Drawing Closer

Drawing Closer

Drawing Closer

Drawing Closer

Jesus once sat in a home filled with movement, noise, and good intentions.

One sister was busy—serving, preparing, doing everything she could to honor Him.
The other simply sat at His feet and listened.

And Jesus said something that still unsettles us:

“Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things.
But one thing is necessary.
Mary has chosen the better part.”

Jesus didn’t rebuke Martha for serving.
He named her anxiety.

He didn’t praise Mary for doing nothing.
He protected her nearness.

That story has followed me for years—not because I don’t value work or devotion, but because I recognize myself in Martha far more often than I’d like to admit.

Almost everyone asks this question at some point:

How do I draw closer to God?

I’ve asked it myself more times than I can count.
Usually quietly.
Often when I was tired.
Sometimes with the nagging fear that the question itself meant I wasn’t doing enough.

Hidden inside that question is an assumption we rarely stop to examine:

That closeness is my responsibility.

Think for a moment about a father and a very young child.

Who is responsible for the closeness of that relationship?

Not the child.

The child doesn’t maintain the bond.
They don’t manage communication, interpret silence, or ensure consistency.

The father does.

The child’s only “responsibility” is to respond—to reach back when held, to rest when carried, to cry when hungry. Even that response is often imperfect, emotional, or inconsistent.

And yet the relationship is secure.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I had been treating God less like a Father…
and more like a distant evaluator.

So when I asked, “How do I draw closer to God?”
I was already carrying a weight He never asked me to hold.

For years, I was encouraged—sometimes gently, sometimes urgently—to read more, pray more, fast more, deny myself more.

Those things aren’t bad.
Some of them can be helpful.

But if I’m honest, they rarely gave me rest.

Years ago, Wayne Jacobsen shared a thought that stopped me in my tracks—something like this:

If I didn’t do another thing for God for the rest of my life, He would not love me any differently… or any less.

I didn’t know whether to resist that thought…
or let it undo me.

Because if it’s true, then nothing I do earns God’s love.
Nothing I fail to do diminishes it.
Nothing impresses Him.
Nothing draws Him closer.

And slowly, I began to realize that this wasn’t a dangerous idea at all.

It was exactly what Jesus had been saying all along.

In John chapter fifteen, Jesus tells His disciples:

“I am the vine; you are the branches.
Whoever abides in Me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit.
Apart from Me you can do nothing.”

A branch has no responsibility to produce fruit.

Fruit has no power of its own.

The branch doesn’t strive.
It doesn’t apologize for yesterday’s lack of growth.
It doesn’t wake up trying to impress the vine.

It simply remains.

Life flows from the vine into the branch.
Fruit flows out of that life.

That order changed everything for me.

Closeness comes first.
Fruit follows later.

Suddenly, the story of Mary and Martha came into focus.

Martha wasn’t wrong.
She was anxious.

Mary wasn’t lazy.
She was present.

Jesus wasn’t choosing between work and rest.
He was revealing that relationship is not built on anxious effort—even good effort.

It’s built on nearness.

And I began to see how often my devotion had been driven not by love, but by fear—
fear of drifting, fear of displeasing God, fear that if I didn’t keep moving, something precious might be lost.

But a Father doesn’t ask His child to manage closeness.

He carries it.

So maybe the better question isn’t:

How do I draw closer to God?

Maybe it’s:

What if I’ve been close all along…
and just didn’t know I was allowed to rest there?

A Simple Prayer

Father,
I confess how easily I turn relationship into responsibility.
I strive for closeness instead of trusting it.

Teach me to abide.
To remain where life already flows.
To walk in the Spirit, not perform for You.

Free me from anxious devotion,
and teach me to live from Your love—not for it.

Amen.

If something in you loosened as you listened,
if you felt more invited than instructed,
more rested than challenged—

maybe this wasn’t a call to do more.

Maybe it was permission to stay.

Untangling “Fornication”

Untangling “Fornication”

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Untangling “Fornication”

Author’s Note
This essay is written slowly and intentionally. It is not aimed at winning debates, but at untangling language that has caused real harm when handled carelessly. I do not claim exhaustive scholarship, nor do I assume bad motives on the part of those who disagree. My aim is narrower and more pastoral: to let Scripture speak precisely where it speaks clearly—and to resist speaking for God where it does not.

