks. “Then the LORD answered Job out of the whirlwind and said…” (Job 38.1).

What a transition. Elihu’s role is not to steal God’s thunder but to announce it. He is the herald who speaks before the King appears. While the friends pointed Job inward, asking him to examine sins he never committed, Elihu points upward, lifting Job’s eyes from the ash heap to the heavens as the heavens open.

A Forgotten Voice Worth Hearing

We are quick to skip Elihu. Six chapters from a man who appears suddenly and is never mentioned again—it is tempting to skip ahead to the theophany. But if we do, we miss a crucial bridge in Scripture. Elihu reminds us that even faithful sufferers can speak rashly. God’s silences are not indifferent. The storm we fear may bring the Lord near. When you come to Job 32, do not rush past the young Buzite. Listen. The whirlwind is closer than you think.


Books by the Pollards

A Tiny Spark Snail Mail Club (Kathy Pollard)

Wasting Away

Carl Pollard

“So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day…as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen.” 2 Cor. 4:16-18

That opening line says a lot, “we do not lose heart.” Paul isn’t writing from an easy place. Earlier in the chapter he talks about being afflicted, perplexed, persecuted, struck down. He has suffered constantly for Christ. 

Then he says something honest: “our outer self is wasting away.” That’s real life. Bodies wear down. Energy fades. Life gets heavy. Ministry gets exhausting. We don’t have to pretend everything’s fine. 

But he doesn’t stop there: “our inner self is being renewed day by day.” While one part of you is declining, another part can be growing stronger. But this renewal isn’t automatic, it’s tied to where your focus is and who you’re trusting. You can be physically worn out and spiritually stable at the same time.

Paul calls his suffering “light momentary affliction.” That sounds almost out of place until you remember what he went through, beatings, prison, constant pressure. So why call it “light”? Because he’s comparing it to “an eternal weight of glory.” When eternity is in view, even heavy things take on a different scale.

Then he explains the key, “as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen.” That’s a shift in perspective. Most people live anchored to what they can see, their circumstances, problems, and outcomes. Paul says you’ve got to train your focus somewhere else.

The seen things are temporary. That job stress, that health issue, that tension at home, it’s real, but it’s not lasting. The unseen things, God’s promises, His presence, eternity, those are what endure! 

That’s what keeps us from losing heart. Not pretending life’s easy, but remembering it’s not ultimate.

And so, we don’t quit just because it’s heavy. You don’t measure everything by what’s right in front of you. You keep going because you know there’s more than what you can see. The question is simply what we are fixing our eyes on. Because whatever we focus on will shape whether we give up or keep going.


Books by the Pollards

A Tiny Spark Snail Mail Club (Kathy Pollard)

Jeremiah Goes To Church

Neal Pollard

In Jeremiah 7, God sends Jeremiah to preach at the front door of the Lord’s house (2). This would have been quite a spectacle as people were entering and leaving the worship services. The crux of his message, which he repeats, was, “Amend your ways and your deeds” (3,5). Jeremiah defines what that looks like.  Notice what the prophet discovered when he encountered these folks who had gone to worship.

They believed that one day of worship offset six days of unrighteousness (4,7-10). Jeremiah lists out the things they would do during the week, then have the audacity to stand before God in the temple and say, “We are delivered!” (10). The modern equivalent might be, “We’re saved, so we can do whatever we want.” Going through the motions of worship is not a substitute for righteous living. God rejects such worship and worshippers. 

They took advantage of the less fortunate (5-6). Jeremiah equates injustice (5) with oppressing three classes of outcasts–the stranger, the orphan, and the widow. All of these were alone and without others to help them. Jeremiah’s brethren saw these as people to take advantage of rather than help. This drew God’s indignation! He has always had a special place of concern for the helpless, poor, and needy. He strongly disapproves of those who refuse to be compassionate toward the less fortunate.

They ignored the lessons of the past (11-15). When Israel first conquered Canaan, the tabernacle rested at Shiloh. The people became complacent and did not think it possible for their enemies to steal the ark of the covenant, but in response to their wickedness God allowed their enemies to defeat them and the ark to be taken. Now, God is saying the same thing will happen to this temple for the same reasons. They thought they were concealing their sinful lives by sheltering at the temple, but because they did not listen to God’s messengers (13) He was going to cast them out. Sometimes, we can look at people of the past and see the fruit of their actions but fail to connect the dots to our own lives. 

Their families were united in idolatry (18-22). Fathers, mothers, and children each did their part to provoke God to anger by replacing Him with other gods. They did what God did not authorize and what He did not want. Their homes were aligned to forsake God. He did not have the place of honor and faithfulness He should have had. 

They went backward and not forward (23-28). Sin is inevitable. We all fall short of God’s glory. But the overall trajectory and direction of our lives should be progression, not regression. But, God says they “went backward and not forward” (24). How did this happen? They did not listen, but stiffened their necks (26). They did worse than their fathers (26). They did not accept correction (28). As the result, truth perished (28).

They sacrificed their children (29-34). This was the last straw. They literally sacrificed their children. He said that He neither commanded such nor did it enter His mind (31). The world has so infected their thinking that they followed it in giving their children to its gods. Is it possible to sacrifice our children today? No, we wouldn’t think of doing so by putting them in the fire (31), but we should examine if our priorities, example, and pursuits are sacrificing them or sanctifying them. 

Jeremiah had a tough assignment. To talk to his spiritual family like this and share such a message was undoubtedly wearying (see 20:9). But judgment was coming and change was necessary. The point of his sermon that day at the temple was that the God they came before in worship was the God who saw them when they left. He took as close notice over that as He did the moments of corporate gathering. What a great reminder for me! I need to be who I profess I am when assembled with the saints. The act of worship ought to be part of the transformation of my heart and my character. Worship is no substitute for righteousness. 


Books by the Pollards

A Tiny Spark Snail Mail Club (Kathy Pollard)

Esther: The Divine Play of Providence

Brent Pollard

The Spirit of God, who breathed out Scripture, did not confine Himself to one literary mode. He gave us the measured march of Kings and Chronicles, the soaring verse of Psalms, the pointed brevity of Proverbs, the prophetic thunder of Isaiah, and apostolic letters from a Roman prison. So perhaps we should not be surprised—though we so often are—when we open Esther. There, we find something that reads like a stage play.

Consider Esther 7.7–8. The king storms from the banquet hall into the palace garden. Rage bleeds out of him with every step. Meanwhile, Haman, sensing the ground give way beneath his feet, throws himself upon the couch where Esther is reclining to beg for his life. At that precise moment—not a second earlier, not a second later—the king returns. No narrator interrupts to explain the irony; instead, the characters’ movement tells the whole story. This is not formal stagecraft, but it functions as such. The invisible Hand that arranges such timing is no less present for being unnamed.

A Drama Without a Divine Speaking Role

Here is why Esther is such a curious book among Scripture: God’s name never appears. No “Thus says the Lord.” No smoking altar. No prayer naming the Almighty. And yet, no other book shows providence more plainly.

Think of it this way. When a small child walks through a field at noon, he sees his shadow and pays it little mind. But let him step into a cathedral at dusk, where light filters through colored glass and falls in long slanting columns across the stone floor. Suddenly, he understands that there is a sun. Esther is the cathedral at dusk. God’s name is not shouted from the walls. It is seen in shafts of light falling across every coincidence, every sleepless night, every delayed decree, every gallows built a little too tall for the wrong man.

This is providence working, as it so often does in our own lives, through the timing of ordinary events. Proverbs 16.33 tells us plainly, “The lot is cast into the lap, But its every decision is from the LORD” (NASB95). Again, Proverbs 21.1 says, “The king’s heart is like channels of water in the hand of the LORD; He turns it wherever He wishes.” The book of Esther is the working out of those two proverbs across ten chapters of court intrigue.

