I get frustrated when my GPS keeps recalculating. There's something deeply unsettling about that automated voice constantly announcing "recalculating" just when I thought I knew where I was going. It can be applied to life. I used to think that by this stage of life, I'd have a clear route mapped out, but instead, I find myself on more detours than ever before.

This reminds me of an ancient story about a merchant who prided himself on always knowing the way.

This merchant had traveled the same trade route for twenty years. He knew every rock, every tree, every bend in the path.

One morning, he set out with a caravan of younger merchants who wanted to learn from his navigation expertise. But overnight, a tremendous storm passed through the region. When they reached what should have been a familiar valley, the merchant stopped in confusion. The storm had altered the landscape. The landmarks had shifted or disappeared entirely.

The merchant tried to maintain his composure, choosing path after path, each time declaring, "This is the way." But each chosen route led to dead ends or circled back to where they started. By afternoon, the younger merchants realized what the veteran refused to admit: they were completely lost.

As the sun began to set, panic crept into the merchant's voice. His reputation, his identity, his very sense of self was tied to knowing the way.

Finally, a young girl from a nearby village appeared on a ridge above them. "Are you lost?" she called down.

The merchant's pride flared. "We're not lost. We're just recalculating our route."

The girl laughed gently. "The storm changed everything. Your old paths are gone. But if you stop trying and follow me, I can lead you to where you need to be."

The younger merchants immediately began following the girl, but the veteran merchant hesitated. To follow meant admitting he was lost. To follow meant his decades of experience couldn't save him. To follow meant trusting someone else's knowledge over his own.

With trembling steps, he finally followed. The girl led them through passages he'd never seen, using stars he'd never noticed, to a village he didn't know existed—where warm food and shelter awaited all storm-displaced travelers.

"How did you know we were lost?" the merchant asked the girl.

She smiled. "After every storm, my grandma sends me to search. She says the ones who need finding most are those who don't know they're lost. You weren't lost because you didn't know the old way—you were lost because the old way no longer existed. Being found isn't failure. It's wisdom."

This story captures a deep truth about our current moment. We're not just dealing with occasional recalculations—we're living in a permanent storm season where the landscape constantly shifts beneath our feet.

For example, AI has changed everything. Career paths that existed five years ago have vanished and more will vanish soon. The very assumptions we built our lives upon keep requiring updates. We're exhausted not from the journey, but from the constant recalculating.

But here's the profound comfort hidden in today's scripture: while we're frantically recalculating, trying to find our way, God has already sent out a search party. We're actively being sought by One who knows exactly where we are and exactly how to bring us home. Let’s see how Jesus reveals to us this truth.

The scripture lesson for today is from the Gospel of Luke 15:1-10.

The Courage to Disappoint: When Your Calling Won't Share the Throne

Luke 14:25-33

I used to believe that spiritual maturity meant keeping everyone happy—that if I just worked hard enough, prayed sincerely enough, and organized efficiently enough, I could fulfill every expectation without disappointing anyone. I admired those rare individuals who seemed to glide through life meeting every obligation with grace, never having to utter those uncomfortable words: "I'm sorry, but I can't."

This reminds me of an ancient story about a potter who created the most beautiful vessels in all the land.

The potter's work was so extraordinary that people traveled from distant villages just to own one of his creations. His secret wasn't just skill—it was complete devotion. While other potters worked only during market hours, he would often be found at his wheel by moonlight, lost in the dance between clay and creation.

One day, a wealthy merchant arrived with an irresistible offer: "Become my personal potter. I'll pay you ten times what you make now. You'll create exclusively for my household—the finest bowls for my table, decorative pieces for my halls. You'll have security for life."

The potter thought of his aging parents who needed care, his children who deserved education. The offer was generous, honorable, even wise by any measure.

That same afternoon, a temple priest approached: "We need someone to craft sacred vessels for our ceremonies. The pay is modest, but think of the honor—your hands serving the divine! Surely this is your true calling."

Before sunset, the village elder also came: "Our community needs you. Create simple bowls for the poor, water vessels for the sick. We cannot pay much, but you'll have the gratitude of everyone you serve."

The potter spent sleepless nights trying to devise a way to please them all. Perhaps he could work for the merchant by day, the temple by evening, the village by weekend. He drew up schedules, made calculations, imagined himself meeting every worthy demand.