There are few words in modern Christian vocabulary as casually destructive as fornication.

It is spoken quickly, confidently, and often without explanation—applied to teenagers, to private thoughts, to confused young adults trying to find their footing in the world. It is invoked as if its meaning were obvious, timeless, and morally absolute.

But it isn’t.

When biblical language is stretched beyond its intent, consciences are crushed under burdens God never placed there.

I’ve lived under this word. I’ve watched it used to silence questions, flatten stories, and load shame onto people who were not rebelling against God, but trying—often sincerely—to live well. And I’ve come to believe that much of the harm surrounding Christian sexual teaching does not come from Scripture itself, but from the careless way Scripture’s language has been repurposed.

What follows is not an attempt to redefine sin, relax holiness, or baptize anything-goes sexuality. It is an insistence on something far more demanding: that God means what He says—and does not say what He does not say.

Because when biblical language is stretched beyond its intent, consciences are crushed under burdens God never placed there. And too many people have paid the price.

What God Was Actually Condemning

To understand why Scripture speaks so forcefully about porneia—a biblical term commonly translated as fornication or sexual immorality—we have to return to the world in which that word lived.

In the ancient Mediterranean world, sex was not merely personal or private. It was often religious.

Across pagan cultures surrounding Israel and the early church, sexual activity was woven directly into worship. Temple prostitution was not metaphorical or exaggerated by biblical writers—it was a common, organized, ritualized practice. In cities like Corinth, worshippers participated in sexual acts with prostitutes dedicated to gods such as Aphrodite, believing these acts secured divine favor: fertility for crops, prosperity for families, success in trade.

The body itself became a sacrificial object.

These rituals were frequently public, repeated, and orgiastic—accompanied by alcohol, incense, music, and ecstatic frenzy. Men and women offered themselves not as persons to be loved, but as instruments of worship and control. Intimacy was stripped of dignity and turned into a religious transaction.

Scripture does not hesitate to name this as an abomination.

Not because God is fragile or prudish—but because these practices fused worship with exploitation, devotion with domination, and intimacy with dehumanization. They hollowed out families, commodified bodies, and shattered covenant at every level of society. God’s revulsion was precise, relational, and protective.

This was not about sex offending God’s sensibilities.
It was about sex being used to destroy people while calling it worship.

That distinction matters.

Porneia: A Word With Teeth—and a Target

Biblically, porneia functions as a category term encompassing behaviors such as:

  • Prostitution (cultic and non-cultic)
  • Adultery
  • Incest
  • Sexual exploitation
  • Other unlawful unions under Jewish covenant law (such as the prohibited kinship relationships outlined in Leviticus 18 and 20—sexual relations involving parents, siblings, aunts, and others within protected family boundaries)

What unites these practices is not marital status, but violation.

They involve betrayal of covenant, abuse of power, desecration of trust, exploitation of the vulnerable, or the merging of sexuality with idolatry. In every case, something sacred is being taken, used, or consumed.

What is striking—and often ignored—is what porneia does not clearly describe in Scripture: mutual, consensual sexual relationships between unmarried individuals as an explicit moral offense in themselves.

Such relationships may be unwise.
They may be emotionally damaging.
They may carry real consequences.

But wisdom is not the same thing as sin.

Scripture never issues a command equivalent to “Thou shalt not have consensual sex before marriage.” When premarital encounters appear in biblical law, they are treated as relational and economic matters—requiring responsibility and care, not moral annihilation. Cultural value and covenant wisdom are present. Automatic condemnation is not.

That silence is not accidental.

Virginity: Value Is Not the Same as Moral Worth

Virginity mattered deeply in the ancient world. It carried social, economic, and covenantal significance. It was tied to family stability, inheritance, and trust within marriage arrangements. Scripture treats it seriously.

What Scripture does not do is turn virginity into a measure of spiritual worth.

Loss of virginity outside marriage carried consequences—but not automatic moral condemnation, lifelong shame, or separation from God. Over time, religious systems quietly shifted the category:

Value → virtue → moral purity → spiritual status

That shift was not commanded by Scripture. It was imposed by culture—and later weaponized by religion.