Purim: The Feast the Book Was Written to Explain

We must remember that Esther’s ultimate purpose is to account for the origin of Purim, the annual celebration commemorating the providential deliverance of the Jewish people during the Persian Empire. Esther 9.20–32 records how the book’s events became an annual observance. By the intertestamental period, a “Mordecai Day” is mentioned in the non-canonical 2 Maccabees 15.36. Some translations place the reference in the following verse. Purim was therefore an established observance long before Jesus walked the dusty roads of Galilee.

Purim was never one of the three pilgrimage feasts required under the Law (Deuteronomy 16.16). It was a voluntary celebration—what Paul might have called a day one man esteems above another (Romans 14.5–6a). The New Testament itself acknowledges that Jewish feasts existed beyond the three required by Moses. John 5.1 speaks generically of “a feast of the Jews” (NASB95) without naming which one. John 10.22 places Jesus in Jerusalem during the Feast of the Dedication (Hanukkah), which is likewise not a Mosaic requirement. Purim fits within this broader Jewish religious calendar of observances commemorating great acts of divine deliverance.

The public reading of Esther on Purim is attested in the Mishnah around A.D. 200. The verbal cursing of Haman—and here cursing means the expression of ill-will, not profanity—is attested in early rabbinic sources from roughly the third and fourth centuries. An interesting custom crept into the practice during the Middle Ages: audience participation. Every time the reader arrived at Haman’s name, the congregation would boo, hiss, stomp their feet, or employ noisemakers to blot out his name as it was spoken. This practice is well documented in medieval Europe—from France, Provence, Germany, and Italy—beginning in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It continues in public Megillah readings today. All of which only serves to demonstrate that Esther is not your typical book of the Bible.

The Three Marks of the Drama

If one approaches Esther with a trained literary eye, three features stand out, marking it as something like inspired theater. The events are no less historical for being dramatically presented; this is not fiction dressed up as fact. The Spirit who moved the writer permitted him to employ his considerable storytelling gifts. The result is unmistakable.

Dramatic Irony and Reversal. The plot hinges on reversals a playwright would admire. Most famously, Haman is hanged on the very gallows he built for Mordecai (Esther 7.9–10). It is the oldest dramatic device—and the oldest law of the moral universe. The Psalmist captured it before Haman ever drew a blueprint: “He has dug a pit…and has fallen into the hole which he made. His mischief will return…upon his own head” (Psalm 7.15–16, NASB95). The man who builds a gallows for the righteous measures his own neck.

Symmetry and Scene Design. The text follows a chiastic or concentric structure, in which events in the first half of the book are mirrored and undone in the second half. Banquets answer banquets. Decrees answer decrees. Honors intended for Haman fall instead upon Mordecai. This is not an accidental arrangement. The same chiastic structure appears in the inspired poetry of the Psalms. Psalm 1, for instance, pivots on a central contrast between the way of the righteous and the way of the wicked. What Hebrew poetry accomplishes in a few lines, Esther accomplishes across ten chapters.

Caricatured Characters. The cast of Esther behaves like figures drawn from classical theater. Ahasuerus is the buffoon king, easily swayed by whichever counselor happens to be nearest his ear. Haman is the villain. His pride is painted in strokes so broad that we almost laugh at him before we shudder at him. Esther and Mordecai are the heroic underdogs—Jewish exiles whose courage and wisdom topple an empire’s most powerful man. These are not flat portraits but intentionally strong ones. A story meant to be performed year after year needs characters that an audience can recognize at a glance.

A Liturgical Architect, Not Merely a Historian

Traditional Jewish sources suggest that the original author—likely Mordecai himself—had his work finalized under the direction of figures such as Ezra and Nehemiah. If that is so, then the unique literary shape of the book is not incidental but purposeful. The author was not merely a historian. He was a liturgical architect. He composed a narrative that could be “acted out” by every generation. In this way, the origin of Purim would never be forgotten, and the Jewish people would never fail to remember the God whose name the writer seems almost too reverent to put to ink.

And here we reach perhaps the strangest and most wonderful feature of the book. Esther does not name God, but trains us to see Him. It urges us to seek the Divine Hand in places where the Divine Name is unwritten. It prompts us to notice the king’s sleepless night, the delayed sentence of a queen, the long memory of a royal chronicle, and the villain’s fall at precisely the wrong moment. These are heaven’s brushstrokes on the canvas of human history.

The Book We Are Living In

We live, most of us, in books whose pages resemble Esther more than Exodus. No burning bush blazes in our backyard. No pillar of cloud guides us to work. No voice thunders from Sinai over our Mondays. God’s name is not written across the sky above our cubicles or over the nursery where we rock a sleepless child. Decisions go against us. Promotions reward the undeserving. Haman of our age seems, for a season, to prosper. Faith—if we are honest—is often the harder task of trusting an unseen Hand to arrange a plot we cannot follow. Yet the God who arranged the king’s return to a banquet hall in Susa orders each moment of our lives with the same quiet care. The God who toppled Haman has not lost the ability to overturn the proud. Esther is not just an ancient drama preserved by chance. It is a script the Spirit wrote to teach us to read our lives. When the curtain finally falls, and every hidden thing is revealed (Luke 8.17), we will not be surprised to find that the unnamed God of Esther was the Author all along.

Worry 

Carl Pollard

Worry has a way of feeling productive when it’s actually doing nothing but draining you. You lay in bed and replay conversations. You think through every possible outcome. You try to get ahead of problems that haven’t even happened yet. And somewhere in your mind, it feels like you’re doing something helpful. But Jesus says something very different.

In Matthew 6:27, Jesus asks, “Which of you by worrying can add one cubit to his stature?” In other words, what has worry ever actually fixed? Nothing!  Worry feels like we are somehow in control, but it’s really just fear wearing a disguise.

And if we’re honest, worry isn’t just about circumstances. It’s about trust. That’s why Jesus goes straight to the heart of it in Mattew 6:30, “O you of little faith.” That stings a little, but it’s meant to. Because every anxious thought is a subtle moment where we’re choosing to carry something God never asked us to carry.

The God who feeds birds and clothes the lilies is the same God who knows your situation in detail. He’s not guessing. He’s not reacting. He’s already there. So when we worry, we’re not just dealing with stress. We’re stepping into a role that doesn’t belong to us.

Philippians 4:6 says, “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God.” That’s not a suggestion for the calm days. That’s a command for the chaotic ones. Notice what replaces worry, prayer! Not overthinking everything, prayer.

And not just prayer, but thankful prayer. Even before the answer comes (like Hannah, smiling and joyful before God even answered her). That means when your mind starts running, that’s your cue. Not to keep thinking harder, but to start talking to God more.

Worry shrinks your world down to what you can see. Faith lifts your eyes to what God sees. You don’t have to figure everything out immediately. You don’t have to solve tomorrow before it gets here. Jesus already said, “Sufficient for the day is its own trouble” (Matthew 6:34).

So handle today. Trust God with tomorrow. And when worry starts knocking, don’t invite it in. Take it to God immediately. Because peace isn’t found in having all the answers, it’s found in knowing the One who does! 

Learning A Lesson From A Lantern

Gary Pollard

I’m a big fan of old fashioned lighting, especially old kerosene lanterns because they’re simple. I went to light one of my lanterns and the flame wouldn’t stay alive for more than a few seconds. I thought, “Maybe the vent is covered in carbon and there isn’t enough oxygen for the flame.” So, I took it apart, cleaned it out, and put it back together. I was sure it was the vent.

