SAYS FYL

Throughout history people have been marking their homes, bodies, or belongings with visible signs. During World War II, French Resistance fighters hung white sheets from windows to signal Allied forces. Simple yet dangerous since the wrong eyes could have cost them their lives. They hung them anyway, because conviction outweighed fear. On the Underground Railroad, a lit lantern on a porch or a quilt hung in a certain pattern was a sign for the weary traveler to rest there in safety. In the AIDS crisis, when stigma silenced compassion, a tiny red ribbon worn on a lapel spoke of solidarity. Signs like these are never just about the sign. They are about allegiance. About identity, hope, courage.

It was the same that ominous night in Egypt. God’s people, enslaved for generations, were preparing for something unthinkable—the final plague, the risk of death to firstborns. Then came God’s strange command: “Take the blood of a lamb, and put it on the doorposts and lintel of your home.” Just blood on the stone posts. Nothing decorative, nothing hidden. It was a public sign of obedience, identity, trust.

It was a risky act of faith for the Egyptian overlords and security guards could have seen and retaliated. But those who obeyed—who marked their doorposts—were covered by God’s promise.

A mark for all to see

Archaeology tells us that homes in ancient Egypt—even those of Hebrew slaves—had stone lintels and doorposts, while the rest of the house was mud brick. Stone against mud made the frames stand out, whether the door was shut or not. There was no way to keep the blood smears secret or camouflaged. It was visible—for every passerby to see and probably smell as well. It was a bold act of obedience, a public declaration of a private faith.

There was no hiding behind those doors. And there shouldn’t be with mine either. Who I am on the inside should match what you see on the outside—there should be no disconnect, no contradiction between what I profess and what I practice. I should wear my faith with conviction, splashed on the doorposts of my life, woven into the beat of my heart. One in sync with the other.

But too often, our faith is politely private. We say “amen” in prayer but stay silent when injustice knocks. We read the Bible at home but compromise at work. We sing hymns in church but honk in traffic. And still we hope people will somehow “just know” we’re Christian.

Showing up!

Where can we put our faith on display—not to show off, but to show up? Showing off is loud, performative, driven by pride. It’s the Pharisee praying for applause. It’s posting verses as decoration, not conviction. It points to self, not to the Savior. Showing up is quieter—but more powerful. It’s being the same person in your email as you are in your prayer. Speaking up when it’s easier to blend in. Forgiving in private. Giving without posting. Praying without a platform.

When the Israelites painted their doorposts, they weren’t making a scene. They were making a stand. James 2 urges us toward a faith that’s active—not because works save us, but because real faith always shows up on the outside. It spills into conversations. It seeps into decisions. It colors the way we love, forgive, serve, and sacrifice.

In our homes, what atmosphere do we create for our family and guests? In our public life,  how do we treat the cashier, the delivery driver, the person who cuts us off. In our private habits, where does our time go, what are the causes we support, the words we choose?

Our doorposts

Maybe it’s time to inspect your doorposts. Are they blank with polite neutrality? Are they camouflaged to blend in? Or are they boldly, lovingly, unmistakably marked—inside and out—by a faith that’s real? Because when we live marked lives, there’s no confusion about whom we follow.

And in a world starving for authenticity and desperate for hope, our doorpost might just be the sign that leads someone home.

_{Feature image created using AI tools.}