The Offering Rises

To the Glory of God

I have been reflecting on the parable of the talents (Matthew 25:14 — 30) and on Paul’s charge, “So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God” (1 Corinthians 10:31).

We are each given gifts — unique to us — blessings meant to be used to glorify God while on this earth.

Are you a cook? Did God bless you with a palate precise and inventive? Do you build complex recipes by feeling alone — feeding souls as your masterpiece? Consider the source of that gift. Let us honor God with what He has given. If your gift is cooking, do it to the glory of God: aim for your highest best in every dish. Why? Because when we live in the present and prepare a plate as if God Himself were eating it, the meal becomes transcendent for both diner and chef. In a deeper sense, you already are doing this — if the same Holy Spirit dwells in them as in you, and all is One in Him, then He is in the one who eats as truly as He is in the one who cooks: unity in incarnation.

In Jesus’ parable, a talent was a measure of weight and currency entrusted by a master to his servants. Yet we rightly apply it also to our own “talents” — the God-given abilities entrusted to us. The servants who multiplied what they received were praised and rewarded, while the one who buried his single talent faced rebuke. The lesson is clear: what we are given must be invested, not hidden. And if we truly believe that we are God’s children, then even our gifts and our failures belong to Him. For it is written, “Christ is all, and in all” (Colossians 3:11). Therefore, we take what we have been given and we try — knowing that He loves us still, whether we fail or succeed.

We live for tomorrow in the way we live today.

Each of us carries a special gift. Sometimes it takes a lifetime to discover its shape. Yet when that breakthrough comes, we are responsible for taking what we have received and using it to spread His glory. We will also answer for what we have left undone (James 4:17).

As for me — I am a poet. So I will pour out my heart in poetry, and I will make it always, always about Him. This is my sacred act of devotion in dust.

Did God bless you with a voice that makes angels weep? Then let every note turn back to Him in praise — from the heart. Have you expanded the cosmic billboards of heaven with songs so sublime they rose like incense before the altar? Or have you sung for what sells rather than for what you love?

All answers carry a cost. Yet grace gives space for growth. Learning takes time, heart, and a willingness to submit to His mighty hand (1 Peter 5:6).

I learned through years — and through the wisdom of a friend who became like a mother — that we must do everything to the glory of God (Colossians 3:17). My own gift is writing. I buried it for twenty years. I became that one servant who received a talent and hid it in the ground.

Now I know better. The work and care we put into our gift before offering it must match the declaration of our love. For me, that means time spent editing, so that what I bring is not blemished or second-best. It means writing not only to you, the reader, but also to the Father with mindfulness.

I am convinced that if we have been given a gift by God, it is meant to be offered back as a cathedral to His name. For me, that looks like constructing a chapel of words and leaving breadcrumbs for the souls who will linger longer than I. My hope is that, in some small way, my words will reveal the Father and be an acceptable offering on the altar of faith.

I hope to inspire you — and even a generation unborn — to praise. To show how soiled sanctification becomes white as snow by the blood of the Lamb who was slain and yet lives (Isaiah 1:18, Revelation 5:12).

This is my musing on gifts, and what we are meant to do with them.

As always, Dust —

To you,

For you,

From Him,

In me.

If you know someone with a gift they’ve kept hidden, please share this with them. My goal is not for you to scatter or spam, but to carefully place these words where they are needed most. I write not for myself, but as an offering — to you, to Him, and even as my own reward: the closeness of His presence.