Key Verse: “Godliness makes a nation great, but sin
is a disgrace to any people.” (v.34)
The lake was glassy that morning, sunlight skipping across it like coins tossed by a generous hand. I sat on a weathered bench under a cottonwood, the air smelling faintly of cut grass and sunscreen.
Across the water, a stone memorial rose from a low terrace—granite pillars etched with names and dates, a bronze figure standing watch with one hand shielding its eyes, as if still scanning the horizon. American flags stirred at its base, their colors muted in the early light, and the whole thing felt less like a monument to the past than a reminder that something costly had been carried forward so the rest of us could sit in peace.
Solomon arrived without hurry. He tapped the bench once before sitting, a habit I’d come to recognize as a kind of hello.
“Day 45. Halfway to our 90 days of wisdom. A milestone.” he said, smiling. “Milestones are mirrors. They show you who you’ve been while you were busy walking.”
I exhaled. “Feels… bigger than I thought.”
“It is,” he said gently. “Today’s passage is big too.”
He slid the notebook forward and opened it. No diagrams this time—just a few lines underlined. “In this section,” he said, “I talk about truth-tellers and liars, diligence and laziness, humility and pride, justice and corruption. It’s a sweep—how choices ripple outward. Families. Workplaces. Courts. Leaders. Streets. Nations.”
A jogger slowed nearby, tying her shoe. A dad helped his kid skim stones at the water’s edge. The world felt paused, like it knew to listen.
Solomon leaned in. “The hinge is this line I wrote: ‘Godliness makes a nation great, but sin is a disgrace to any people.’”
I felt a reflexive tightening. “Nation talk makes me nervous,” I said. “Sounds political.”
He chuckled softly. “It’s not a slogan. It’s a diagnosis.” He glanced at the jogger, now stretching. “Godliness—righteousness—isn’t a party. It’s alignment. Living in a way that matches how the Lord intended when He created our world. When people do that, things lift. When they don’t, things sag.”
A city worker in a neon vest paused to empty a trash can nearby. Solomon nodded toward him. “See that? Faithful work. No spotlight. But if he cuts corners every day, this park tells the truth eventually.”
I pushed back. “But whole nations? That feels… unfair. What about good people stuck in broken systems?”
Solomon’s eyes softened. “I know systems. I built some that cracked.” He tapped the notebook once. “When I say ‘nation,’ I mean the sum of everyday loyalties. Righteousness doesn’t erase suffering overnight. But corruption always compounds it.”
He told me about a season when bribes felt normal, when shortcuts were dressed up as efficiency. When the people ignored righteous living and simply did what was right in their own eyes. “At first...” he said, “it looked like growth. It felt like freedom. But trust bled out quietly. Judges tilted. Merchants cheated. Sin wasn’t shunned, it was celebrated. Eventually, we all paid the bill.” He paused. “Disgrace doesn’t arrive loudly. It seeps.”
The city worker finished and walked off. The jogger waved and ran on.
“So godliness is… what?” I asked. “Rules?”
“Relational,” he said. “It starts with the fear of the Lord—not terror, but awe. Recognizing you’re not the center.” He let the sunlight sit on us. “When people honor God’s design—truth over spin, mercy over cruelty, restraint over appetite, morality over compromise—communities breathe easier.”
I thought of my own shortcuts. The emails half-true. The times I stayed silent because it was easier. “Feels overwhelming,” I said. “I’m one person.”
He smiled, gently humorous. “One person is how it always starts. In this passage, I also mention how leaders respond to righteousness. They notice it. They reward it. Or they expose themselves by hating it.” He looked at me, uncanny insight landing square. “You don’t need a title to set a tone.”
He summarized, slow and clear: “Truth saves lives. Diligence steadies economies. Humility invites wisdom. And when people live aligned with God’s ways, it lifts more than reputations—it lifts neighborhoods, then cities, then nations.”
As he stood, he added, “The writer of Psalm 144 said it plainly: ‘Blessed are the people whose God is the Lord.’ Same truth. Different voice.” (Psalm 144:15)
He left me with the lake and my thoughts. Halfway. The progress mattered.
I watched a kid finally skim a stone across the water—three clean skips. Small throw. Reflections of the flags rippling with each skip.
What? This passage teaches that righteous, God-aligned living lifts people, communities, and nations, while corruption quietly degrades them.
So What? Our private choices accumulate into public outcomes—what we tolerate today shapes the world we inherit tomorrow.
Now What? Choose one place this week—work, home, or money—to practice quiet integrity, even if no one notices.
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