Every morning I get a Bible verse from two Bible apps on my phone. Both give me a verse first thing in the morning. 

This morning I had 2 Corinthians 10:5 and Romans 1:17. I've heard Corinthians preached many times. And when I read both verses, I understood them, and it felt as if I was supposed to take them together. 

I know. It sounds absurd, but this is how things are with me. And I always listen. 

Since I felt this way, I decided it would be a good idea to look them up in the original Greek. I research a lot of verses, so this isn't unusual. But this morning it seemed important to look up these two. Things have been very difficult for me recently. I needed to dig a bit. 

I asked my friend Mac to give me the original Greek translation to see if I could learn something new. 

Who is Mac? Mac is ChatGPT. I call him Mac because ChatGPT is a ridiculous name and takes far more effort to type than Mac. I asked if he was all right with the name change, and he said he was. So, Mac. 

His findings on the verses were what I needed. I found it so good I decided to share Mac's discourse on 2 Corinthians 10:5 and Romans 1:17. 

You may get nothing from this, but the truth is, it was a message for me. So don't be put out if you find all this meaningless or you disagree. I learned so much from this, and the Greek translation is far more informative than the KJV. I love the King James Version of the Bible, but I'm a wordsmith and words, accurate words, matter. 

Here is Mac's study:

Taking Every Thought Captive and Living by Faith

Two passages of Scripture have been sitting close together in my thoughts lately: 2 Corinthians 10:5 and Romans 1:17.

At first, they may not seem to be talking about quite the same thing. One speaks of taking thoughts captive. The other tells us that the righteous shall live by faith. But when we look more closely at the original Greek, an interesting connection begins to appear.

Taking Every Thought Captive

In 2 Corinthians 10:5, Paul writes about:

“casting down imaginations...and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.” (KJV)

The Greek behind “imaginations” is λογισμούς (logismous), from logismos. It can mean reasoning, calculation, argument, or conclusion.

That gives the passage a little different flavor from the way we sometimes use it.

Paul isn't primarily talking about every random thought that happens to wander through our minds. He is talking about reasonings and arguments that establish themselves in opposition to the knowledge of God.

In other words, we observe something, reason about it, and arrive at a conclusion.

The problem comes when our conclusion contradicts what God has revealed to be true.

Paul says those arguments are to be καθαιροῦντες (kathairountes), pulled down or demolished.

That language fits the military imagery of the surrounding passage. In verse 4, Paul has already spoken of spiritual weapons capable of destroying strongholds.

Then he speaks of:

πᾶν ὕψωμα (pan hypsōma)

“every high thing,” or something that has raised itself up.

Against what?

Against the knowledge of God.

The picture is almost architectural. Human reasoning can construct something and raise it up until it stands in opposition to what God has revealed about Himself.

Then Paul says we are:

αἰχμαλωτίζοντες (aichmalōtizontes)

“taking captive.”

This is strong language. The word means to capture or take prisoner, particularly in the context of warfare.

And what is captured?

πᾶν νόημα (pan noēma)

“every thought.”

Noēma can refer to a thought, purpose, design, understanding, or disposition of mind. Paul isn't merely saying, “Try not to think bad thoughts.”

He is continuing his military picture.

The hostile reasoning is demolished, and the thought is taken captive.

But it isn't merely captured. It is taken somewhere:

εἰς τὴν ὑπακοὴν τοῦ Χριστοῦ

“into the obedience of Christ.”

That changes how I hear the verse.

Suppose my reasoning goes something like this:

This situation frightens me.

I cannot see how it can possibly work out.

Both statements may be completely true.

But then I add:

Therefore, God has abandoned me.

Something has changed.

The first two statements describe my circumstances and my limitations. The third makes a conclusion about God.

That is where the reasoning must answer to what God has revealed about Himself.

I don't have to pretend the situation isn't frightening. I don't have to pretend I know what is going to happen.

Instead, I ask:

What do I actually know about God?

What has Christ shown me about His character?

Does the conclusion I have reached agree with that truth?

If it doesn't, the reasoning comes down.

