Lo. I Am With You. Every Day.

I’ve always admired the kind of preacher who can leave the pulpit for months—sometimes years—and return like he never missed a breath.

John Calvin did that.
Three years after being exiled from Geneva, he walks back into the church, climbs the pulpit steps, opens his Bible, and says,
“Last time, we were in this chapter…”
And just like that, he keeps going.

I’ve never had a dramatic exit or some grand return.
I keep showing up. Preaching. Praying. Doing what pastors do.
But still, there are seasons when I feel quieter.
Not gone—just not all there either.

Not every preacher comes back from a sabbatical.
Some of us come back from a dry spell. From soul-weariness. From that vague, gray ache that settles in when ministry turns into machinery.

I don’t always know what I’m coming back from.
But I do know what draws me back.

It’s this line—
“Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

I don’t go looking for it.
It finds me.
Like a familiar voice in a crowded room. Like a hand on your back when you didn’t know you needed one.

If I were to build a sermon from that promise, I think I’d start right here.

A Chalk Snap to the Soul

“Lo…”

That’s how Jesus starts it.

No one uses that word anymore. It sounds like something from a black-and-white movie or a dusty Bible left in a hotel drawer.

But in the Greek it’s idou—and it hits different.

It’s the teacher who slaps the chalk against the board to make the whole room freeze.
It’s your mother saying your full name.
It means: “Look at me. Right now. I’m saying something you’re not allowed to ignore.”

Jesus doesn’t toss this line out like a warm blanket.
He hammers the table.

“Lo.”
This matters.

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The “I” That Speaks

“I…”

We say it a hundred times a day, and it means almost nothing.
But when He says it? When Jesus says it?

It carries the weight of the galaxies.

This is not a rabbi making a nice closing statement.
This is not a motivational moment at the end of a spiritual TED Talk.

This is the God-Man—
The One who existed before time,
The One who grew inside a virgin’s womb,
The One who was crushed until the sky went black,
The One who walked out of His own grave.

Two natures. One Christ.
And He says, “I…”

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Not “I Will Be.” Just “I Am.”

Jesus doesn’t say, “I’ll be with you later.”
He doesn’t say, “When you get your act together, I’ll show up.”
He says, “I am with you.”

Am.
Present tense. Perpetual.

Not someday.
Not when your marriage is fixed.
Not when you feel brave.
Not when you clean up the sin you swore you’d never do again.

Now. Right now.
Even with the tears still on your face.
Even when your Bible is still closed.
Even when you’re wondering if any of this is even true anymore.

He doesn’t wait outside the door of your failure.
He walks into it.

He’s with you while you’re blowing it.

And if that doesn’t shake you, I don’t know what will.

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Who’s the “You”?

“I am with you…”

Who’s “you”?

Not the strong.
Not the clean.
Not the polished, poised, got-it-all-together crew.

The “you” is the called.

The ones who, like Peter, got out of the boat and sank.
The ones who, like Matthew, traded shame for grace.
The ones who were just… done.

You don’t decide to be a disciple. You don’t sign up.
You get called.

Dragged, really.
Out of sin. Out of self. Out of numbness.

I was middle-aged when He called me.
I walked into that little chapel determined not to believe.
And a little later, I belonged to Him.

Why?

Because He broke through.
Because I couldn’t ignore Him anymore.
Because when Jesus calls, you stop resisting.

The promise is for those people.
The called. The conquered. The clinging.

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Every Day Means Every Day

“I am with you always.”

The Greek says it better: all the days.

That includes the good days—
—the ones where the Bible opens like a flower
—the ones where prayer feels like breathing
—the ones where your heart sings for no reason at all

But it also includes the days we never post about—
—the days when sleep doesn’t come and everything hurts
—the days when you snap at your spouse and immediately regret it
—the days when sin knocks and you open the door wide
—the days where God feels as far away as the moon

Even those days.

Especially those days.

Jesus didn’t promise to be with the best version of you.
He promised to be with the real you.
The one who weeps. The one who questions.
The one who fails.

And not just with you. For you.
Still praying. Still reigning. Still keeping.

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Until the Whole Thing Burns and Begins Again

“…even to the end of the age.”

We talk like the world is going to end.

It won’t. Not really.

It’s going to be remade. Burned clean.
Rebuilt without death, without cruelty, without lies.
But between now and then?

We live in an age that feels like it’s always collapsing.

Ambulances that don’t come.
Children taught things that make you want to scream.
Floods. Droughts. Shootings. Surveillance.
Governments that blur the line between justice and madness.

And I’m telling you, I need this promise more now than I ever have in my life.

I am with you.
Not just when the church is full.
Not just when the Spirit moves.
Not just when the sun sets soft over the Ozark hills.

I am with you when the worst comes.
I am with you when the world flips upside-down.
I am with you when you can’t feel it.
I am with you to the end.

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The Final Word

Matthew ends his gospel with one last breath:

Amen.

Modern translations often leave it off.
That’s a mistake.

Because in the oldest manuscripts, it’s there.
And it matters.

Amen means: This is true.
Not sentimentally. Not symbolically.
Factually.

So Jesus speaks a promise that hangs like an anchor at the bottom of your life:

“Lo, I am with you all the days, even to the end of the age.”
Amen.

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Maybe We’ve Been Living Like He Left

I think a lot of Christians—maybe most of us—are living as if Jesus meant to leave.

We believe in His forgiveness.
We believe in His power.
But we act like His presence is optional. Occasional. Drifting.

We’ve convinced ourselves He’s over there, watching.
Cheering from a distance.
Waiting for us to shape up and “feel close to God” again.

But that’s not the promise.

The promise is not about your feelings.
It’s not about your faithfulness.
It’s not about your performance.

It’s about His presence.

Every day.
Every hour.
Every failure.
Every breath.

Until the end.

Amen.

If this devotion encouraged you, read my reflection on Psalm 34, where God meets us even in the cave

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