What loosens lust’s grip on the heart? John Piper shows from Ephesians 5:3–6 how thanksgiving displaces the covetous desires that feed lust.

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At some point today, you will encounter a task you need to do but would really rather not do.

You will stare with dread at your Anatomy and Physiology textbook. Or you will hear your three-year-old spill a jar of jellybeans across the kitchen floor. Or you will remember you have a technical report due today. Or you will see crusty dishes on the counter.

And in that moment, the voice of laziness may be loud in your mind. “Grab your phone” or “Grab a snack,” it will insist. Or perhaps more subtly: “Take care of other work first.” My own laziness loves to hide behind a show of hustle and bustle. I sometimes check a dozen tasks off my to-do list while neglecting the most necessary one, like a man sidestepping a large hole in his living-room floor to dust the shelves.

Scripture rouses our inner sluggard in many ways:

• “Look to the future,” says Proverbs 20:4, “and remember that laziness today brings pain tomorrow.”
• “Look to those around you,” says Proverbs 10:26, “and remember that laziness undermines love.”
• “Look to your own peace of mind,” says Ecclesiastes 5:12, “and remember the sweetness of the laborer’s sleep.”

Alongside these needed reminders, I’ve recently found help from another: There is no task, however unpleasant, that you cannot accomplish with joy.

Serve the Lord with Gladness

Laziness draws much of its power from one unstated belief: I cannot do the task set before me with joy. Therefore, if I’m going to do it, I will need to summon as much willpower as I can.

But that’s not true. You can read the textbook, sweep up the jellybeans, write the report, and clean the dishes with joy. You may not giggle as you work. You may not love the task so much that you spill more jellybeans just for fun. But the command to “serve the Lord with gladness” is not reserved for our favorite kinds of service (Psalm 100:2). The words apply everywhere and always. And if God commands gladness, God can give gladness.

The apostle Paul issued his own version of “serve the Lord with gladness” when he addressed bondservants in Ephesus. Servitude was not an enviable position in the ancient world. Thankless and tiresome duties filled many bondservants’ days. Yet Paul still called these brothers and sisters to “[render] service with a good will as to the Lord and not to man” (Ephesians 6:7).

For Christians, the opposite of laziness is not just working hard but working hard with gladness and a good will. I know that may sound discouraging — “You’re telling me I need to not only clean the dishes but somehow enjoy doing so?” But let’s reframe the call like this: In Christ, you don’t have to clean the dishes with a murmur and a grumble. You can actually do so with gladness. And if you believe you can do any task with gladness, you’re more likely to take the first step.

Where does that gladness come from, though? It comes from two little words in both Psalm 100:2 and Ephesians 6:7: “the Lord.” Whatever task you face, the Lord Jesus commissions you and promises to strengthen and reward you.

Jesus Commissions You

Several years ago, a friend prayed for me in a way that still strikes me. He said, “Father, please help Scott to do his work today as if Jesus himself had asked him to do it, as if Jesus himself were his boss.” I had never thought of my work that way — and what a difference it made.

Paul guides us to find the Lord Jesus in the details of our God-given callings. The Ephesian bondservants were first and foremost “bondservants of Christ” who “[rendered] service . . . to the Lord” (Ephesians 6:6–7). Or as he told bondservants in Colossae, “You are serving the Lord Christ” (Colossians 3:24). Day after day, these servants heard their masters command, “Make dinner” or “Clean the entryway” or “Deliver this letter.” But behind each instruction, Jesus wanted them to hear his voice.

How might you tidy your living room if Jesus himself asked you to do it? How might you take out the trash? How might you study for a test, or prepare a slideshow, or serve a hard-to-love church member? Would you receive the task differently if it came from the one who died for you, rose for you, and rescued you?

We tend to work gladly when we love the one we work for. And Christians work for the Lord Jesus in whatever we do, whether we ring up groceries, deliver packages, change diapers, or perform surgeries (Colossians 3:17). Our company is the Kingdom of Heaven. Our boss is Christ the Lord. So when you face an unpleasant task today, remember that the work comes from the one who has loved you with an everlasting love.