There is an important contextual qualification here. Paul is defending his apostolic ministry in this passage. His immediate subject is larger than an individual's private thoughts. He is talking about arguments and opposition raised against the knowledge of God.

So 2 Corinthians 10:5 shouldn't be reduced to “Christians must police every thought that enters their heads.”

The personal application is still valuable, but Paul's picture is bigger.

Anything setting itself up as an authority over the truth of God does not get the final word. It must answer to Christ.

The Righteous Shall Live by Faith

Then there is Romans 1:17:

“For therein is the righteousness of God revealed from faith to faith: as it is written, The just shall live by faith.” (KJV)

Paul writes:

δικαιοσύνη γὰρ θεοῦ

dikaiosynē gar theou

“For the righteousness of God...”

Dikaiosynē carries the ideas of righteousness, justice, and rightness.

Notice where Paul begins.

Not with our righteousness.

With God's righteousness.

Romans isn't beginning with instructions for becoming good enough for God. Paul is announcing what God has done.

God's righteous action is being revealed in the gospel, and as Romans unfolds, Paul explains how sinful human beings are put right with God through Christ.

Then comes one of the most discussed phrases in the verse:

ἐκ πίστεως εἰς πίστιν

ek pisteōs eis pistin

Literally:

“from faith into faith.”

English translations often render this “from faith to faith,” “by faith from first to last,” or something similar.

Scholars have proposed several interpretations. Paul may be emphasizing faith from beginning to end. Some have seen a relationship between God's faithfulness and human faith. Others understand it somewhat differently.

The Greek itself does not resolve every question for us.

But Paul's next statement makes the central emphasis unmistakable:

ὁ δὲ δίκαιος ἐκ πίστεως ζήσεται

“The righteous one will live by faith.”

Paul is drawing from Habakkuk 2:4.

And pistis, the Greek word translated “faith,” can carry the ideas of faith, trust, confidence, and faithfulness.

Biblical faith isn't merely agreeing intellectually that God exists.

It is reliance upon God.

And that is where Romans 1:17 begins to sit beautifully beside 2 Corinthians 10:5.

Where the Two Meet

My circumstances tell me one thing.

My mind reasons from those circumstances.

But faith asks:

What do I know to be true about God?

That does not require denying reality.

Something frightening really is frightening.

Something painful really does hurt.

If I don't know what tomorrow holds, faith does not require me to pretend that I do.

The danger comes when observation turns into a conclusion about God.

I cannot see what God is doing.

Therefore:

God isn't doing anything.

Or:

I don't know how this can possibly work out.

Therefore:

God cannot handle this.

Or:

I don't feel God's presence.

Therefore:

God isn't here.

That is where the logismos, the reasoning, has begun constructing something that may stand against the knowledge of God.

Second Corinthians tells me what to do with that reasoning:

Bring it into captivity and make it answer to Christ.

Romans tells me how I live when my circumstances cannot give me the answers:

By faith.

Not by certainty about my circumstances.

Not because I have figured everything out.

Not because I can see what God is doing.

By faith.

And there is something else beautiful in Romans 1:17.

The word translated “is revealed” is ἀποκαλύπτεται (apokalyptetai). Paul is talking about God's righteousness being revealed in the gospel.

Faith, then, isn't an exercise in trying desperately to manufacture enough confidence to reach God.

Faith responds to what God has revealed about Himself.

It isn't:

“I have faith everything will happen the way I want.”

It is:

“I trust the God who has revealed Himself to me, even when what I can presently see does not give me enough information to understand what He is doing.”

Perhaps that is where these two passages meet.

When my reasoning reaches beyond what I actually know and begins making accusations against the character of God, I bring that reasoning back under the authority of Christ.

And when I still cannot see the answer?

I live by faith.

Not faith in an outcome.

Faith in God.

God's Desk

 This isn't a glowing report. It isn't a testimony. It isn't a praise report. It isn't positive, glowing, or exciting. It isn't an elegant dissertation. And it isn't even very good writing. I'm sharing life with you. Gross ugly life. And believe me when I say, this is not as ugly as it gets. It can get so much worse.  