To my chagrin, the flame died within seconds even after the lantern was cleaned. Next I trimmed the wick because it seemed too dark; perhaps having a fresh wick would allow the flame to stay alive. It wasn’t a stopped vent, so it had to be the wick. Sure enough, the flame died even with a fresh wick. At this point I was stumped. 

The next day it occurred to me while putting gas in my car: the lantern was just out of kerosene! It was obvious to the extreme. I knew Chelsea would never let that one go. When I got home I put the kerosene into the lantern which, of course, was the solution to a simple problem that I overcomplicated.

This is a mundane example of a profound truth: we make mistakes as humans. Worse yet, some people put words in God’s mouth that He never used. “My God is a God of love – He wouldn’t condemn me just for this one little sin.” “God doesn’t care if we live the way we want.” Some use phrases like this with great confidence while overlooking an obvious truth: God has told us what He does and does not care about in His word.

If we aren’t in the word listening to God and allowing Him to change us, our solutions will end in failure. There was only one solution to keep that flame going in my lantern. There is only one right way to follow God, and He’s told us how to do that! Life will be so much easier for those who look to God for answers before relying on their own wisdom.

 

A King Like The Nations

Dale Pollard

A King Like the Nations — The Warning 1 Samuel 8:20

In the First Book of Samuel, the people of Israel approached Samuel with a mighty bold demand— they wanted a king. Their exact words were, “Then we will be like all the other nations, with a king to lead us and to go out before us and fight our battles” (1 Samuel 8:20).

Up to that point, Israel was led directly under God through the judges and prophets. But the people craved something a little more familiar. You know the classics— political power, military leadership, and a visible human ruler. God warned them through Samuel that earthly kings would tax them, take their boys to war, and rule over them in ways they’d regret. Still, they insisted.

Israel’s monarchy began with Saul, followed by the famous (mostly awesome) reign of David and then the wisdom of Solomon. After this, things really fall apart. Literally. The kingdom didn’t remain united. After Solomon, the nation split into two rival kingdoms—the Kingdom of Israel and the Kingdom of Judah. Sadly, what follows are even more of the “classics.” Corruption, idolatry, and political struggles would all eventually lead to their downfall.

The rise, division, and fall of Israel’s kings leaves us with this humbling truth— human rulers are flawed and temporary. No king, no government, and no political system can fully deliver the justice and peace that people ultimately long for.

The story of Israel’s kings points to the big need of a perfectly righteous and eternal king. We aren’t going to get that from anybody in the (oval-shaped) office— but heaven? Name a higher seat of power than the one Jesus sits on. We’ve got our perfect King and we can’t forget that. 


Books by the Pollards

A Tiny Spark Snail Mail Club (Kathy Pollard)

Watching A Model Giver

Neal Pollard

There he sat on the pew, then on the floor, then back on the pew again. One of our grandsons and his parents were seated next to us in worship yesterday. After the Lord’s Supper, I watched him. He had some change in the coin pocket of his pants, and I could tell they were meant for the collection plate. He taught me some good lessons about giving in those few moments.

Anticipation. Jude was fingering that money, checking and rechecking to make sure he had his hands on it. I watched him watching for the man who would be handing the tray down the row. His expressive eyes spoke volumes. “Will it ever get here?” “Am I going to miss out on giving?”

Emotion. There was feeling which accompanied this act. You could truly read the joy on his face. When the tray got to him and he suddenly struggled to get everything out of the coin pocket, I witnessed a different emotion. He was visibly disappointed that he didn’t give all of what he intended. Adulation turned to agitation. You could tell this was not a heartless exercise for him.

Conviction. With the aid of his father, he made things right. Within a minute, Dale was carrying Jude back to catch up with the men who had served on the table. However, the collection had already been put into the safe. When Dale explained why they were there, it was explained to them that it was no problem to open it back up so the “young man” could give. In his heart, Jude knew he needed to do this to make right his intentions. He had not accomplished his mission until he gave what he intended.

I was reminded of the children who praised Jesus as He entered Jerusalem in Matthew 21. Jesus quotes Psalm 8 to defend their worship of Him: “Out of the mouth of infants and nursing babies you have prepared praise for yourself” (21:16; Ps. 8:2). Jude reminded me of some important aspects of giving which the Bible outlines. Giving should be planned and deliberate (1 Cor. 16:1-2; 2 Cor. 9:2). It should involve our best emotions (2 Cor. 9:7). We should not be content to do less than the best we can (2 Cor. 8:3-5; 9:6).

Jude was such a good example to me regarding my own giving. Putting a check into the plate takes a mere moment, but it should be preceded by and participated in with the same exemplary characteristics displayed by that eager toddler. How he must have made God smile. That’s what I want my giving to do!

Books by the Pollards

A Tiny Spark Snail Mail Club (Kathy Pollard)

Thinking the Best Instead of Assuming the Worst

Carl Pollard

Have you ever waved at someone you know and they didn’t wave back? What conclusion did you jump to? Probably something like, they’re upset with me. We do that all the time. We see a look, hear a tone, notice a decision, and instantly attach meaning to it. We don’t just observe what someone does, we assign motives. Then we start treating those motives like facts.

That’s dangerous, because most relationship damage doesn’t come from what people actually do. It comes from what we decide they meant.

Jesus said in John 7:24, “Don’t judge according to appearance, but judge with righteous judgment.” He didn’t remove judgment altogether. He corrected it. There’s a right way to evaluate and a wrong way. Assuming motives we don’t know falls into the wrong category.

In 1 Samuel 16, Samuel saw Eliab and immediately thought, “Surely the Lord’s anointed is before Him.” Eliab looked the part. He seemed strong, impressive, kingly. But God said, “Man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” Samuel almost chose the wrong man because he based his conclusion on what he could see. We do the same thing! We speak confidently about hearts God hasn’t revealed. When we claim to know motives, we step into territory that belongs to God alone.

It gets worse. Once we assume the worst, we start building a case in our minds. In Mark 2, when Jesus forgave a man’s sins, the scribes immediately concluded He was blaspheming. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t investigate. They decided. That still happens today. One action becomes a pattern. One moment becomes a label. We create a version of someone in our minds that isn’t even real.

And a lot of times, we’re not reading people accurately at all. We’re reading them through our own wounds, insecurities, and past experiences. Joseph’s brothers did this in Genesis 50. Even after Joseph had forgiven them, they assumed he’d finally take revenge. Their guilt shaped their interpretation.

That kind of thinking hurts the church. Colossians 3:13 says we’re to bear with one another and forgive one another. Love gives space. Love shows patience. Love doesn’t default to suspicion. First Corinthians 13:7 says love “believes all things” and “hopes all things.” That doesn’t mean love is naive. It means love won’t rush to the worst conclusion.

Before you decide what someone meant, pause. Ask, Do I know this, or am I assuming? God knows the worst about us and still offers grace. We ought to show that same grace to others.

“Staying Faithful Through The Storm”

Eli Watson

A few years ago, a ship was caught in a violent storm at sea.  Waves crashed over the sides, the wind howled, and the crew fought just to stay afloat.  Passengers were panicking—some crying, others praying—convinced they weren’t going to make it.  But in the middle of all that chaos… there was one little boy.  He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t crying.  He just sat there—completely calm. Someone finally asked him,   “Why aren’t you afraid? Don’t you see what’s happening?”  The boy looked at them and said,  “My dad is the captain… and he’s not worried.”  

The truth is, every one of us will face storms—moments when life feels out of control, when fear creeps in, and when we don’t understand what God is doing.  The real question isn’t if storms will come.  The question is: Will we have faith when they do?

Peter faced this exact moment when his faith was tested (Matthew 14:22–33). In the middle of raging water, Jesus called him out, and Peter stepped onto the water.   But when he shifted his focus to the storm, he began to sink.  Faith doesn’t mean having no fear—  it means stepping out despite fear.  