Conflating cultural value with moral sin has left generations of people believing that a single moment, thought, or failure permanently altered their standing before God. That belief is not biblical. And it has done immense harm.

Jesus, Lust, and the Trap With No Exit

Jesus’ words in Matthew 5—“anyone who looks at a woman to lust after her has already committed adultery in his heart”—are often used as a sweeping net to condemn every sexual thought or experience outside marriage.

But Jesus is not redefining attraction as adultery.

He is intensifying the commandment against coveting—exposing the heart posture of entitlement and possession. Adultery, even in the heart, is about taking what belongs to another, not the mere presence of desire.

Modern religious teaching has turned this into a trap with no exit. As people grow, mature, and discover who they are, they are taught that they are always already guilty—if not in action, then in thought; if not in thought, then in desire.

There is no space left for learning.
No space for development.
No space for becoming.

Only failure.

That burden is not from God. It is not true. It does not heal. And it does not belong in the hearts of people who are trying—often sincerely—to live faithful lives.

That burden is not from God. It is not true. It does not heal. And it does not belong in the hearts of people who are trying—often sincerely—to live faithful lives.

From Precision to Control

Over time, fornication was flattened into a catch-all term for any non-marital sexual expression. What once named grotesque, idolatrous exploitation became a label casually applied to ordinary human development.

This shift accelerated through purity culture, which framed virginity as moral currency and enforced it through fear, silence, and shame. Women were taught that their bodies caused men to sin. Men were excused as helpless victims of desire. Grace was promised to the “pure” and withheld from everyone else.

Few modern issues illustrate this confusion more clearly than the religious treatment of masturbation—an act never explicitly addressed in Scripture, yet often framed as a defining moral failure. The arguments used to condemn it rely on the same linguistic overreach and theological assumptions examined here. A fuller treatment of that subject deserves its own careful attention and will be addressed separately.

Silence has not protected holiness. It has protected systems. And too many people have paid the price.

The Human Cost

When normal human development is framed as moral failure, shame takes root. Survivors of abuse feel permanently damaged. Young people learn to hide rather than heal. Faith becomes performance, and God begins to resemble a judge tallying infractions rather than a Father pursuing restoration.

This is not theoretical. I have watched people crushed under guilt for things Scripture never names as sin—while behaviors Scripture explicitly condemns, such as exploitation and abuse of power, are ignored or excused.

Something has gone terribly wrong when language meant to confront dehumanization is redirected toward ordinary people searching for wholeness.

Holiness Without Harm

Paul warned against excess, exploitation, and behaviors that destroy community. He also insisted that not everything lawful is profitable. Marriage offers stability, depth, and covenantal clarity. None of this needs to be discarded.

What must be discarded is the habit of calling something sin that Scripture itself does not call sin.

If you are carrying shame handed to you by religion, hear this clearly: you are not broken goods. You are not defined by your past. But you may still be carrying wounds—real ones—caused by words spoken in God’s name that God never spoke Himself.

Healing does not happen simply because a theological knot has been untied. Shame lingers in the body. Fear echoes in memory. Trust, once fractured, takes time to rebuild—sometimes even trust in God. If you feel anger, grief, or exhaustion when reading this, that does not mean you lack faith. It means something sacred was mishandled.

God is not impatient with this reckoning. He is not waiting for you to “get over it,” clean yourself up, or arrive at perfect clarity. The God revealed in Scripture meets people in confusion, disappointment, and unresolved tension. He walks with those who have been hurt by religion—not just those who have been helped by it.

This work is not an endpoint. It is an invitation—to breathe again, to question honestly, to release burdens that were never yours to carry, and to begin separating the voice of God from the noise that surrounded it.

Truth, handled honestly, does not bind people.
It sets them free.