Of course, in a digital world like ours, not every task that comes our way is ours to handle; not every need we hear about is ours to meet. But if the work before us lies in the path of our life callings — as a husband or wife, father or mother, student or employee, and so on — then we can safely assume the work has come down from above.

Jesus Strengthens You

Sometimes, we look at a task before us, measure it against our own desire or strength, and wonder where in the world we’re going to find the resources we need. When nine-tenths of us begs to do anything except write the research paper or clear out the gutters, where does the one-tenth find help?

In Hudson Taylor’s Spiritual Secret, the great missionary to China gives us an image worth remembering as we face unwelcome work:

It little matters to my servant whether I send him to buy a few cash worth of things, or the most expensive articles. In either case he looks to me for the money and brings me the purchases. So, if God should place me in serious perplexity, must He not give me much guidance; in positions of great difficulty, much grace; in circumstances of great pressure and trial, much strength? (165)

Likewise, it little matters whether our Lord sends us to do a great, exciting task or one we would rather avoid our whole lives. If he should give us work that requires more strength than we have, won’t he also supply what we lack? Our Lord is no Pharaoh; if he bids us make bricks, won’t he give us the straw (Exodus 5:5–9)?

Too often, as I stare at some hard task, I assume my weakness and unwillingness are unchangeable. But when I think this way, I fail to account for the one “who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure” (Philippians 2:13). I do not reckon with the possibility of serving “by the strength that God supplies” (1 Peter 4:11). I assume prayer has no power to change how I feel.

Jesus not only hands us the work we do. He also takes us by the hand and strengthens us for the work — if only we’ll look to him, depend on him, and trust in his promises. “Lord, help me serve you with gladness” is a request he loves to answer.

Jesus Rewards You

We will face harder tasks, of course, than homework and dishes. But don’t exclude these small duties from the work God has set before you and for which he will reward you. Isn’t it a reward to lie down at night spent but satisfied? Isn’t it a reward to say with Paul, “I worked hard . . . though it was not I, but the grace of God that is with me” (1 Corinthians 15:10)? Isn’t it a reward to hear even a whisper of our Lord’s “Well done”? If we can glorify God by eating and drinking (1 Corinthians 10:31), then we can glorify him by reading and writing and cleaning and serving and planning and any other little work our laziness tempts us to neglect.

What a kind Lord we have. If he thus commissions us, strengthens us, and rewards us, we don’t have to listen to our laziness when it tells us only drudgery and gloom lie ahead. We can instead look unpleasant tasks in the face, pray for help, and then, with God’s promises in hand, serve our Lord Jesus with gladness.

How can anyone hope to understand the ways and wonders of God? Only the Spirit of God, through the words of Scripture, can reveal that truth.

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“I’m so sorry I’m late.” As my son climbed into our minivan, my apology felt weak. I had misjudged the time — again. I didn’t leave any margin as I hurried to finish a project at home, so when another child needed care, the situation delayed me from picking up my waiting son. Then I hit extra traffic en route. Mom guilt weighed heavily on me as I realized running late was a pattern for me, even though it’s one I had hoped to avoid as a parent.

Many strategies and tools help us stay on schedule. Calendars, to-do lists, timers, alarms, and even a phone call from a friend can keep us accountable and remind us of our priorities and responsibilities. These tools serve me well, and I’ll keep using them. But even when I allow myself an extra fifteen to thirty minutes, say no to the extra chore, and keep a waiting child’s interests in mind (Philippians 2:3–4), there’s no guarantee I’ll arrive on time. First, I’m not in control. Any number of circumstances could interrupt my best-laid plans. What’s more, I’m limited. I get tired and forgetful. As much as I try to stay organized, I can’t always keep all the details straight.

Apologizing to my son was the right step, and he graciously forgave me. But here’s more good news to address the mom guilt that you and I feel: Only God is God. Only he is sufficient to meet both our needs and our children’s needs. Although he created us in his image, God’s omniscience, eternality, and power belong to him alone — and he promises to carry us when we fall (Psalm 37:24). So let God be God, and aim to be like him in the ways that you can be.