Most people don’t abandon their faith all at once.  It usually happens slowly—  when discouragement builds, prayers seem unanswered, and doing the right thing feels unnoticed.  So what keeps a Christian faithful when life gets cloudy?  The storm reveals where your focus is.

Paul gives us a powerful example of endurance.  In Acts 27, he was shipwrecked, surrounded by people who had lost hope.  But Paul stayed grounded in faith.  

Galatians 6:9 reminds us:  “Do not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.”  Even the faithful get tired.  Doing the right thing can feel unnoticed or unrewarded—but God sees it.  “In due season” means in His timing—not ours.  

And God has never failed to come through.  The problem usually isn’t that we don’t know what’s right—  it’s that we grow impatient or tired of doing it.

Hebrews 12:1–2 gives us two key ideas:  “Run with endurance” —  The Christian life isn’t a sprint; it’s a marathon.  Trying to rely on your own strength leads to burnout.  

“Looking to Jesus” —  

Endurance comes from focusing on Christ, not circumstances.  When we rely on ourselves, we run out of strength.  But God never runs out.  Mark 4:35–41 shows another storm.  Jesus was in the boat, asleep, while the disciples panicked.  They woke Him in fear, and He responded:  “Why are you so afraid? How is it that you have no faith?”  

The storm didn’t mean God wasn’t with them—  it meant they were focused on the what instead of the who.  Because when the who is God, the what doesn’t matter.  Storms don’t mean God is absent.  True faith is trusting Him—even when He seems silent.

When storms feel overwhelming, ask yourself three questions:

1. Am I praying like I used to?  

   Am I using the connection I have with the Father, or trying to handle everything alone?

2. Am I serving fully?  

   Am I allowing God to use the gifts He’s given me—or taking them for granted?

3. Am I pursuing holiness with urgency?  

   Am I living like my faith truly matters?

Because most of the time, faith doesn’t fail in a dramatic moment—  

it fades through quiet neglect.

But we can continue with hope.   1 Corinthians 15:58 reminds us that our labor is not in vain.  God sees quiet faithfulness.  He sees your unseen sacrifices.  He sees when you keep going, even when you’re tired.  And He gives strength to those who keep their eyes on Him.  The Christian life isn’t about never getting tired—  it’s about refusing to quit.

(We’re grateful to Eli for a great, heartfelt lesson on staying faithful even in our storms.)

Books by the Pollards

A Tiny Spark Snail Mail Club (Kathy Pollard)

What Is Vision?

Neal Pollard

It is the ability to see what a thing could be. A carpenter, looking at a tree, sees with a trained eye much more than others can see. With his expert shaping, appropriate tools, and seasoned patience, he can make out of that tree what was once only in his mind. The Lord needs people, from the leadership down, who look at the community, each other, their income, and their abilities and see what could be done. It takes no effort, emotion, or education to say, “It can’t be done!” That’s what is expected. Vision sees what could be.

It is the ability to not obsess over what a thing has been. Due respect is owed to the labors of the past, and due recognition is owed both its successes and failures. The past, however glorious, will have ample samples of both. Yet, the people, plans, and programs of today and tomorrow should not be shackled and chained exclusively to was has been. Vision is not always settling for being “has beens.” “Will be” is what Paul seemed more focused on pursuing (cf. Phil. 3:10-12). Biblical vision recognizes that doctrine cannot change, but methods, technology, tools, and people invariably do. Vision asks how people living in the present time can best reach people living in the present time and prepare them for an endless eternity.

It is the ability to trust in what God can make it be. No plan would succeed without God’s hand in it. I love the prayers where brethren plead, “Help us in the things that are right and defeat us in the things that are wrong.” Among the Bible’s heroes are those who factor God into the plans and say, “We are well able” (Caleb, Num. 13:30). “I can do all things” (Paul, Phil. 4:13), “There is nothing too hard…” (Jeremiah, Jer. 32:17), and “No good thing does He withhold” (the sons of Korah, Psa. 84:11). Our vision can be bold when “our” is God and us! Since God made the sky, the limit exceeds even that! Our giving, our ambitions, our goals, and our sights should be set to reflect our belief in that fact.

Where will we be this time next year? In five or ten years? Vision plays a role in that. Vision attempts to see the unseen, forget the past, and trust the One who holds past, present, and future in His all-powerful hand. With those truths factored in, let us dream big dreams!

Books by the Pollards

A Tiny Spark Snail Mail Club (Kathy Pollard)

The Mighty Hunter: How Nimrod Became the World’s First Archetype

Brent Pollard

When Cartoons Eclipsed Scripture

There is a particular kind of cultural tragedy that unfolds not with a bang but with a punchline. The name Nimrod—once thunderous with the weight of an ancient empire—has been reduced, in the mouths of millions, to a schoolyard insult. Daffy Duck first deployed the name against Elmer Fudd in 1948, and Bugs Bunny later wielded it against Yosemite Sam in 1951, dripping with the kind of sarcasm only a cartoon rabbit can muster. The joke, of course, depended on the audience knowing that Nimrod was a legendary hunter. But as biblical literacy faded, so did the reference. Today, Merriam-Webster’s primary definition of the word is “idiot” or “jerk.” The irony is almost too painful to bear: a figure God saw fit to name in Holy Scripture has been redefined by a cartoon duck.

This should unsettle us. It is not merely a curiosity of language; it is a symptom of a culture that has lost its moorings in the Word of God. When a generation can no longer recognize the names written by the finger of divine inspiration, something far deeper than vocabulary has been forgotten.

A Mighty Man in the Sight of God

Scripture is sparing but deliberate in what it tells us about Nimrod. He was the grandson of Ham through Cush (Genesis 10.8; 1 Chronicles 1.10), and Genesis 10:9 declares that he was “a mighty hunter before the LORD” (NASB95). That single phrase, “before the LORD,” carries an ambiguity that has occupied commentators for millennia. The Hebrew liphnê YHWH can suggest either divine approval—a man operating in full view of God’s favor—or divine confrontation —a man who sets himself up against the Lord. Augustine of Hippo noted that the Septuagint rendering left room for the darker reading. The Aramaic Targum Jonathan went further, rendering Nimrod as “a mighty rebel before the Lord.”

The first-century historian Flavius Josephus connected Nimrod directly to the Tower of Babel, portraying him as the instigator of that colossal act of defiance against God (Antiquities of the Jews 1.4.2). Whether one accepts every detail of Josephus’s account, the trajectory is clear: Nimrod was no mere huntsman tramping through the brush. He was a founder of cities—Babel, Erech, Accad, and Calneh in the land of Shinar, and later Nineveh, Rehoboth-Ir, Calah, and Resen in Assyria (Genesis 10.10–12). He was a man of civilizational consequence, a builder and ruler whose shadow fell across the ancient world.

We must pause here and feel the weight of what is being said. The cities Nimrod built—Babylon and Nineveh—would become the very instruments of God’s judgment against His people centuries later. Babylon carried Judah into exile (2 Kings 25.1–11; 2 Chronicles 36.15–20). Nineveh was the seat of the Assyrian empire that devoured the northern kingdom of Israel (2 Kings 17.5–6). The seeds of captivity were sown in the brickwork of Nimrod’s ambition. God, in His providence, told us exactly who laid those foundations. Nothing in Scripture is accidental.

The First Archetype

Nimrod stands at the headwaters of something enormous. He is, perhaps, the first man in postdiluvian history whose life became a template—an archetype—that later cultures would reshape in their own image. The mighty hunter, the tyrant-king, the rebel who dared to defy heaven: these are not merely Nimrod’s characteristics. They are the raw materials from which countless myths were fashioned.

