The musings of Peter

but do i want to do Your will

Reading Isaiah has stirred something in me. He was a prophet, yes—but I’ve always wondered: How does someone become recognized as a prophet? Surely, it starts small. Maybe God gives you a simple word—about the weather, the crops, something practical—and when it proves true, people begin to listen. Then, a bigger word comes. And when that too is fulfilled, your reputation grows. You’re known as someone who has a connection with God.

It makes sense to me that God would build up a prophet’s credibility before entrusting him with the harder truths.

That’s what happens with Isaiah. God gives him a crushing message: Israel will be conquered because they have forgotten Me. Isaiah delivers this message, knowing it won’t be received well. And then God names names—Cyrus—over 100 years before Cyrus would rise to power. God knew His people wouldn’t change, even with a century to repent. The One who sees all possibilities saw none in which they returned to Him. And yet, He sent Isaiah anyway.

In between, God shows He is still fighting for them. He sends an angel to wipe out 185,000 Assyrians in a single night. He was rooting for them to change. He gave them mercy, deliverance, signs, and warnings—all out of love.

That’s the hard truth I’ve come to accept: God does what He does out of love. Even when it looks like judgment, it’s mercy. Cyrus didn’t conquer Judah as punishment—he was the instrument of rescue. God was saving His people from themselves. And in hindsight, I see that I, too, needed to be saved from myself. I still do.

It’s easy to say, “I’m a Christian.” It’s comforting to wear the cloak of goodness—to donate to a food bank, drop $20 in the offering plate, and tell yourself you’ve done your part. You live comfortably and say, “God has blessed me,” as if that comfort is a reward for being a good person.

But how many of us wake up and say, “God, what do You want me to do today?”—and ask it with trembling, because we may not want to hear the answer?

I grew up in a very Christian household. I listened to people who had given up everything to follow Jesus. They were filled with joy and peace—but their children told a different story. Some followed along. Others were dragged. I was one of the latter.

I remember when my father, a devout man, volunteered to come speak about Jesus at my high school. He asked me to speak with him. I was horrified. This would destroy my social life. My friends would find out that while I’d called my own father a religious nut, I was one too. I would be branded. For an unconverted teenager, it felt like a death sentence.

And maybe it was. Because it has taken me years to die to myself—to convert not just my behavior but my soul. To surrender my will to Jesus. To stop living for approval and start living for obedience. To trust that His way is better than mine. To accept that my new life with Him will be my death.

As I read Isaiah now, I find myself wondering—what kind of fire burned in him? How did he hear God so clearly above the noise of his own mind? I think I hear God too, sometimes. But I second-guess. I try to apply logic. Surely a logical God wouldn’t ask me to give away everything in my pocket to a stranger, would He?

But the more I read Scripture, the less I find logic—and the more I find faith.

• Float your baby down a river in a basket.
• Take your son up a mountain and prepare to sacrifice him.
• Lead people into a desert for 40 years.
• Jump into a fire rather than eat the king’s food.
• Accept that your virgin bride is carrying God’s child.
• Walk away from your job to follow a wandering preacher.

These are not reasonable acts. They are not financially responsible decisions. But they are faithful—and they only make sense if God is really God, and He loves us. Then it all makes perfect sense.

Because that truth—that eternal promise—is the only logic that matters. If I don’t understand why, it doesn’t matter. If God tells me, then His way is perfect. We can say, “God, Your will be done,” or God can say to us, “Very well, your will be done.” And if He says the latter, it can only mean we’ve chosen Hell.

In Heaven, God is God—and we are not.

So now my heart is trying to convince my brain that I need God more than God needs me. That’s a hard shift for a man with an ego. I want to be important. Maybe I want to be a prophet like Isaiah, so people can see how holy I am. But so far, God has asked me to wash dishes. To work with my hands. To be lowly. And He has blessed those moments with joy.

He has brought me low so that I would rely on Him. My proud stories used to begin with, “Look what I did.” Now, they begin with, “Look what God did.” And I cherish those stories. I love telling them, hoping they encourage others.

Because in them, I no longer have to prove I’m holy. I just have to show that He is good.

Praise the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Amen.