Let God Be God

Moms juggle so many responsibilities. Maybe you rock at time management, but you struggle to keep your house clean. Studying who God is and who we aren’t offers great encouragement to moms, because even though we might try to do it all, only God always completes his to-do list. God created us not as his equals but as creatures designed to depend on him (Genesis 1–3).

God declared to Israel there is no other like him: Only God is God (Deuteronomy 4:39). He reveals his true character in Scripture and ultimately through his Son, Jesus Christ, who “is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation” (Colossians 1:15). Among God’s many attributes, some are unique to him (what theologians call “incommunicable”), and others he shares with us through the Holy Spirit (called “communicable”). Only God is self-existent and self-sufficient. He alone is all-powerful, all-knowing, and present everywhere. No one else is sovereign, eternal, incomprehensible, or unchangeable the way God is.

From pressures within and without, we can be tempted to co-opt God’s incommunicable attributes. We can try to be sovereign, striving to control uncertain situations or even our children’s behavior and speech. With the rise of digital technology, we can pretend to be all-knowing; it’s easy to ask an AI bot any question. We can think and act as if human self-sufficiency is a virtue instead of identifying its root: disguised pride.

Eventually, we reach our limits, and our meager efforts fail us. Real hope and peace reside not in false ideas of omnipotence but in surrender. We lean into God’s sovereignty. We trust that his watchful eye always presides over our children. We depend on God for his wisdom and strength instead of mustering our own.

Ultimately, God’s incommunicable attributes encourage me. They lift the burden of doing it all — and doing it all flawlessly — off my shoulders. Given my propensity to squeeze too much into too little time, it’s particularly comforting to know that God is eternal, so I don’t have to be. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, over the course of a lifetime may never be enough for me to accomplish my plans, but as “the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last,” without beginning or end, God lives outside the constraints of time (Revelation 22:13). With him, “one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day” (2 Peter 3:8). As he is faithful and true, I can always depend on him — and so can my children.

Be Like God in the Ways You Can Be

God communicates — or shares — other aspects of his character with his children. God is holy, loving, merciful, just, good, patient, generous, and faithful. We will never attain the fullness of God’s character, but as believing women, through the Holy Spirit we can grow and bear fruit in God’s communicable attributes — and we should.

You’ve probably seen a bride wear a veil on her wedding day. Maybe you even wore one yourself. While the veil covers a bride’s face, she can’t see clearly, but when her veil is lifted, she sees her groom face to face. Moses wore a veil after he met with God on Mount Sinai because the Israelites could not bear to behold the glory of the Lord (Exodus 34:29–33; 2 Corinthians 3:7). The apostle Paul draws upon this imagery to describe what it’s like when we turn to Christ. No longer does Scripture appear blurry, but the Holy Spirit reveals God’s glory in a way we’ve never seen it before. Now, as believing women, “We all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another” (2 Corinthians 3:18).

As we behold the glories of Christ, we become more like him. We start to think, talk, and act like Jesus. We start to want what Jesus wants; things that once appealed to us don’t any longer. Dependent on the Lord, abiding in him, with his life-giving sap running through us, we bear fruit that matches his character: “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control” (Galatians 5:22–23). God’s very patience in us enables us to respond more patiently than before. God’s very love in us flows to our families. Not perfectly, but with increasing measure, we reflect our Lord as we relate to our spouses, children, friends, neighbors, church members, and coworkers.

As Christian mothers, it’s our privilege and duty to teach our children about God, his character, and his ways. We’re called to show our children what it means to follow Jesus and become more like him (Deuteronomy 6:7). But God isn’t calling us to be perfect moms who always show up on time and have everything together. Instead, as forgiven moms, our mission is to point our children to our perfect Savior. When we surrender to him, God can use even our weakness and sin to magnify his attributes. Then we help our children understand how much we all need Jesus, the only sufficient Savior.