Consider what happened at Babel. Genesis 11.1–9 records that God confused the languages of mankind and scattered them across the face of the earth. If Josephus was correct that Nimrod instigated Babel’s construction, then the peoples who dispersed from that plain carried with them the memory of the man whose ambition had precipitated their scattering. As they settled in new lands and developed new tongues, that memory would not have vanished. It would have been retold, reshaped, and recast according to the genius of each emerging culture. The hunter became a demigod; the rebel became a tragic hero; the king became a figure among the stars.

We must be careful here, for we walk a line that requires both intellectual honesty and theological conviction. Moses wrote the Pentateuch later than the earliest Mesopotamian scribes committed their traditions to clay tablets. The pagans had the first opportunity to record stories of figures like Nimrod, and they did so with considerable embellishment—most notably in the epic of Gilgamesh, a legendary king of Uruk whose adventures bear unmistakable echoes of biblical narrative, including a great flood (cf. Genesis 6–9). But we must never confuse chronological priority with theological authority. The Hebrew Scriptures are not derivative of Babylonian mythology. They are the divinely inspired, theologically accurate account. What we can acknowledge, without any compromise of faith, is that the nations surrounding Israel were working from the same raw historical events—events they distorted, while Moses, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, recorded faithfully.

Written in the Stars

Perhaps the most striking echo of Nimrod is found not in a library but in the night sky. The constellation Orion has been recognized across cultures as the image of a mighty hunter. In Greek mythology, Orion was a son of Poseidon, a man of extraordinary prowess who boasted he would slay every animal on earth. The earth goddess Gaia responded by sending the giant scorpion Scorpius to kill him. After his death, Zeus placed Orion among the stars at the request of Artemis, the huntress. But Zeus also immortalized Scorpius on the opposite side of the sky, so that Orion is forever fleeing from the creature that destroyed him. His constellation depicts a hunter brandishing a club and shield against Taurus the Bull, accompanied by his hunting dogs, Canis Major and Canis Minor, who pursue the hare Lepus.

The parallels with Nimrod are striking, even if they resist dogmatic conclusions. Both were mighty hunters. Orion was the son of a sea god; Nimrod was the descendant of a man who survived the great Flood (Genesis 6.9–10; 9.18–19). Orion was destroyed by his hubris—the Greek concept of overweening pride that invites divine retribution. Nimrod, according to later tradition, was a man swollen with pride who was humbled by God through the dispersion at Babel (Genesis 11.8–9). The pattern is the same: a mighty man rises, defies the order of heaven, and is brought low.

And the Sumerians saw Orion as Gilgamesh. The Inuit call the constellation Ullaktut—three hunters chasing a bear. In Malay tradition, the constellation is Buruj Belantik, “The Hunter Constellation.” The Navajo saw a young warrior-hunter who provided for his people. The Chinese named the constellation Shen and associated it with a great hunter. Across oceans and millennia, separated by the very confusion of tongues that God imposed at Babel, cultures looked at the same stars and saw the same figure: a mighty hunter. That is, at the very least, a remarkable coincidence.

Providence in Every Syllable

Why does any of this matter? Because the Holy Spirit does not waste words. Every name, every genealogy, every city listed in the sacred text is there for a reason, even when that reason does not announce itself on the first reading. Paul reminded Timothy that “all Scripture is inspired by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, for training in righteousness” (2 Timothy 3.16, NASB95). The brief account of Nimrod in Genesis 10 is no exception.

At minimum, God was drawing a direct line from the ambitions of one man to the empires that would later discipline His people. Babylon did not spring from nowhere. Nineveh did not appear by accident. Their foundations were laid by a grandson of Ham, a mighty hunter whose name became a proverb and whose legacy became a myth repeated in a hundred tongues. The prophets who later thundered against Babylon (Isaiah 13–14; Jeremiah 50–51) and Nineveh (Nahum 1–3) were, in a sense, addressing the spiritual descendants of Nimrod’s rebellion.

But there is a deeper lesson still. Nimrod’s story is the story of every man who builds without God. His cities were impressive; his hunting prowess was legendary; his name echoed through the centuries in ways that few names ever have. Yet what did it profit him? The tower he built—or inspired—was abandoned. The languages he united were shattered. The people he led were scattered to the four winds. Jesus asked the question that Nimrod’s life answers before it was ever spoken: “For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul?” (Matthew 16.26, NASB95; cf. Mark 8.36; Luke 9.25).

The world remembers Nimrod in fragments—a constellation here, a myth there, a cartoon insult in between. But God remembered him whole. He placed Nimrod’s name in the only book that will never pass away (Matthew 24.35; 1 Peter 1.24–25). And He did so not to celebrate Nimrod’s achievements but to remind us that every empire built on human pride will crumble, while the kingdom of God endures forever (Daniel 2.44; 7.14). The mighty hunter has been hunted down by time. But the Word of the Lord stands eternal.

HOW DOES GOD HEAR PRAYER?

Dale Pollard

The most powerful Sound Surveillance System (SOSUS) is probably the most famous long-range listening device. It can detect faint sounds like submarine engines or whale calls from up to 3,100 miles away.

The barn owl, arguably, has the best hearing out of all the known animals (the author has no idea how this was determined/tested). Their ears allow them to calculate exactly where a sound is coming from—even in total darkness. They can even hear a mouse’s heartbeat beneath a layer of snow.

Have you ever wondered how God hears every prayer? Jonah prayed to God from the belly of a fish—and God heard (Jonah 2.1-2). At the end of the chapter, we find that God not only heard, but He answered by commanding the creature to release Jonah (2.10).

If humans, created in the image of God, can produce a technology capable of detecting sound thousands of miles away and our minds are a fraction of our Creator– reason leads us to believe that God can do far more. We’ve got examples in nature of incredible detection in the owl and the whale, but even better, we’ve got God’s Word.

“Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord; Lord, hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy” (Ps. 130.1-2).

“The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and his ears are attentive to their cry” (Ps. 34.15).

“If you do and they cry out to me, I will certainly hear their cry” (Ex. 22.23).

“…and if we know that He hears us—whatever we ask—we know that we have what we asked of him” (Jn 9.31b).

Four Reasons We Have A Hard Time With The Necessity Of The Cross

Neal Pollard

The cross tells the truth about us and about God, all at the same time. That doesn’t necessarily make it easier for us to accept and understand. While the cross was a means of torture and punishment most frequently used in ancient times, what we know about it is that is was a painful, horrible way to die. The Roman statesman and philosopher, Cicero, called it the most cruel and the most horrible torture. Yet, God chose it and Jesus endured it. There are several reasons why we have a hard time accepting that the cross was necessary.

The cross says you can’t fix yourself. It confronts our pride by telling us that we must be saved and cannot save ourselves. The perishing think it folly, contrary to wisdom and a stumbling block (cf. 1 Cor. 1:18-23). We like to think that we command our destiny and hold the key to our own rescue, but we know it isn’t so. The cross is a loving reminder that help is available, but also necessary.

The cross says our sins are ugly. In a world that doesn’t want to diagnose behavior as sinful, the cross condemns what the Bible calls sin. “Your iniquities have separated you from your God; and your sins have hidden His face from you, that He will not hear” (Isa. 59:2). All the rationalizing, normalizing, and desensitizing in the world cannot negate heaven’s response to sin by allowing the cross to address it.

The cross says God has a specific way to fight and defeat sin. Many expect God to fix things through His power rather than through suffering. Or, people try to fix themselves. God conquers sin through sacrifice rather than force. We may think His way makes no sense, but Scripture teaches His higher thoughts and ways (Isa. 55:8-9). Naaman balked at God’s remedy for his physical illness. So many do the same at God’s remedy for our spiritual sickness.