References

  1. Strabo, Geography, Book 8.6.20 (Corinthian temple prostitution).
  2. Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, “The Corinth That Saint Paul Saw,” The Biblical Archaeologist, 1984.
  3. Hosea 4:10–14 (idolatry described as whoredom).
  4. Deuteronomy 23:17–18 (prohibition of temple prostitution).
  5. Leviticus 18; Leviticus 20 (forbidden kinship unions).
  6. 1 Corinthians 6:15–19 (body as God’s temple).
  7. BDAG Lexicon, entry on porneia.
  8. Matthew 15:19; Mark 7:21 (porneia in Jesus’ teaching).
  9. Galatians 5:19; Ephesians 5:3–5 (Pauline vice lists).
  10. Deuteronomy 22:13–21 (virginity and marriage laws).
  11. Proverbs 6:29–35 (adultery as theft and betrayal).
  12. Exodus 20:14,17 (adultery and coveting).
  13. Matthew 5:27–28 (lust and adultery).
  14. 2 Samuel 11 (David and Bathsheba).
  15. Genesis 2:24; 1 Corinthians 6:16–20 (sexual union).
  16. Kyle Harper, “Porneia: The Making of a Christian Sexual Norm,” Journal of Biblical Literature, 2012.
  17. Linda Kay Klein, Pure, 2018.
  18. Joshua Harris, I Kissed Dating Goodbye, 1997 (later retracted).
  19. Elizabeth Esther, Girl at the End of the World, 2014.
  20. Nadia Bolz-Weber, Shameless, 2019.
  21. American Psychological Association, religious stigma and mental health.

Joy (When Happiness Has Left the Room)

Joy (When Happiness Has Left the Room)

Joy (When Happiness Has Left the Room)

Daily Light
Joy (When Happiness Has Left the Room)
A quiet joy that sorrow cannot steal.
🔊
Listen to the Devotional
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Paul wrote one of the most joyful letters in the New Testament from a Roman prison.

Not a metaphor.
Not a season of discouragement.
A cell. Chains. Waiting.

And from that place, he wrote words that sound almost unreasonable unless we slow down and listen carefully.

“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice.”
Philippians 4:4

For years, I read that verse as a command to feel something I often didn’t feel.

When life was heavy, it sounded distant.
When prayers went unanswered, it sounded unrealistic.

But Paul wasn’t writing from comfort.
He was writing from honesty.

Biblically, joy is not the absence of sorrow.
It’s what sorrow doesn’t get to steal.

Scripture never pretends sorrow doesn’t exist.

Paul doesn’t deny his suffering.
He doesn’t sanitize prison.
He doesn’t rush past grief.

Instead, he places joy inside it.

Joy isn’t the removal of pain.
It’s the refusal to let pain become the deepest truth.

“The Lord is near.”
Philippians 4:5

That single sentence carries more weight than we often realize.

Joy is not optimism about circumstances.
It’s confidence in presence.

The Bible never treats joy and sorrow as opposites.

“Consider it pure joy… whenever you face trials of many kinds.”
James 1:2

Not because trials are good.
Not because suffering should be celebrated.

But because trials don’t get the final word.

Joy doesn’t cancel grief.
It coexists with it.

Sometimes joy is loud and visible.
More often, it’s quiet—almost stubborn—refusing to leave even when everything else feels unstable.

And this is where many of us quietly wear ourselves out.

We’ve been taught—sometimes unintentionally—that joy is something we must produce.
That if it’s missing, we’re failing.

But Scripture says otherwise.

“The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace…”
Galatians 5:22

Fruit grows.
It isn’t forced.

If joy is missing, the solution is not trying harder—
it’s checking what we’re rooted in.

Joy doesn’t come from effort.
It comes from connection.

Sometimes what looks like a lack of joy is actually exhaustion.
Or grief.
Or the slow death of expectations we once thought were essential to faith.

Here’s something I’ve learned slowly.

Joy often shows up after illusions collapse.

After prayers don’t turn out the way we hoped.
After faith becomes quieter and less certain.
After formulas stop working.

Paul didn’t rejoice because prison made sense.
He rejoiced because God was still present inside what didn’t.

“I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation…”
Philippians 4:12

The secret wasn’t toughness.
It wasn’t denial.
It was relationship.

Joy is not the feeling that everything is right.
It’s the confidence that something deeper still is.

And if you’ve been told to “choose joy” and felt guilty for not being able to…
this isn’t a call to perform better.

