"Jesus’ warning about the end of the world wasn’t about the devil. It was Lot’s wife.

Usually, we think leaving somewhere is easy. You pack your bags, shut the door, and that’s it. You’re gone. But there’s a gap that happens when your body moves faster than your mind. You can be physically standing in a safe place while your heart is still stuck in the place you just left.

You see it when someone quits an addiction but keeps their old dealer's number. Or when someone starts a new relationship but spends the whole time complaining about their ex. They’ve moved, but they haven't actually left.

The danger isn't just the act of looking back; it’s the hesitation. You can be standing right outside a disaster and still get caught in it if you're not fully committed to getting away.

Genesis 19 doesn't give this woman a name. It doesn't tell us what she was thinking or feeling. It just identifies her as Lot's wife who looked back from behind Lot and became a pillar of salt. That's it! No special effects, drama or big speech, just a pillar of salt.

Earlier in that story, God was incredibly patient. The family was dragging their feet in a city about to be destroyed, so the angels literally grabbed them by the hands and pulled them out. The instruction was point-blank: "Do not look back".

She didn't get out because she was fast or holy. God’s messengers literally dragged her out. She was on the right path. She was officially "saved."

But she was trailing behind. Her body was heading toward the mountains, but her focus was still on the city. The word used for "looked back - nabat" in the Hebrew isn't about a "quick glance" over the shoulder. It’s about a deep, focused stare. She turned and looked intensely, like she was surveying the situation. We don't know if she missed her house, her friends, or her stuff. We just know where she was looking when the city fell.

Jesus brings this up in Luke 17 verse 31-32.  He’s talking about people trying to "preserve" their lives. He warns that when things get serious, you shouldn't go back into your house to grab your belongings. Then he drops three words: "Remember Lot’s wife." He doesn't give a long lecture on her sins; He just points out that she hesitated.

Jesus uses her as a case study on "urgency." He treated that moment seriously enough to repeat her name as a warning. The issue wasn’t sentiment, but the hesitation. A divided attention in a decisive hour.

You are trying to save a relationship, a habit, or a memory that God has already judged. You are standing in the middle, entertaining the "just one more time" thought.

God did everything for her. He gave the warning, provided the escape route, and even physically pulled her to safety. But He won't force someone's heart to change direction. She survived the fire, but she ended up part of the ruins anyway because she couldn't let go of what was behind her. 

She ended up stuck on that road; somewhere between being saved and being lost; neither hot nor cold; just lukewarm.

Jesus didn’t tell us to remember the fire or the sins of Sodom. He told us to remember the woman who was halfway to safety and decided she wasn't ready to go. Salvation was in front of her, and Judgement was behind her, but she suddenly lost that "urgency" to keep going. 

What is the one thing you have physically left behind, but are still mentally turning to face?"

Ellis Enobun

 

' Charity believeth all things! ' — what simplicity, what a refreshing lack of worldly wisdom and experience; what a dupe such gullibility must be; how it is imposed upon and played upon and cheated."

Such is the verdict of the worldly spirit, which suspects all things, which is easily provoked, and thinketh all evil.

Charity believeth all things. A dupe, is it? 

I ask you which is the greater dupe, the charity that believes all things, or the selfishness that believes nothing? 

There are knaves in the world, 

there are superstitions in the world, 

there are deceivers and deceived; 

but one who lives as if these were all, 

loses the good and invites the evil. 

Before the cold gaze of suspicion, hearts close themselves as the sensitive flower closes beneath the cloud.” 

To me the last line is the most significant; “Before the cold gaze of suspicion, or superiority, hearts close themselves.”

Nothing reaches a closed heart, 

Even with thorough preparation, inspired words, long prayers, or stirring delivery, the walls stay up because they sense condemnation rather than love.

“Their hearts would close.” 

But Seeing others as equals ("sinners like myself"), as beloved souls whom Christ loves and actively reaches out to redeem. 

The focus shifts from critiquing sin to gently drawing out the innate nobility, honor, truth, and goodness that God has placed in every human heart, and the hearts open and the Holy Spirit works with power. 

Backsliding

Here are some reasons why many struggle in their faith and soon backslide – 

“The shrinking from difficulty, 

the dread of ridicule, 

and the love of ease sap a man's moral earnestness 

and soon dry up the very roots of all moral faith. 

Though he must believe before he acts, 

he will not long continue believing 

once he has ceased to act. 

The coward who flees the fight mutters as he retreats that “there is really nothing worth fighting for.” 

Those who decline the high battle of the Christian life convince themselves there is no worthy field, 

no urgent call, 

no real enemy—

and the clarion call of God that pierces and inspires faithful souls 

becomes to them mere hypocritical noise. 

The prophet’s battlefield, 

where every step demands vigilance, 

appears in their eyes a soft and pleasant stroll; 

and the sins that good men have 

spent their lives driving back 

become their most agreeable companions, 

of whom it was mere bigotry to think ill."

In essence: 

Moral cowardice and inaction do not merely follow disbelief—

they actively produce and deepen it, 

leading to self-deception and the redefinition of sin as harmless pleasure.

I think the nearest illustration I can give about ministering at the jail is this:

Imagine a tender-hearted woman who volunteers at the Humane Society. She cannot pass a stray without kneeling; she cannot hear a whimper without her chest tightening. She has carried home more abandoned puppies than she can count, pressing their trembling bodies against her own as though her warmth alone could mend what the world has broken. She would stand like a shield between any creature and cruelty.