The cross demands change and a personal response. It calls for surrender, repentance, and obedience, and we don’t generally like that. His cross demands that we take up ours (Luke 9:23). We can come as we are, but we cannot stay as we were. The old song asks, “What will you do with Jesus?” In the test of life, we can’t leave that question blank!

The cross humbles us, challenges our sense of justice, exposes our sin, and calls us to change. Perhaps for these or other reasons, we may question why Jesus had to die on the cross. But the fact of Christ’s crucifixion is central to both the Old and New Testaments. Not only can we not understand the Bible without understanding this, but we cannot under God without it.

Books by the Pollards

A Tiny Spark Snail Mail Club (Kathy Pollard)

When The Earth Was Divided: Understanding Peleg And Genesis 10:25

Brent Pollard

Within Genesis’ genealogies—a section we often skim—one verse has sparked debate for two millennia. Genesis 10.25 (NASB 1995) mentions Peleg: “for in his days the earth was divided.” Five words. No explanation. No footnote from Moses. Just a cryptic remark tucked between a father’s name and a son’s. Peleg’s father was Eber—the ancestor from whom the Hebrews take their name (Genesis 10.21; 11.16–19). The name Peleg comes from the Hebrew palag, meaning “to split” or “to divide.” The parallel account in 1 Chronicles 1.19 repeats the same statement, and Luke 3.35 places Peleg in the lineage of Jesus Christ.

So what was divided? The question matters—not because our salvation hinges on the answer, but because the Bible never wastes words.

The Oldest and Most Widely Accepted Interpretation

The most enduring interpretation—and the one with the deepest roots in Jewish and Christian scholarship—is that the “earth” in Genesis 10.25 refers to its people, not its geology. The pseudepigraphical book of Jubilees (second century B.C.) and the Biblical Antiquities of Philo (circa A.D. 70) both understand the division as a scattering of peoples rather than a fracturing of landmasses. The first-century Jewish historian Josephus agreed, as did the Seder Olam Rabbah, a rabbinical chronology dating to the second century A.D. Among Christian commentators, Keil and Delitzsch argue that erets (“earth”) here functions as a metonym for the world’s population, much as we might say “the whole world watched” when we mean its inhabitants.

Under this reading, the division is the aftermath of the Tower of Babel. God confused the languages of humanity (Genesis 11.1–9), and humans responded by fracturing into distinct linguistic, ethnic, and political groups. The Table of Nations in Genesis 10 catalogs exactly this kind of division: the descendants of Shem, Ham, and Japheth spreading across the ancient world, each “according to their languages, by their lands, by their nations” (Genesis 10.31, NASB 1995). Peleg’s name memorializes the era in which that scattering occurred.

A More Recent Theory: The Splitting of Continents

In the nineteenth century, commentator Adam Clarke proposed that Genesis 10.25 refers to a physical separation—the breakup of continents and islands from a single landmass. In 1858, French geographer Antonio Snider-Pellegrini cited this very verse to argue that the continents once fit together, decades before Alfred Wegener formalized the hypothesis in 1912. The sixteenth-century commentator Seforno suggested an environmental shift in Peleg’s generation that halved human lifespans, implying a cataclysm of enormous scale.

More recently, some creationist scholars, like Dr. Bernard Northrup, have argued from Hebrew philology that palag almost always denotes division by water—canals, channels, or ocean-spanning rifts. They point to Psalm 1.3, where the same root describes “streams of water,” and Job 38.25, where it describes a “channel for the flood.” If palag inherently conveys the sense of water-based division, then Genesis 10.25 may describe a literal geological event—perhaps the breakup of a supercontinent or catastrophic post-Flood sea-level changes.

However, even some young-earth creationists have expressed caution. A rapid breakup of the earth’s lithosphere would have produced geological violence rivaling the Global Flood itself. Within our own fellowship, Dr. Dave Miller of Apologetics Press has written that Moses’ comment about Peleg “most likely does not refer to the Earth’s continental division.”

A Third Possibility: Irrigation and Infrastructure

A less prominent interpretation attributes Peleg’s name to the digging of irrigation canals in Mesopotamia. Cyril Graham, a nineteenth-century English diplomat who traveled extensively in the Transjordan, argued that Peleg’s naming commemorated the first cutting of canals between the Tigris and Euphrates. While this reading aligns with the water-related sense of palag, it lacks meaningful biblical support and reduces a significant genealogical marker to a footnote on civil engineering.

So Which Interpretation Should We Accept?

Because the central question concerns what exactly Genesis 10.25 means by ‘the earth was divided,’ it is important to weigh the evidence for each interpretation. The principle taught by Fee and Stuart in How to Read the Bible for All Its Worth applies here: novel interpretations are usually wrong. With the majority of ancient Jewish and Christian scholarship pointing toward the division of peoples—not continents—and Genesis 10.25 appearing so close to the Tower of Babel account, the best-supported argument is that the division in Peleg’s day refers to the scattering of humanity. The text presents division as a pivotal event, tying Peleg’s era directly to Babel and making this interpretation central to understanding the passage’s significance.

Still, an honest reader senses a tension. On the third day of creation, God divided the dry land (erets) from the waters (Genesis 1.9–10). There, earth isn’t a metaphor for humanity; it’s literal ground. Reading erets as “people” in Genesis 10.25 requires accepting a shift in meaning that the text doesn’t explicitly signal. The metaphorical reading is plausible, but consistency may favor a literal sense.

A Name Worth Remembering

This question is a matter of opinion, not doctrine. Nothing in Genesis 10.25 affects the plan of salvation or the gospel’s terms. Where Scripture is clear, so should we be. Where it invites wonder, we can wonder—and should not impose our conclusions. What we can say confidently is: God, who names the stars (Psalm 147.4) and counts our hairs (Matthew 10.30), placed a man named “Division” in Jesus’s genealogy. However, the earth was divided in Peleg’s day; it was not random. It was Providence. Every division God allows, He intends to heal. In Christ, there is “neither Jew nor Greek” (Galatians 3.28, NASB 1995); one day, “every tongue will confess” Jesus is Lord (Philippians 2.10–11, NASB 1995). Peleg’s divisions are temporary. God’s Kingdom is not.

Books by the Pollards

A Tiny Spark Snail Mail Club (Kathy Pollard)

You Are Not The Owner

Carl Pollard

We live in a world that constantly says, “This is mine.” My time, my money, and my plans! 

But Scripture confronts that mentality head on. The Christian life begins with a fundamental shift in identity. You’re not an owner, you’re a steward.

A steward is someone entrusted with what belongs to another. And according to the Bible, everything we have, everything we are, and everything we will ever touch ultimately belongs to God. “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof” (Psalm 24:1). That includes me and you.

You Are a Steward of Your Life

You don’t belong to yourself. “You are not your own, for you were bought with a price” (1 Corinthians 6:19–20) That’s one of the hardest teachings in Scripture. Your life isn’t self-owned, it’s God-owned. You have been purchased by the blood of Christ. That means your life isn’t about personal fulfillment, comfort, or even your own plans. Out focus is now on faithful management of what God has entrusted to us. We should be asking, “What does the Owner want me to do with this?”

You Are a Steward of Your Time

Time is one of the clearest tests of stewardship because once it’s spent, it’s gone. “Making the best use of the time, because the days are evil” (Ephesians 5:16). Every day is a deposit from God into your account. You don’t control how much you get, but you do control how you spend it. We often say, “I don’t have time,” but the truth is, we all have the same 24 hours. We just have misplaced priorities. How much of our time is given to God’s Word? Prayer? Serving others? Teaching our families? And how much is consumed by distraction?