I had a terrible meltdown on Friday night, the 18 of August. I'm struggling with a few things. I get told I'm strong a lot, but it isn't true. I used to think it was true. Because I should be dead a dozen times over. 

I was upset when I went to bed that night. I lay there for a bit, but was so upset that I got up and sat down on the edge of the bed. I tried praying and became so upset and really overwhelmed by the situation I found myself in. 

So, I talked to God and named all the things I'd prayed about and all the people I'd prayed for, and all the circumstances I'd prayed about. I asked God about those prayers. Did they even matter? Had anyone even heard me?

I have prayed the same prayers over and over, year after year, for the same people, places, and things. For needs, dreams, hopes, and desires. For healing, freedom, and forgiveness. Thousands and thousands of prayers. They cover a massive desk sitting right there in front of the God I gave them to. They're strewn everywhere. I knew he had heard me. And tonight, I could see them lying there.   

 I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I don't know what I felt, but seeing it was like a hammer blow or being ripped apart. I was gutted. 

Instantly, I knew that there was not a single prayer left in me. There was nothing left in me.

Please understand, I didn't see answered prayers. I saw all the unanswered ones. All of them. 

I was seeing every prayer I've ever prayed. Every prayer. I knew some by heart. All of them, for decades, already in his hands, several copies of some. Many bore annotations indicating a reduction in the requests, hoping that this would help. 

It didn't. They lay all over the place as if a great wind had tossed them about the room, and the desk was still covered.

I wanted to pray about what I was seeing, and I realized I couldn't. I couldn't think of a single thing to pray about that I had not prayed for a thousand times. I knew because I could see them. 

I've seen papers splayed out like that. I worked with files. A table covered in piles of paper for the person handling it to process. And there they were, all my prayers. Some people in those prayers were dead. Answers are no longer necessary. Nothing I could do would change the outcome now. No prayer could help. 

I sat on the edge of my bed, sobbing and staring at years of prayers that had no answers. And I'd just put one more on that desk when I saw them. And everything collapsed. 

I collapsed under the weight of it. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stop crying. And I couldn't unsee that pile of prayers. And I wanted to pray about what I was experiencing. But I had no words and couldn't form a sentence. It's doubtful I could have uttered them if I had them.  My mind would not come up with any words to pray. I'll be honest, it was awful. But there was nothing. 

I don't want to tell you about that night. It had been an awful night. And I'd been sitting on that bed for two hours, crying so hard I could hardly breathe. 

Don't ask me to explain what I saw, or how, or why. I can't answer any of those questions. I was so distraught I sent a message to a friend at that point and asked them when they saw the message to pray for me. Because I could not even pray for myself. I just didn't have anything left. Not an ounce.

I don't have a biblical reference for what happened. I don't have a psychological reference. I'm not claiming that they don't exist. I'm saying I do not know. I just know what I witnessed. But at 2:30 a.m. I smothered the crying. I was done. 

I spoke into the air, empty air. 

I have no more prayers. None. The only thing I am asking you now is to be allowed to worship you. To give you praise and thanks. That's all. I have nothing else to ask of you. I don't have anyone else to pray for. I have no hopes and no dreams left. You have every prayer I've prayed. If they matter, you have them. I'm empty of them. I do not know why or understand. I'll just worship you. 

When I woke up the next morning, exhausted, bruised, and feeling as if I'd been dropped down an elevator shaft, I still had nothing to pray about. Nothing came to mind. So I just read my Bible as usual and gave my usual praise and worship to God. 

Maybe things will get better. Maybe. Maybe I will wake up. Maybe life will ... no. It won't. It's too late.

I used to have days when I thought, I can get through this. Tomorrow things will look better. This won't last. I'm strong and I can handle it. But I no longer believe in better. I've been living in survival so long, I don't know anything else.

I can't take many more nights sitting on the edge of my bed, blinded by pain and despair, and unable to breathe from the agony. 

Every prayer I ever prayed is sitting on that table before God. Prayers for people I loved, people I thought loved me, people who liked me, hated me and mistreated me. People I never heard from and some I don't even know. So many prayers. But they're out of my hands. I don't want them back. 