Moist summer greens dry into yellows, oranges, and reds. Soon, leaves swirl down in wind that has a bite. Birds fly south overhead. Light softens as the days shorten. Sweaters and fleeces come out. It’s fall. I love it! Yet every autumn pierces me. The year is ending — already. All these changes remind me that I’m ending too. I’m just as brief as a leaf’s final ride to the ground. Life runs away like time. But where does it go?

Humans are the only creatures on earth aware that we will die. We alone grieve the dying of a day, a season, or a life. Like a cold stripe in the warm water of a summer lake, the first chill of fall shocks us with the fact of mortality.

This pain, however, can be a gift. Christians, after all, are realists. We need not run from this ever-surprising sorrow. The theme of memento mori (“remember death”) has long been part of Christian wisdom. For the more completely we accept its reality, the more beautiful we find our hope in Christ to be. For these next few moments, let’s contrast perspectives about the passings of time and life through two writers whose work has endured.

Frost’s Stream That Runs Away

Robert Frost wrote a poem as a conversation between a young couple standing by a rushing stream. In “West-Running Brook,” he makes the connection between the water flowing away and our own mortality. He describes life as “the stream of everything that runs away.” “[Existence] seriously, sadly runs away / To fill the abyss’ void with emptiness,” he writes. He depicts that existence as “the universal cataract of death / That spends to nothingness.”

This piques my autumnal melancholy. All life hurries away — and maybe it’s just going into sheer nothingness. The void of death never gets filled because all we throw into it is the emptiness of nonexistence. Maybe these brief years are all there is to us.

Frost’s poem, however, doesn’t end in complete bleakness. As they watch the brook, the couple notices a continuous, small white patch amid the swift-flowing dark water. They realize the stream hits a rock just below its surface. There, perpetually, the water rises up and falls backward on itself. It’s as if something in the stream rushing away takes a glance toward where it has been.

The pair discusses what this wave means. It feels somehow like a sign for them. One says, “It is this backward motion toward the source, / Against the stream, that most we see ourselves in.” They’re saying that our awareness of living and dying — our pondering of what it means (even if it all means nothing) — is an essential quality of being human. We embrace the mystery of coming from some source and returning to it. That’s the way of the world, and we just have to make our peace with it.

I don’t find that comforting! Yes, biblical realism has always owned this perception that “all go to one place. All are from the dust, and to dust all return” (Ecclesiastes 3:20). But we long for the hope of a better future. And that’s where our second writer comes in.

Athanasius on the Source

Athanasius, a fourth-century bishop and theologian, challenged the idea of our inevitable slide into decay and non-being. His essay On the Incarnation remains profoundly influential as it probes why the eternal Son of God came to us as the fully human Jesus.

We know from Genesis that death is the existential consequence of our first parents’ disobedience in the garden. Once, Adam and Eve had the opportunity to choose faithfulness and so receive eternal life in these bodies in this world. But their “transgression of the commandment returned them to the natural state, so that . . . they might rightly endure in time the corruption unto non-being” (On the Incarnation, 1.4). Their “No” to God’s command condemned the world to “bondage to corruption” (Romans 8:21). We could have received everlasting life, but in the fall we became “bereft of eternal being” (On the Incarnation, 1.4). Created out of nothing, our physical being was doomed to return to nothing but dust. We are all prisoners to the irreversibility of time and its flow toward death.

Yet in his eternal love, God desired and planned to save his people (Ephesians 2:4–5). How could this be done? Athanasius considers, in human terms, the dilemma that inspired the incarnation. The Lord promised that death must follow disobedience. He could not go back on his word. He had to fulfill the wages of sin, the penalty of decay and death (Romans 6:23). But how then could he save us? The triune God himself, as spirit, could not die a human death. So, in a stunningly brilliant plan, the Son took up a mortal body as his own. Athanasius says, “For we were the purpose of his embodiment, and for our salvation, he so loved human beings as to come to be and appear in a human body” (On the Incarnation, 1.4).