It’s an invitation to rest closer.

Joy grows where presence is trusted,
not where pain is ignored.
🙏
A Prayer

Father,

some of us are tired of chasing happiness.
Some of us are weary from pretending we’re okay.

Teach us the kind of joy that doesn’t require denial—
the kind that sorrow cannot steal.

Not joy rooted in outcomes,
but joy rooted in You.

Meet us where we are.
And let Your nearness be enough.

Amen.

© Gentleman Outlaw • Strength with Integrity. Boldness with Grace.
What Faith Looks Like After Unanswered Prayers

What Faith Looks Like After Unanswered Prayers

What Faith Looks Like After Unanswered Prayers

Daily Light
What Faith Looks Like After Unanswered Prayers

There is a small book in Scripture that most people have never read.
Not because it isn’t important—but because it isn’t comforting in the way we often want the Bible to be.

The book is Habakkuk.

Habakkuk lived in a time when his world was coming apart. Violence was rising. Justice was twisted. Corruption was no longer hidden—it was normal. Those who tried to live righteously were often the ones who suffered most.

He looked around and saw what many of us see today, even if our circumstances look different on the surface.

We may not be living through national invasion.
Our cities may not be burning.
Our grocery stores may still be full.

And yet…

Children still die.
Godly men and women still lose everything.
Health still fails.
Finances still collapse.
Injustice still wins far too often.

If you lived in Venezuela today, Habakkuk’s words might feel painfully familiar.
But even here—in quieter, more hidden ways—many of us live inside the same ache.

Habakkuk doesn’t write like a theologian.
He writes like a man who has reached the end of his explanations.

He does what righteous people are taught to do—he cries out to God.

Not politely.
Not quietly.
Honestly.

“How long, Lord, must I call for help,
but you do not listen?”
Habakkuk 1:2

This isn’t rebellion.
This is prayer.

Habakkuk asks for justice.
He pleads for mercy.
He begs God to intervene—to stop the bleeding, to fix what is broken, to rescue his people before it’s too late.

And God answers him.

But the answer is not what anyone hopes for.

God essentially says, I see it. I am acting. And it’s going to get worse.

Judgment is coming. Invasion. Collapse. Loss.
Everything Habakkuk fears will still happen.

This is not silence.
This is clarity without relief.

Habakkuk prays again. He questions again. He struggles openly with what God has said. He does not hide his confusion or soften his pain.

And then—without understanding, without agreement, without any promise of rescue—he waits.

“I will stand at my watch…
and look to see what he will say to me.”
Habakkuk 2:1

Nothing changes.

There is no late miracle.
No angel at the last moment.
No explanation that makes it all make sense.

The book ends not with rescue—but with resolve.

Habakkuk speaks words that sound poetic to us, but were devastating in his world:

“Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines…
though there are no sheep in the pen
and no cattle in the stalls…”
Habakkuk 3:17

This is not metaphor.

This is economic collapse.
This is famine.
This is men starving, families losing everything, people taken into slavery, a nation being erased.

This is the prayer of a righteous man that goes unanswered—except for one terrible truth:

I’m sorry. It’s going to get worse.

And this is where Habakkuk’s faith finally speaks:

“Yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
I will be joyful in God my Savior.”
Habakkuk 3:18

Not because things improved.
Not because God fixed it.
Not because the story turned around.

But because God was still God.

This is what faith looks like after unanswered prayers.

It looks like crying out for a child—and losing them anyway.
It looks like begging God to heal—and waking up to the same diagnosis.
It looks like pleading for financial relief—and watching the numbers stay broken.
It looks like praying for justice—and learning you may never see it in this lifetime.

It looks like trusting God when the only honest answer you’ve received is:

I’m here… but this will still hurt.

The psalmist said it without dressing it up:

“My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever.”
Psalm 73:26

That is not victory language.
That is survival faith.

And long before Habakkuk, another righteous man said something just as unsettling:

“Though he slay me, yet will I trust him.”
Job 13:15

Not because God explained Himself.
But because faith does not always require answers—it sometimes requires endurance.

This kind of faith is not loud.
It doesn’t preach well.
It doesn’t wrap things up neatly.