You Are a Steward of Your Money

Jesus talked about money more than almost any other topic because it reveals what we truly value. “As for the rich in this present age… they are to do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share” (1 Timothy 6:17–18). Your money is not ultimately yours, but it is a tool entrusted to you by God.

You Are a Steward of Your Abilities

Every talent, skill, and opportunity you have is given by God. “As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God’s varied grace” (1 Peter 4:10). God gave you abilities so you could serve, not to be selfish. Some have the ability to teach, others to encourage, or lead, or give. And all are expected to use what they’ve been given.

You Will Give an Account

This is what makes stewardship so serious.“Moreover, it is required of stewards that they be found faithful” (1 Corinthians 4:2). One day, every Christian will stand before God and give an account of how they managed what He entrusted to them. Jesus told parables about this (Matthew 25:14–30). The master returns. The servants report. And faithfulness is rewarded.

You are not the owner of your life, you are the manager of it. And one day, the Owner is coming back. If God evaluated your stewardship today, your time, your money, your abilities, your life, what would He say “Well done, good and faithful servant”?

Or, “Why did you waste what I gave you?”

Books by the Pollards

A Tiny Spark Snail Mail Club (Kathy Pollard)

Waiting For Heaven’s Arrows

Gary Pollard

The status quo on this earth (including here in the USA) is deeply flawed. It can seem like most people are stuck in their own bubble and lack anything approaching self-awareness. Most people seem to be incapable of reason. It seems like all of our leaders are starving for war. The economy is not great, despite what some wish-casters would have us believe. It’s near-impossible to find a decent job. Most corporations are evil beyond comprehension. We have to doubt everything we see, hear, and read because AI has made sophistry available to the masses. The average person is burnt out, hopeless, oscillating between apathetic and angry, agnostic in all things, and overall done with reality. 

Christianity acknowledges that evil controls this world. It outright prohibits violence as a means to rectify this evil, preferring instead to wait for Jesus to return bringing rescue to us and justice to them. This is especially hard to do when greed and corruption affect us personally, but Christianity calls its followers to focus on personal moral growth and altruism. We can only control what we do individually, though never perfectly and with often-herculean effort. Our responsibility toward other people is to meet their needs to the best of our ability. 

Everything is scarier now as a parent. I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to be patient with other peoples’ lack of self-awareness. I don’t want to pray for the powerful whose self-serving decisions make life harder and the future bleaker for my son. To list all of the things I don’t want to do would take up several paragraphs. None of us want to do those things if we’re honest with ourselves. This may be why Jesus had to suffer as much as he did. Unlike us, he didn’t deserve any of what he went through — so he has the right to tell us to love other people, and to do all of those things we don’t want to do. 

I’m not holding my breath for conditions to improve on this earth. The cat’s out of the bag and nothing short of Jesus’ return will fix it. He promised that people who believe in him and who follow his teachings will enjoy immortality on a perfect place (whatever that looks like) when he returns. This earth and its abuses (and those who do the abusing) won’t even be a memory in the paradise he’s prepared. Since our consciousness will be expanded (cf. I Jn 3.1-3; I Cor 13.12), I’d assume our capacity to explore (and the limits of exploration) will also be expanded. We won’t be capable of doing wrong, we won’t live in fear of judgment, we won’t have to work to survive, and we won’t have to worry about anything at all. There will be nothing but genuine, unforced, natural positivity. If there was ever a time to start taking our faith seriously, it’s now. Our greatest and only hope is in the Creator of this world, the visible image of God, the one who paid our existential debt, and the one who will rescue his global family when this earth burns. 

Books by the Pollards

A Tiny Spark Snail Mail Club (Kathy Pollard)

Be Fearlessly Fervent

Dale Pollard


It takes a special individual of both breed and brand to truly impact the world. The fact is, many will live their lives comfortable and content to never break any molds or “step outside the box,” as they say. Most believers understand that God has called us out of this world to be lights and to be different, but that means being uncomfortable (James 1:2-4). We don’t like that aspect of faithful walking and at times the fire inside us and the will to go on is at the verge of being snuffed out. On every side we are surrounded by a raging current of mainstream ideologies and beliefs that drown the masses sweeping them closer towards eternity—unprepared. That familiar and depressing reality can discourage and frustrate us to the point of tears. Preachers, elders, and leaders are constantly fighting these feelings as they huff and puff under the weight of it all.

Christian fathers and mothers anxiously worry about that painfully uncertain future their children will battle. Young people are plagued with convincing thoughts that a faithful life is all but impossible today. How can we make an impact? You may wonder what difference you could possibly make as you observe such a powerful and evil force.

Here is the bad news, it’s hard. But here is the wonderful news, it’s worth it! God has given us an instruction manual on how to become mighty misfits in a culture that rejects righteousness. There are permanent footprints left by the feet of godly men throughout history, and their tracks lead to victory for those that choose to follow them.

For example, there is the trail blazer and zealous disciple, Paul. He serves as an inspiring nonconformist when he abandons his previous life of riches, respect, and comfort. His courage, faith, and determination can produce a powerful stirring in our spirits. If that man with the thorn can overcome fear and defeat the devil’s endeavors, despite his own weakness, then by the grace of God we can too. Our lives can leave an impact and they can serve as beacon of light for generations to come.

Notice how Jabez demonstrates this point in 1 Chronicles 4:9-10. Within a lengthy list of family lines that make up the sons of Judah, Jabez breaks the mold. While numerous names are given, there is something more to be said of Jabez. He stands out as one who was “more honorable” than those who were before him in verse nine. Though his name means “son of my sorrow,” a label associated with affliction, he refuses to let this name define his future. The key to his success is given in the following verse which says, “Jabez called upon the Lord saying, ‘oh that you would bless me, your hand be with me, and that you would keep me from harm so that it might not give me pain!’ And God granted what he asked.” That verse is loaded with valuable lessons for this age and every age to follow.

Lesson one, don’t interpret your future by looking at your past. It doesn’t matter what family you were born into or how you were raised. We all have been given at least three common blessings. If you are made in the image of God, and you are, then that means you have talent, opportunity, and a life. The amount of talent, number of opportunities, and quality of that life is irrelevant. You have everything you need to succeed which is precisely what our Father desires.

Lesson number two, only God can grant you gainful glory. Jabez established his lasting legacy and was victorious because he understood one thing. God is the God of impartiality. He offers a heavenly hand to help the stereotypically weak and sinful human break the stereotype. The cards of life you hold in your hand mean little to the God who owns the deck. Jabez, Paul, and many faithful others understood the weakness of humanity. Their lives are a statement and a confession— God can help anyone rise above the crowd. He can help you achieve the only recognition that counts and give you the precious gift of a future with certainty.

The path to victory is a narrow one according to Matthew 7:14. Few have found it and few have finished it, but with the right Guide it can definitely be done. Are you unsure of your current location? Look down at the tracks you are following, and the guide walking with you. If you are holding the hand of the Savior— you can be sure you’re going in the right direction. Allow that comfort to strengthen you and break out of whatever mold you are in. Let God use your weakness and failures to leave an eternal mark on a world that needs it. There is no congregation that can’t grow, no Christian that can’t improve, and no unsaved person that doesn’t deserve the chance to hear that life changing message of the cross. There’s a great day coming, and that should provoke some excitement as well as motivate us all to diligently and fearlessly work until then.

God Chose the Borderlands to Reveal the Light: Why Jesus Began in Galilee Instead of Jerusalem

Brent Pollard

If we had been given the pen, we would have written the opening scene in Jerusalem.