How does this help us? As the Son of God through whom all things were created, Jesus stands in personal relationship to each one he has made (John 1:3; Colossians 1:16). So, as a man who is also the Son of God, what Jesus did has enormous implications for any and all who will come to him. Jesus took the full force of the promised curse of death upon himself (Galatians 3:13). He fulfilled death’s entire claim on us. God’s word stands complete: Death for all does indeed follow sin. But Jesus has taken death on behalf of all (2 Corinthians 5:14–15). We in Christ will rise again to embodied eternal life (Romans 8:11).

Athanasius jubilantly restates this good news:

The death of all was completed in the lordly body, and also death and corruption were destroyed by the Word in it. For there was need of death, and death on behalf of all had to take place, so that what was required by all might occur. . . . [The Word] took to himself a body able to die, that he might offer it as his own on behalf of all and as himself suffering for all. (On the Incarnation, 4.20)

In Christ, life does, indeed, return to a source: Those who place their trust in him will dwell with the Father forever. While the streams of this fallen world flow toward nothingness, Jesus offers living water “welling up to eternal life” (John 4:14).

Life Runs Away to Christ

The autumn reminds us how “seriously, sadly” time runs away, seemingly into nothingness. Death comes. But Jesus has conquered death (1 Corinthians 15:54–57). It is now only momentary, not eternal, for those joined to him.

Fall pierces. It brings a memento mori written into creation. Life runs away. But now in Christ, we know where it goes. It flows into more life by the grace of the Son of God, who joined himself to our humanity forever in order to declare, “I died, and behold I am alive forevermore, and I have the keys of Death” (Revelation 1:18). This fall, as the leaves flutter down and the crisp wind stings your face — when your thoughts turn toward the endings of things — remember the one who gave his life for you. Rejoice in him. And run to him for life anew.

Does the Bible promise that believers will not be harmed for doing good? Pastor John explains the context of 1 Peter 3:13 and God’s sovereign wisdom in suffering.

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“Don’t grumble; don’t complain. Don’t grumble; don’t complain. Don’t grumble! Don’t complain!”

By the time I reach the fourth iteration of my little chant, what started as a scowling whisper has turned into a howling proclamation, as I jump up and down and pump my fists through the air. One of my kids is laughing and chanting with me. The other child has eyebrows furrowed in frustration. He has now shifted from grumbling about his dinner to protesting dad’s dancing. At that point, I really have no option but to tickle him out of his ridiculous bad attitude.

I do mean ridiculous. Our sin is insane, our sin is silly, and thus, our sin is worthy not only of sorrow but even, at times, of ridicule. The baseline response to willful, intentional sin in our house is discipline. But discipline serves instruction, and instruction serves formation. My goal as a parent is the formation of a whole and holy person; I want to see my kids’ imaginations, emotions, and inclinations all pressed into the mold of God’s own mind. I want them to think and feel and react to everything, including sin, the way God does. I want them to applaud God’s thunderstorms, hum for good cooking, gag at lipstick on a pig, grieve the lost, and scorn the insane sin of grumbling and complaining.

So, I will on occasion dance and chant in mockery of grumbling. I do it because truth is sometimes better sung than stated. And I do it because, when my kids grumble, I am tempted to grumble against them in response. There are times when I need the reminder more than anyone. (“‘Calm down!’ Dad shouted” is one of my favorite jokes to mutter when I’m angry.)

Sometimes I jump around and sing against sin because the only thing more ridiculous than a dancing dad is a grumbling one.

Why do I so quickly boil when my kids complain? Probably because I feel like they are making a statement about me and their mom. They’re saying, “I don’t like what you’ve given me. I don’t think you intend what’s best for me. I don’t think you know what’s best for me. I don’t think you care about what’s best for me.” The broccoli hits the dinner plate, the TV gets switched off, bedtime shows up like a brick through the window, and in a moment of frustration and bewilderment, they respond, “I know you gave me life and always provide for my needs, but you know what? I really don’t trust you right now.”