But one morning, exhausted from planning, he sat at his wheel and let his hands touch the clay. In that moment, he remembered why he became a potter—not for security, not for honor, not even for service, but for this: the sacred moment when formless earth becomes a vessel of possibility. This was his calling, and it demanded everything.

He disappointed the merchant, who called him foolish.

He disappointed the priest, who called him selfish.

He disappointed the elder, who called him heartless.

But his vessels—oh, his vessels began to carry something beyond function or beauty. They carried the integrity of undivided devotion. And paradoxically, though he served no one master, his work ended up blessing merchant, temple, and village alike, because he had the courage to let his calling claim the throne of his life.

This story captures a felt need that haunts so many of us—the exhausting impossibility of trying to be everything to everyone. We live in a world that treats our time, energy, and attention as public property, where saying no feels like moral failure, where boundaries are seen as selfishness. We're drowning in competing claims on our lives, each one legitimate, each one urgent, each one accompanied by someone who will be disappointed if we don't deliver.

But here's the revolutionary truth: your calling—that deep, Providence-ordained purpose that makes you come alive—won't negotiate for partial allegiance. It demands the throne, and everything else, no matter how good or noble, must bow before it. In today's scripture lesson, Jesus doesn't soften this reality. Instead, he confronts us with the shocking arithmetic of authentic discipleship, showing us that the path to true life requires the courage to disappoint even those we love most. Let’s find out how Jesus teaches us on this important topic.

I have to confess—I struggle with waiting, especially when my prayers for clarity or breakthrough seem to hang in the air like morning mist that never lifts. I used to think effective prayer worked like a business transaction: clear request, prompt response, measurable results.

This reminds me of an ancient story about a young scholar who desperately sought wisdom from a renowned master.

The scholar had traveled for months to reach the master's mountain dwelling, his mind heavy with questions that kept him awake at night. When he finally arrived at the master's simple cottage, he found a beautiful garden surrounded by a tall wooden gate. The gate had no handle on the outside, only a small opening at eye level.

"Master!" the scholar called through the opening. "I have come seeking your wisdom! Please, open the gate and teach me!"

From somewhere within the garden came a gentle voice: "Ask, and you shall receive."

The scholar immediately began rattling off his questions—dozens of them, about purpose, about success, about the meaning of suffering. His words tumbled over each other in his urgency.

Silence.

Hours passed. The scholar called out again, this time more desperately: "Master, I'm seeking answers! You said to ask!"

Again, the voice replied: "Seek, and you shall find."

Frustrated, the scholar began searching around the gate, examining every board, every hinge, looking for some hidden mechanism to open it. He pushed and pulled, convinced there must be some trick, some secret technique he was missing.

Days passed. The scholar's food ran low, his clothes grew dirty, but still he remained. On the third morning, exhausted and humbled, he simply sat by the gate and whispered: "Master, I don't know what else to do."

"Knock," came the gentle reply, "and it shall be opened unto you."

The scholar looked at the gate with new eyes. He had been asking with demand, seeking with desperation, but he had never simply... knocked. With trembling hands, he raised his knuckles to the wooden gate and gave three soft knocks.

The gate swung open immediately—it had never been locked.

The master stood there, smiling, holding two cups of tea. "Welcome," he said. "I have been waiting for you to arrive."

"But Master," the scholar stammered, "I've been here for three days!"

"No," the master replied gently, "your questions arrived three days ago. Your searching arrived two days ago. But you... you just arrived now. The gate was always open, but you could only enter when you came not as a demander or desperately seeking customer, but as a humble guest, knocking gently at the door of relationship."

This story captures a felt need that runs deep in our souls—the exhausting experience of feeling spiritually stuck, of wondering if our prayers are bouncing off the ceiling, of questioning whether we're doing something fundamentally wrong when our deepest requests seem to meet only silence.

It's the frustration of people who work hard, pray earnestly, and live responsibly, yet still feel like they're standing outside a locked gate while everyone else seems to have found the secret password for spiritual breakthrough.

But here's the beautiful truth: the gate was never locked, and the Master has been waiting all along.

In today's scripture lesson, Jesus doesn't just acknowledge our struggle with prayer—he transforms it entirely, revealing that what we thought was divine silence was actually an invitation to discover a completely different way of approaching the heart of Providence.

He shows us that our seemingly unanswered prayers aren't signs of spiritual failure, but doorways to deeper relationship than we ever imagined possible. Let’s begin!