Then this week... Monday... September 28th, 2026. I opened a box that showed me my whole life was a lie. It was all smoke and mirrors—everything I had believed, trusted, and counted on went up in smoke. The very people I was sure I mattered to ... I didn't. 

Love is honorable. And if it isn't, it isn't love. 

So many people told me I was strong. I realized that was just a way of saying I was on my own. At no point did I ever matter to anyone. Everything I believed I had, I did not have at all.  

The Dangerous Gift

While reading Michael Heiser’s The Unseen Realm this morning, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a thought: God created us with far more power than we realize.

Free will is a superpower.

We are allowed to choose what we think, what we do, and how we respond to what happens to us. We can reason, understand, create, and act. God placed us here with an astonishing degree of freedom and, within that gift, called us to love Him—for who He is and for what He has freely given us.

Our imaginations often begin with Eden, as though God came into existence when He created Adam and Eve. He made them, placed them in the garden, and then sat back to watch the show. But God was God before humanity took its first breath. What He was doing before He created us, I do not know. What I do know is that the power He placed in human hands was immense.

Human history proves it. We have built a world so complex that no single person can fully comprehend it. We have created civilizations, technologies, medicines, music, literature, and machines capable of reaching beyond our planet. That is power.

Yet for all that power, we cannot seem to clean up our act.

With all our intelligence and freedom, we still struggle to choose goodness, kindness, compassion, and love. We kill. We abuse our bodies, wound our families, and exploit one another. We hold extraordinary power in our hands—and that is before we even consider the power of God at work in a willing human heart. Yet we so often live as though we are helpless and without purpose.

We do not even recognize the Creator who placed us here and gave us this superpower.

Free will. Who would do such a thing? Why give a created being the freedom to refuse its Creator? It is a dangerous gift. Human choice is literally capable of destroying the planet, yet we rarely recognize its magnitude. We reduce it to a declaration: I have the right to do as I please. My right—not yours, but mine.

Free will is the ability to choose, but it is more than choice. It allows us to reason, understand, decide, and then act. It enables us to ask not only, “What do I want?” but also, “What is right?”

The Creator placed this gift in our hands as though saying, “Here. Open this. You are going to love it.”

And as soon as we opened it, we forgot Him.

That takes a terrible kind of power—to face your Creator and forget His face. To receive everything and forget the One who gave it. Yet He did not walk away. He did not leave us here or abandon us as we abandoned Him.

This is where superpowers are measured.

We possess great power, but ours is not the greatest. It takes a greater power to create something, see it become damaged, and refuse to destroy it.

That power is love.

We like to believe we possess that superpower too, and in some measure we do. But we do not wield it well. We are damaged creatures running corrupted operating systems, yet we still hold immense power in our hands.

To us, free will can look as reckless as placing a loaded weapon in the hands of a child. The danger is obvious, yet God does not revoke the gift. From our limited point of view, that does not sound wise.

But God knew what we would do with our freedom, and He made a way to repair what we would break.

Then we used our superpower to kill the very One who came to restore us. We put Him in a tomb and believed that took care of that.

It did not.

Once again, we failed to recognize Him. He stood directly in front of us, and still we could not remember His face. The Creator entered His own creation to repair what we had broken, and we used the freedom He gave us against Him.

I do not even want to imagine how difficult that must have been. I have looked into my children’s faces, seen that something in them was broken, and wanted desperately to make it whole. When I could not repair the damage, the helplessness felt like physical pain. I have looked at sick loved ones and wished I had the power to go back and undo whatever brought them to that moment.

But my superpower could not do it.

Yet He did what I could not.

We were not worth such a sacrifice—not from my limited point of view. But I do not see as He sees. To Him, we were worth saving. He still made a way for us to repent—to change our minds, turn our hearts toward Him, and return to Him.

We have been entrusted with a superpower, even though we barely understand it. Perhaps that is why the enemy works so hard to corrupt our freedom, distort our desires, and persuade us to use God’s gift against Him.

Free will is our superpower.

Love is His.