Grumbling Lies

Beyond being offensive, this is also tragic because it is untrue. My children are deceived about their parents — just like I am deceived about my heavenly Father whenever I complain. James warns us about this lie. He explains that sin comes from our own bent desires, not God’s designs. Anyone who believes otherwise, James suggests, buys into a lie. “Do not be deceived, my beloved brothers.” “Deceived about what?” we ask.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. Of his own will he brought us forth by the word of truth, that we should be a kind of firstfruits of his creatures. (James 1:16–18)

When I give in to the temptation to grumble and complain, I tell a story about my Father. I’m saying his designs are subpar, less than best, leaving much to be desired. Grumbling says that God is not a good and generous Father, that he withholds his gifts, that he is stingy. Even if I’m “just venting” or “just saying” or “just getting something off my chest,” I am looking at my heavenly Father and stating rather brashly, “I know you gave me life and always provide for my needs. More than that, you gave me new life and promise me every spiritual blessing and eternity besides. But you know what? I really don’t trust you right now.”

To grumble is to be deceived. Grumbling is a muttering meditation on the dis-trustfulness of God (which is where the deception comes in, because God is always trustworthy). Grumbling is the opposite of Psalm 1: The grumbler forgets about the law of the Lord and meditates on his own discomfort and the failures of others day and night. Grumbling vocalizes in hushed tones the belief that God gives bad gifts. Grumbling is a profound act of unfaith and disbelief in the fatherly intentions of God.

Consider the insanity of grumbling. What does grumbling get you? Nothing but more grumbling! By God’s design, the consequence for sin fits the crime. For example, the wicked fall prey to their own evil traps (e.g., Psalm 7:15; 9:15; 35:8; Proverbs 28:10). So too, grumbling will get you more grumbling. Grumbling is its own punishment. You want to play with the matches of discontentment and wave the torch of complaining around? Okay. Don’t be surprised when your habit of “just saying” finally burns the house down.

Or do be surprised. Marvel that you let yourself be deceived for as long as you did. And then grab a bucket of repentance and start dousing your discontentment with thankful faith in the fatherhood of God.

Every Good Gift Comes Down

Here’s a bucket to get you started: If you find yourself giving in to the temptation to grumble and complain, ask yourself, Why did God bring me to life in the first place? It wasn’t because you had the great idea of redemption and repentance. It wasn’t because one of your submissions to the Suggestions Box of Salvation finally got through to the right person’s desk. God saved you “of his own will,” and by his own power he “brought us forth” (James 1:18). Here James employs a natal term, which the NIV translates,

He chose to give us birth through the word of truth, that we might be a kind of firstfruits of all he created. (James 1:18)

James is clearly talking about the new birth of salvation here, the new birth of the Holy Spirit. Why did he give you a new birth? To what end? “That we should be a kind of firstfruits of his creatures.” God aimed to make us preeminent in his restored creation. If he has already given us the gracious, generous gift of undeserved new life, why should we expect anything else in the future but more gifts of the same kind? If he willingly gave his Son for us, why would he withhold anything else (Romans 8:32)?

Imagine someone went to a distant country, found an orphan, spent a fully funded 401(k) to adopt the child, and then refused to meet his basic needs, skimping out on things like food and clothing. That would be an insane thing to do. But God is not insane. What is insane is for you and me to suggest with our mumbles and grumbles that God is ungenerous. So, let’s sing our way out of the impulse to grumble. “Calm down,” Dad yelled, and “Stop complaining,” he muttered. Oh, there is a better way. Learn to dance on discontentment and to smirk at the suggestion that the Giver is stingy.

Through Christ, God is our Father. We can trust that he only gives us good gifts, perfect and fitting, even when we don’t immediately recognize them as such. All he gives are good gifts, and every good gift is from him.

So, don’t be deceived. Have faith. Don’t grumble; don’t complain.

Christ is priest, king, warrior, and the fulfillment of hope-filled prophecy. Psalm 110 reveals four unique majesties of Jesus for the comfort of the church.

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