And who could blame us? Jerusalem had the temple, the priesthood, the scholars, and the gravitas of Zion. Every instinct of human religion would place the Son of God at the summit of sacred visibility—announced among the powerful, certified by the impressive.

But when Jesus begins His public ministry, He does not begin in Jerusalem, but in Galilee.

And that is not a footnote. It is a sermon before the sermon has started.

The Prophecy Behind the Place

Matthew tells us that after John was imprisoned, Jesus withdrew to Galilee. He left Nazareth and settled in Capernaum, “by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali,” so that Isaiah’s ancient word would find its landing place:

“The land of Zabulon, and the land of Nephthalim, by the way of the sea, beyond Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles; The people which sat in darkness saw great light; and to them which sat in the region and shadow of death light is sprung up.” (Matthew 4.15–16, KJV)

That phrase—Galilee of the Gentiles—is dense with meaning. It tells us immediately that the ministry of Christ did not begin at the nation’s polished religious center. It began in a borderland.

God, who arranges all things according to the counsel of His own will, chose that soil for this seed. Before a single parable was spoken, before the first leper stretched out his hand, the geography itself was preaching. The location was already the lesson.

A Region Marked by History

Galilee was Jewish, yes—but it was a Judaism that had lived for centuries under a foreign shadow. Invasion, deportation, and the slow encroachment of Gentile presence had left their mark on the land like old scars on a workman’s hands.

Jerusalem represented sacred centrality—the throne room, as it were, of the covenant.

Galilee represented the bruised periphery—the room in the house nearest the street, where the noise of the wider world could always be heard through the walls.

And God, who might have started anywhere, chose the periphery.

Light Came First to the Scarred Places

This should not surprise us, though it nearly always does.

The regions of Zebulun and Naphtali had known humiliation long before they knew healing. When Assyria came sweeping into the north, Galilee was among the first territories swallowed—one of the first places darkened by conquest, one of the first to feel the ground of identity shift beneath its feet.

And then, centuries later, Isaiah declared that this same region would one day see a great light.

Here is the pattern of grace, and God repeats it constantly:

The place most associated with darkness becomes the first stage of dawn.

God does not begin where men would place the spotlight. He begins where the wounds are oldest. That is not inefficiency. It is theology. He will plant the first flame wherever the darkness is thickest, because that is where His character will be seen most clearly.

Jesus Did Not Start at the Top

Make no mistake: Jesus would go to Jerusalem. He would teach there, weep there, overturn tables there, bleed there, die there, and shatter the grip of death there. Jerusalem was woven into the very fabric of redemption.

But His public ministry did not begin in the city of religious prestige.

It began among fishermen mending their nets, village families drawing water, laborers and ordinary synagogue-goers in the north—people whose names would never have appeared in the religious directories of the capital.

He did not begin by climbing the tallest tower of visible religion. He began by walking the roads of the overlooked.

Something in us—something trained by the world’s value system—wants the Messiah to start with a press conference, not a fishing boat. We want credentials before compassion. We want the throne room before the lakeshore.

But God is not subject to our marketing instincts.

The Gospel Is Not Bound to Prestige

This tells us something essential about the kingdom of God—something we must either receive or stumble over, because there is no middle ground.

The Messiah did not come merely for the polished center. He came for the margins too. His ministry did not unfold according to human assumptions about status, visibility, or reputation.

Men are impressed by the center stage. God is not.

That single fact has been unsettling religious people for two thousand years, and it has not yet finished its work.

Why Galilee Was the Perfect Starting Point

Galilee was not merely adequate for the opening of Christ’s ministry. It was ideal—chosen with the kind of precision that marks everything God does.

It was Jewish enough that Scripture, synagogue life, and messianic expectation were alive and recognizable. A rabbi could open a scroll of Isaiah, and every ear in the room would lean forward.

But it was also exposed enough—close enough to the traffic of nations, marked enough by the long overlap of cultures—to carry the air of the wider world.

That made it a fitting stage for the One who came first to the lost sheep of the house of Israel, yet whose mission would ultimately gather in every tribe, tongue, and nation.

Galilee stood between worlds. And Jesus began there because He Himself stood between worlds: fully rooted in the promises made to Israel, yet coming as the Savior of the whole earth.

It is almost as though God placed the lamp where both the house and the street could see it—where covenant and mission stood close enough to be illuminated by a single flame.

God Often Works in Our “Galilee” Places

Now here is where the text turns its eyes on us and will not let us look away.

Many of us assume that God’s clearest work ought to happen in the “Jerusalem” parts of our lives—the polished parts, the strong parts, the areas where we feel established and respectable.

But often the Lord begins His most visible work in our “Galilee” places instead. He begins in the area of life that feels messy, in the place where we feel less refined, in the part of our story touched by confusion, sorrow, or old humiliation—the chapter we would rather skip when telling others about ourselves.

We would choose the impressive platform. God often chooses the scarred borderland.

Why? Because He is not merely displaying glory. He is redeeming territory.

A God who only displayed glory might reasonably begin with the most spectacular venue. But a God who redeems begins with the place that most needs redemption. He goes to the wound before He goes to the banquet hall. That is not a weakness. That is the very heartbeat of the gospel.

Grace Is Not Afraid of Mixed Soil

God is not intimidated by complicated places.

Galilee was not pristine. It was not sealed off from outside influence in some antiseptic spiritual quarantine. It carried a long memory of fracture and mixture. Its religious life was real, but it breathed the same air as a dozen pagan influences.

And yet none of that disqualified it from becoming the first major theater of the Messiah’s ministry.

That should encourage anyone who has ever looked at the landscape of his own life and thought, Surely God would choose somewhere cleaner than this.

No. He often chooses precisely there. Not because darkness is good—we must never sentimentalize it—but because His light is greater. The gospel is not fragile. Christ does not require ideal conditions to begin His work.

A candle that can only burn in a sealed room is no great candle. But a light that blazes in the open wind, in the very teeth of the darkness—that is a light worth trusting.

Galilee Was a Preview of the Kingdom

When Jesus began in Galilee, He was doing more than fulfilling an old prophecy. He was previewing the shape of His kingdom.

His kingdom would not be confined to the prestigious, monopolized by the religious elite, or limited to one social center. It would reach fishermen pulling wet nets from the sea, tax collectors despised by their own neighbors, women with painful histories, Roman outsiders, Gentile seekers, and eventually—gloriously—the uttermost ends of the earth.

Galilee was the right opening note because it already carried the hint of that wider horizon. It was Jewish, yet Gentile-adjacent. Covenantal, yet cosmopolitan. Rooted, yet restless.

The Messiah did not begin in a closed room. He began in a doorway. And every doorway, if you stand in it long enough, faces two directions at once.

A Word for the One Living in “Galilee”

Some Christians feel as though they are living in Galilee—not geographically, but spiritually. They are not in the tidy center. Their lives feel marked by old invasions of sorrow, by disappointments that never fully healed, and by a lingering sense that things are not as whole as they ought to be.

If that is you, then Matthew 4 is not merely history. It is hope with your name written in the margin.

Jesus began in Galilee. He has always had a habit of walking into regions others would write off as secondary, making them the very places where His light is first seen.

Your scarred places are not automatically abandoned places. They may, in fact, be exactly where dawn begins.

Conclusion

Why did Jesus begin in Galilee instead of Jerusalem?

Because God was making a point from the very first scene of Christ’s public ministry—a point so important that He wrote it into the geography itself:

The light of the kingdom does not shine only on the polished center. It shines on the bruised edges, too.

He came for Jerusalem, yes. But He did not come only for Jerusalem.

He came for Galilee.

And thank God He did—because most of us, if we are honest enough to say it plainly, have far more Galilee in us than Jerusalem. And the gospel meets us there, not with disappointment, but with light.