Then one cold afternoon in the country, a farmer tells her he has seen a litter of seven puppies—half-starved, shivering in a bramble bush, abandoned by their mother. “They won’t last the night,” he says. “They’re all alone.”

Her heart lurches her blood turns to ice. She can almost feel their thin ribs beneath her fingers before she has even seen them. “Take me,” she pleads. “Please—before it’s too late.”

They climb into his truck. The engine roars, gravel spits, and she grips the dashboard as if every second were a heartbeat slipping away. When they finally find them, it is worse than she imagined. Seven small bodies tangled in thorns. Eyes too big for their gaunt faces. Ribs sharp as birdcages. They do not bark. They only stare—afraid even of rescue.

She kneels in the dirt. She speaks softly. One by one, she gathers them into her arms. They resist at first, stiff with distrust, but then—one fragile surrender at a time—they lean into her. The truck ride back is filled with quiet whimpers and the faintest flicker of hope. At the shelter, the veterinarian begins the slow, sacred work of healing: cleaning wounds, warming cold bodies, coaxing them back toward life.

That is the scene I walked into last night.

Except they were not puppies.

They were seven women—of every age and every color—each carrying the same haunted look in their eyes. At first, there were walls: practiced smiles, folded arms, silence that had learned how to survive. But when trust was earned and defenses lowered, the stories came out—haltingly at first, then in a flood. Stories of vicious assaults. Of unspeakable betrayals. Of childhoods starved of tenderness. Of homes where love never lived.

And beneath it all, the same trembling question those puppies carried: Is anyone coming for me?

To sit in that room was to kneel again in the bramble bush. To see ribs showing—not of the body, but of the soul. To realize how long they had shivered without warmth, how long they had learned not to hope.

I cannot explain what a privilege it is to speak words of hope into that kind of darkness. What an honor it is to watch a guarded face soften. What a blessing it is to see a woman, who has survived the tyranny of unloving caregivers and the brutality of broken men, begin—just barely—to believe that she is not abandoned.

There is a kind of holy work in that room. Not dramatic in noise, but in courage. Not loud in triumph, but in the quiet miracle of trust.

Last night, I did not rescue anyone. I simply knelt beside seven wounded hearts and reminded them they were not alone in the bramble anymore. And that, to me, is sacred beyond words.

"And when we do our best, and most strenuously follow 

the duties and responsibilities of our calling (faith or life work), We must not allow a flutter or trace of self-congratulation to hinder the quiet meekness of our heart. 

For when we look up to that which we dare to hope for,

Our mightiest achievements appear dwarfed. 

Mere clumsy attempts to spell out the alphabet of eternal wisdom, but they are signs of a willing pupil, like the upturned look of Mary sitting at the feet of Jesus. 

And these symbols of faith and service God will be graciously pleased to accept them from us, because He sees in them the early efforts of a soul destined one day to grow into more divine dimensions." James Martineau, abridged.  

Original - 

“And when we best and most strenuously follow the obligations of our career, we can permit no flutter of self-gratulation to disturb the quiet meekness of the heart. 

For only look up on that which we dare to hope, 

and how are our mightiest achievements dwarfed. 

All insufficient in themselves, — poor spellings-out of the mere alphabet of eternal wisdom, — they are but signs of willing pupilage, — the upturned look of a disciple sitting at the feet. 

As symbols of faith and service, God will be graciously pleased to accept them from us; and discern in them the early essays of a soul that shall assume at length dimensions more divine." 

 

To the soul filled with the Holy Spirit, 

and freed with an eternal love, 

the Christian hope gives peace and power by 

restoring the broken proportions of the mind; 

and tranquillizes the restlessness of a spirit 

that unconsciously feels, "cabined, cribbed, confined," 

It is this faithfulness to our deepest nature — 

the power we receive from it, 

the quiet we find in it, 

in a waking conscience, 

a self-forgetful heart, 

an ungrudging hand, 

that gives to the Christian view of life 

its most irresistible persuasion upon the heart.

Thoughts ever earnest for the truth; in a perpetual outlook of hope from our lowliness toward an infinite glory.  

For myself, I confess it is the only evidence that seems to give me true, serene, steadfast faith. 

Yet when, in darker moods of thought, 

I search for some narrower, intellectual ground of trust

and try to believe by argument alone, I sometimes doubt whether I do more than imagine I believe."

Abridged James Martineau.

“Beyond the company of the great and good 

stands a vast and varied crowd: 

no line must forbid their passage; 

some span of sympathy must embrace them too. 

No proud mysteries or secret rites guard the Christian brotherhood; 

even wandering guilt must be sought and brought home, 

and penitence lingering on the steps must be invited within. 

Christ will not remain head of the “whole family” 

if its forlorn members are cast off in selfish shame, 

and no gentle care is given to smooth their path of return."

Here is the beauty of the original – 

"Beyond the company of the great and good, a vast and various crowd is scattered round: 

no line must be drawn which they are forbid to pass: some span of sympathy must embrace them too. 

No proud mysteries, no secret initiation, 

guards the entrance to the Christian brotherhood; 

even wandering guilt must be sought for and brought home; and penitence that sits upon the steps must be asked to come within the door. 

Christ will not remain at the head of the " whole family," 

if its forlorn and outcast members are simply put away in selfish shame, and no gentle care is spent to smooth the pathway of return." James Martineau.