Key Verse: “Knowledge of the Holy One results in good
judgment.” (v.10b)
The café windows were fogged from the rain, the kind that doesn’t fall so much as lean against the city. Inside, everything felt amber and slow—clinking mugs, low jazz, the smell of citrus cleaner and espresso grounds. I slid into our usual table with a knot in my chest I hadn’t been able to loosen all morning.
Solomon was already there. Linen shirt, sleeves rolled, silver-streaked hair tied back. He looked up and smiled like he’d been expecting not just me, but whatever I’d brought with me. His leather notebook rested beside his cup, scarred and soft with age. He tapped it once, like a heartbeat.
“Aaron’s late,” I said, glancing toward the door.
“Late doesn’t always mean absent,” Solomon said. “Sometimes it means gathering courage.”
As if on cue, Aaron came in, rain-darkened jacket, eyes red like he’d rubbed them too hard. He gave us a half-wave and collapsed into the chair, staring at the table like it might give him answers if he stared long enough.
Solomon leaned in. “Today, I want to talk about a house,” he said. “A strong one. Built carefully. Open to guests.”
He slid the notebook forward and opened it. Inside were sketches—pillars, doors, tables set with bread and wine. “In this passage,” he said, “I describe Wisdom as a woman who builds her house with seven pillars. That number mattered. Seven meant complete. Stable. Thought through.”
Aaron let out a short laugh. “Must be nice.”
Solomon didn’t flinch. “Wisdom doesn’t build halfway,” he said. “She prepares a meal. She sends out invitations. She stands at the highest point of the city and calls to anyone willing to listen.”
I could hear the rain hit the windows harder, the world narrowing as Solomon spoke.
“But there’s another voice in the same chapter,” he continued. “Loud. Flashy. No preparation. No substance. She promises pleasure without cost. That’s always a lie.”
Aaron finally looked up. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s why I’m here.”
He swallowed. “I’ve been offered a promotion. Big raise. But it means covering for some things that aren’t clean. Not illegal—yet… questionable. But close enough that my name would be on it. If it goes bad, I’m the one standing in front of the blast.”
The table went quiet. Even the espresso machine seemed to pause.
“And,” Aaron added, voice lower, “my dad’s health is slipping. We need the money. I don’t know what to do.”
Solomon nodded slowly. “This is exactly what this chapter is talking about,” he said. “Wisdom doesn’t shout vague advice. She sets a table for real hunger.”
He tapped the page. “Notice this—Wisdom doesn’t force anyone. She invites. ‘Come, eat. Learn. Live.’ But she also says something hard: mockers don’t like correction. They want benefit without change.”
Aaron’s jaw tightened. “So what—if I even question this, I lose the chance?”
“Not necessarily,” Solomon said gently. “But listen to the center of it all.” He looked straight at Aaron. “‘Knowledge of the Holy One results in good judgment.’”
Aaron frowned. “That sounds… abstract.”
Solomon smiled, just a little. “The ‘Holy One’ isn’t an idea,” he said. “It means recognizing there is a moral center to the universe—and you’re not it. God, the Holy One, is! Good judgment grows when you stop asking, ‘What can I get away with?’ and start asking, ‘What aligns with what’s true?’”
He told us then—not grandly, but plainly—about a deal he once made that secured peace for a season but cost him sleep for years. “I thought I was being clever,” he said. “I was actually being afraid. Fear dresses itself as wisdom when you let it.”
Aaron stared into his coffee. “So what do I do? Walk away and let my family suffer?”
“Wisdom doesn’t ask you to be reckless,” Solomon said. “She asks you to be honest. Before you decide, sit at her table. That means—slow down. Ask hard questions. Bring this into the light. Talk to someone who won’t benefit from your choice. And most importantly, talk to the Lord one-on-one about this. If the offer can’t survive scrutiny, it isn’t nourishment. It’s bait.”
He leaned back, boots scraping softly against the floor. “And remember—this house stays standing. Shortcuts collapse.”
A silence settled, heavy but clean. Aaron exhaled. “I think,” he said, “I already knew which door felt solid.”
When Aaron left to take a call, his chair sat empty like a missing tooth. I felt it. The weight of real choices doesn’t leave quickly.
Solomon closed his notebook. “Wisdom always leaves a seat open,” he said. “But you have to choose which voice you trust.”
As I walked out into the rain later, the city felt different—less like a maze, more like a set of doors. Some lit. Some loud. One quietly solid, waiting.
What? Wisdom invites us into a life built on truth, not shortcuts, and teaches that real judgment grows from knowing there is a moral center beyond ourselves.
So What? Every day, we’re choosing between voices—one offering quick gain, the other lasting stability. The choice shapes not just outcomes, but who we become.
Now What? Before your next big decision, pause and “sit at Wisdom’s table”: slow down, seek honest counsel, talk to the Lord, and ask what aligns with what’s truly right—not just what’s immediately rewarding.
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