Genesis 6 has one of those stories that most of us would probably rather skip. "Sons of God" and Nephilim read like a strange ancient myth tangled in God's word we're not ready for.

One common interpretation of the "sons of God" says that they were angelic beings who crossed boundaries with women they were never meant to cross. That added to the wickedness God saw in humanity that preludes the story of Noah. And that idea works, in part, because it's distant and dramatic, nothing like our everyday lives.

But another perspective says the "sons of God" were sons of the powerful, men in authority taking advantage of women because no one could stop them. Now, that reading isn't as outlandish or otherworldly. And maybe that's why it's harder.

It's easy to condemn things we'll never be tempted by. We shake our heads at the extremes of violence, drugs, scandals, and corruption in far-off places. But what about the quiet injustices that hide inside our policies, our systems, our workplaces, or our communities? What about the legal things we do that still cause others harm? What about the decisions powerful people make every day that leave someone else struggling?

Why is it harder to call those out?

It's easy to see how divided our world can be. People separate themselves into categories, labels, and sides. We draw lines that distinguish ourselves from others in subtle and bold ways. And then we defend those lines with all our strength.

So, let's reflect on something God desires for our world.

Listen again to the psalmist say, "Praise the Lord, all you nations! Worship him, all you people!"

Everyone is included in the call to worship.

This short psalm refuses to let us shrivel God down to fit inside our boundaries. We can't read it and assume God’s love is only for people who look like us, think like us, vote like us, worship like us, or agree with us. Instead, it widens the circle until we can’t see the edges anymore.

Recently, Pope Leo XIV released an apostolic letter titled "In the Unity of Faith" to commemorate the 1,700th anniversary of the Council of Nicaea. He emphasized that the creed isn't just about rules or doctrine but about one God who draws near to all people. Now, in his letter, the pope omitted the filioque clause. Ask Google if you're not sure what that is. I'll say that he wasn't pretending doctrinal convictions don't exist. But symbolically, he was prioritizing what unites Christians worldwide over what divides them. It's was a small gesture that reflects the inclusive spirit of Psalm 117.

It amazes me how other people can reflect theologically on things that I would not have considered on my own. There are endless ideas to explore when it comes to understanding theology, biblical studies, and religious studies. For me, studying these kinds of things is a form of worship of the loving God who gives us insight and wisdom. And I always encourage others to learn how to think through them, too.

At the same time, I've also learned we can overcomplicate faith. Or at least, we make it harder than it needs to be. We pile on expectations, rules, church politics, spiritual checklists, and the pressure to "get it right." Of course, those have their place, usually a good place, but they can also distract us.

Then two simple verses remind us that the foundations of faith don't have to be complicated. Psalm 117 is just 17 words in Hebrew. Those few words, though, hold what we need to know about God and our relation to God.

The psalm is a call to worship and a simple explanation of why we worship. God is steadfast love, and so we praise God. There is certainly more to say about faith and discipleship. But so much of it hinges on who we understand God to be and what our lives are in response. So, Psalm 117 brings us back to that center.

Don't we all have some picture of what the future looks like? And what fills our vision of the future might be something like longing for a day when life becomes a little easier, relationships become healthier, or things at least become a little less chaotic. You might also imagine a day when you feel more whole and at peace.

The book of Revelation is a future vision. Not in a predictive way, laying out a cosmic schedule of events that will take place. Revelation is not a crystal ball view of the future. But it is a vision meant to inspire us and pull us forward to God's future.

For all its enigmatic qualities, Revelation shows us a day when light doesn't come from temporary sources. Instead, it shines from God, radiating with goodness. There will be no locked gates or fear of who might come in. There will be no systems of power that dominate or harm people. The revelation of Christ shows us a day when humanity finally lives the way we were meant to: open, healed, and unafraid.

That's more than the survival mode that wears on us today. And it's something we can all long for. A world not run by fear or pretense.

Revelation gives us that kind of picture, not as an escape from reality, but to reshape how we live in it today. A hopeful future doesn’t make us passive. It makes us courageous. It steadies our souls, and it invites us to live today as if tomorrow really can be better.

Joy and grief really can live in the same house. In 1 Peter 1, the apostle doesn’t pretend we’re above life’s pain. Peter never says, “Rejoice instead of suffering,” or “Rejoice once the suffering ends.” He helps us understand what we probably already know to be true: that joy and sorrow often show up at the same time.

Many of us feel pressure to choose between the two. If you’re hurting, you wonder if your faith is weak. If you’re hopeful, you wonder if you’re avoiding reality. But the Bible gives you permission to hold both with honesty. Faith isn’t pretending the pain isn't anything less than it is. Instead, faith teaches us to trust God even while the pain is still present.

In the Bible, joy isn’t a mood. It’s a deep confidence in who God is and how God stays with us. God is with you, God is working, and God is not done.

And grief is not a spiritual failure. It’s the honest acknowledgment that life hurts and losses matter. You don’t have to silence your joy to honor your grief, or silence your grief to prove your joy.