Before we talk about storms calming or mountains moving, we need to begin with a quiet truth many of us know in our heads but still struggle to believe in our hearts. Last week we talked about how God sees us, but I’m sensing we need to stay there a little longer.

If you’re anything like me, you may feel that God’s acceptance of you is more tolerance than treasure. You expect His approval to arrive later—after you grow, after you improve, after you finally “get it right.” And it’s no wonder the present feels like a battlefield—bad coming head-on and good feeling like it’s dragging behind. It’s hard to trust God now when deep down you’re not sure He fully welcomes you today… in this very moment.

That’s why the difference between religion and relationship matters so much. In every religion on earth, acceptance is something you work toward—something you prove over a lifetime, something handed out at the finish line if the scales happen to tilt your way. But in the Gospel, acceptance is what you receive at the starting line. You don’t grow into God’s delight—you’re embraced from the beginning. You don’t earn His acceptance—you walk in it from the moment you receive Him.

Christianity is the only faith where, at the moment you receive Christ, the Father declares you fully His (John 1:12), fully loved (1 John 3:1), fully accepted (Ephesians 1:6). Everything that follows flows from that foundation—not toward it.

We see this heart of God long before Jesus walked the earth. Genesis says Adam and Eve “heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day” (Genesis 3:8). That’s not a distant deity waiting for humans to get their act together. That’s a Father who enjoyed being with His children. There was communion. Relationship. This wasn’t inspection. It wasn’t evaluation. It wasn’t performance. It was presence—habitual, familiar, relational. Eden wasn’t built on religion. It was built on acceptance.

That same thread runs all through Scripture. The Psalmist says the Lord “takes pleasure in His people” (Psalm 149:4). Isaiah reminds us we were created for His glory—not to complete Him, but to reflect Him (Isaiah 43:7). Jeremiah says the greatest thing a person can boast about is that they “understand and know” God (Jeremiah 9:24). And then Paul tells the Ephesians that God’s inheritance—His treasure—isn’t land or power or achievement.

It’s us. You. Me.

And somehow, impossibly, we are what He looks forward to (Ephesians 1:18). Then Zephaniah 3:17 pulls that truth even closer.

The Lord your God in your midst,
The Mighty One, will save;
He will rejoice over you with gladness,
He will quiet you with His love,
He will rejoice over you with singing.

Now, this is great to know. Comforting even. Yet many translations soften something astounding in this passage. That second “rejoice” is giyl—a Hebrew word that means spinning, twirling, leaping with joy. That’s not polite approval. That’s celebration. Movement. Music. Delight so fierce it cannot sit still. The God of the universe doesn’t just accept you. He rejoices over you with singing. With dancing even. That’s unconditional love. That’s relational nearness. That’s acceptance at the beginning, not the end.

David understood this better than most. He was the man after God’s own heart, after all. But he wasn’t a man with a spotless résumé. Adulterer. Deceiver. Even killer. Yet somehow—despite all of it—David still believed God delighted in him.

Why? Because David understood the heart of his Papa. He knew repentance didn’t move him back into God’s love—it moved him back into awareness of a love that had never left. David danced before the Lord not because he was flawless, but because he was secure. He trusted the joy of a Father who had already chosen him.

And this is why it matters for faith in the now.

You can believe God worked in your past because the evidence is behind you—rescues, mercies, answered prayers, and the countless ways He carried you even when you didn’t see it. Scripture keeps calling us back to this posture. “I will remember the works of the Lord; surely I will remember Your wonders of old” (Psalm 77:11–12). Remembering isn’t nostalgia—it’s fuel. It steadies the heart and strengthens faith for the moment you’re standing in right now.

And if you’re unsure whether God has a track record in your life, I understand. I’ve been there. But here’s what I’ve learned. If more than half a century of living has taught me anything—including nearly three decades of calling myself an atheist—it’s that God’s fingerprints were all over my past long before I ever acknowledged Him. His faithfulness didn’t just begin the day I first believed. It was already woven through the years I spent running. God’s record is long and remembering it strengthens our faith today.

Now, it’s also easier to trust He’ll act in your future because hope always leans forward—“our citizenship is in heaven” (Philippians 3:20), and there is “an inheritance… reserved in heaven for you” (1 Peter 1:3–4). His promises are not poetic—they’re guaranteed. However, our faith for the future can slip quietly into procrastination—not anticipation.

And here’s the part we often miss. Knowing the God of the past and the God of the future is essential—but only if those truths make their way into today. Ignore them, and faith becomes blind. Reduce them, and hope becomes wishful thinking. God’s résumé behind you and His promises ahead of you only carry power when they meet you in the present. The question is never whether He was faithful or whether He will be.

The question is whether we believe He’s faithful now.

Because the present—the now—is where doubt lives. The now is where shame whispers. The now is where we question whether God still loves us, still wants us, still chooses us. You can’t walk in faith now if you’re still unsure of your acceptance now. But when you know—deep in your bones and the depths of your soul—that you’re already delighted in, already called His, already held, the ground beneath your feet becomes steadier. Trust grows. Fear loosens. And suddenly, the God of yesterday and tomorrow becomes the God of this breath, this step, this moment.

This is where the journey begins. Not with striving, but with belonging. Not with performance, but with presence. Not with religion, but with relationship.

The God who danced over His people in Zephaniah is the same God who delights in you now.

The same God who welcomed Adam and Eve into the cool of the garden welcomes you into the cool of this moment—fully accepted, fully loved, fully His.

Reflection

If we’re honest, this is the part that’s hardest to believe. Not the miracles of the past. Not the promises of the future. But the idea that right now—this very moment—Papa delights in us. Not the future you, not the improved you, not the more disciplined version of you.

You—as you are.

Most of us don’t stumble over God’s power. We stumble over His pleasure. We believe He can act; we’re just not convinced He wants to—not for us anyway. And that’s where the divide sneaks in. When we read Scripture, it feels easier to believe He showed up for them. When we pray for others, it feels natural to expect Him to move for them. We’ll even celebrate answered prayers on someone else’s behalf without flinching.

But when it comes to our hearts, our needs, our fears—it suddenly feels different. The moment faith becomes personal, the moment the miracle would have to happen in our story, something in us hesitates. We shift from confidence to caution. From expectation to uncertainty. From “God can” to “…but will He really? For me?”

And yet Papa’s acceptance didn’t start at the finish line. It started at the first breath of your new life in Christ. Everything He did in the past, and everything He promises for the future, is meant to anchor you in this truth—you are His right now. You are loved right now. You are welcomed right now.

Once that settles, the present stops feeling so fragile. Shame loses its footing. Fear loosens its grip. The now becomes a place of meeting, not hiding. A place of confidence, not insecurity. A place where faith can finally breathe.

Because Papa isn’t waiting for a better version of you to show up.

He’s with you in this one.

Prayer

Papa,

Thank You for accepting me at the beginning—not the end. Thank You that Your love doesn’t wait for me to become worthy but meets me right where I am. Teach me to rest in the truth of Your delight—here, in this moment. Quiet every voice that tells me I have to earn what You’ve already given. Strengthen my trust so I can walk with You now, not just celebrate what You did or hope for what You’ll do. Help me live in the confidence of being fully loved, fully known, and fully Yours.

Amen.