But it stays.

And sometimes, staying is the truest worship there is.

A quiet question to sit with:
What if faith isn’t proven by what God fixes…
but by who we trust when He doesn’t?
A closing prayer:
Lord,
Some of our prayers were never answered.
Some were answered with silence.
Some were answered with pain.

Teach us the kind of faith that remains—
not because we understand,
but because we trust Your heart.

When our flesh and our hearts fail,
be the strength of our hearts
and our portion forever.

Amen.

Not a Reset Button

Not a Reset Button

Not a Reset Button

Not a Reset Button

Listen to the Devotional

Press play… and let this settle in.

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The sun was barely up.
The water was still.

Peter stood on the shore with the others, tired in the bones.

Not long ago, he had been certain of himself. Loud. Ready.
“I’ll die with You,” he said.

But then came the night he still couldn’t shake.

A courtyard.
A charcoal fire.
A girl’s voice asking a question that suddenly felt dangerous to answer.

And Peter did the thing he swore he never would.

Three times.

“The servant girl saw him as he sat by the fire and looked intently at him and said, ‘This man was also with him.’ But he denied him…”
“And after an interval of about an hour still another insisted, saying, ‘Certainly this man also was with him…’ But Peter said, ‘Man, I do not know what you are talking about.’ And immediately, while he was still speaking, the rooster crowed.”
“And the Lord turned and looked at Peter.”

—Luke 22:56–61

After that, life kept moving—but Peter didn’t feel like he was moving forward.
So he went back to fishing.
Not because he loved it… but because it didn’t ask him any questions.


Then, a voice from the shore.

A familiar instruction.
A net suddenly heavy with fish.

When they reached land, Jesus already had a fire burning.

Not a throne.
Not a lecture.
A charcoal fire.

The same kind of fire Peter had stood beside when everything fell apart.

Jesus didn’t pretend it never happened.
He didn’t shame him either.

He fed him first.

“Come and eat.”

Only after breakfast—only after warmth and food—did Jesus ask the question.

Not once.
Three times.

“When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, ‘Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?’ He said to him, ‘Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.’ He said to him, ‘Feed my lambs.’”
“He said to him a second time, ‘Simon, son of John, do you love me?’ He said to him, ‘Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.’ He said to him, ‘Tend my sheep.’”
“He said to him the third time, ‘Simon, son of John, do you love me?’ Peter was grieved because he said to him the third time, ‘Do you love me?’ and he said to him, ‘Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Feed my sheep.’”

—John 21:15–17

Peter didn’t get a reset button.
He got restoration.


A lot of us treat the new year like a reset button.
As if God is more willing on January 1 than He was yesterday.

But Jesus met Peter on an ordinary morning—with yesterday still clinging to him.

And maybe that’s what you need to hear.

God doesn’t wait for you to become impressive.
He comes close at the place you failed.
He builds a fire there.
And He feeds you there.

Maybe you’re walking into this year carrying something you hoped would be gone by now.
A regret.
A pattern.
A quiet disappointment in yourself.

And underneath it all, a fear you barely let yourself name:

“Maybe I’ve messed this up too many times.”

Peter didn’t step back into life because he proved his strength.
He stepped back in because Jesus restored his love.

Religion says, “New year, new you—don’t mess this up.”
Jesus says, “Come and eat.”

Then, gently:

“Do you love Me?”

Not, “Did you meet your goals?”
Not, “Did you fix everything?”
Just… “Do you love Me?”

And if you do—even with trembling—
He doesn’t discard you.

He gives you your next faithful step.

This year doesn’t begin with your promises.
It begins with His invitation:

Come and eat… and follow Me.

Jesus,
I bring You what I’m carrying into this new year—
the hopes, the fear, the unfinished places.


Meet me at my charcoal fire.
Feed me where I feel weak.
Restore my love where shame has tried to hollow me out.


I don’t want to perform for You.
I want to follow You.


Give me light for the next step.
Amen.

Before you scroll—pause for a moment.


Whisper, “Jesus, I love You.”
Then ask, “What’s my next step?”


And if someone you love is walking into this year heavy…
send this to them and say, “No shame. Just come and eat.”