These, and similar attitudes demonstrate an American mindset of self-reliance, but are they truly aligned with a Christian mindset?

Our family is in the long and draining process of adoption. We have been blessed with careers that have provided more than enough. I was skeptical of the need to participate in fundraising efforts due to God’s prior and continuing generosity toward us. There was a feeling of guilt describing our fundraising project and the fundraising organization as we recruited volunteers to. My best argument for doing the fundraiser was each dollar donated was one less dollar from our savings which would be available to invest in our child once the adoption process was finalized. I am self-sufficient…

This mentality I often fall into misses the point of living in Christian community and the Holy Spirit gifting present found therein. It’s easy for me to fall into the trap of material accumulation of assets by my family and the ability to distribute them as we are led by the Spirit. This fulfills what Paul says: "It is more blessed to give than to receive" (Acts 20:35), not only because of what it does for the giver, but because of how it builds up the community. It wasn’t until I had a conversation with a friend who said, “Don’t deny the people the joy of giving” that I realized how a self-sufficient mindset can deny others in Christian community the opportunity to be generous.

Don't deny people the joy of giving.

More Than Giving

Christians are called to practice generosity for its own sake (Proverbs 11:25; 22:9; Luke 6:32–36; 2 Corinthians 9:11), with no expectation of reward in this life beyond the joy of giving. My mentality of not wanting to be a mooch, sponge, or dependent on others works against the community of Christ followers illustrated in Acts chapter 4. My mentality prevents the body from being fully developed, as the community of believers is not allowed to joyfully flourish in giving and distinguish itself from non-believers. I am preventing the edification of fellow believers by not providing them the opportunity to use their gifts by denying myself. Echoes of this are in the letter to the Ephesians in the second chapter of Revelation. This isn't Paul's admonition against idleness in 2 Thessalonians 3, as I have the ability to do and be. It is a discussion on my desire to do at the expense of other believers’ giftings.

Asking, Seeking, Knocking

As I was reflecting on the conversation on not denying other’s ability to give, my mind came back to the Sermon on the Mount, specifically Matthew 7:7-12. This section on asking, seeking, and knocking is one I have often read through a lens of asking God the Father and him alone as I don’t see it in a communal setting. The provision will ultimately come from God. More often than not, the delivery service will be other believers. Each believer is endowed with gifts, but those gifts can only come to full bloom when they are allowed to develop, which requires me to allow others to help.

With so many ways to financially give in our modern life and requests for many worthy causes, our society can be spoilt for choice when it comes to giving. The U.S. tax code embeds a desire to be a generous nation with the tax deductibility of charitable donations. I have found myself losing the joy of giving when I focus on reaping the benefits of a lower tax bill instead of just giving for its own sake. This is not to criticize tax policy and the societal benefits such a policy encourages. Rather, it’s a reminder to avoid the trap Jesus warns about in Matthew 6 and reap joy as a fruit of the Spirit by cheerfully giving. Not only can I not fully reap the joy God desires us to experience, but don’t fully connect with who/what I’m giving to.

As I get older, time is increasingly more precious and it’s easier to write a check or Venmo than to provide time. Over the years, I have been involved with various mentoring programs in different facets. The current student I’m mentoring didn’t necessarily ask for my help. Those that knew him cared deeply about his future knew he needed assistance. I’ve gained much from our time together simply by being present in his life. I miss our time together during the summer months and hearing how he is working toward, and achieving, his goals. Our time this fall will take on a different meaning given the conversation I had with a friend on not denying others the ability to give joyfully.

Whether it's giving time, money, or attention, people want to be involved in the lives of others. We often hear stories of people who never stepped forward simply because they were never asked. We are created for participation and belonging. In fact, our need to be included is so deeply woven into us that social exclusion can register in the brain much like physical pain.1 First Corinthians 12 reminds us that every member of Christ's body has been gifted by the Holy Spirit for the good of the whole. While generosity isn't the focus of the chapter, the principle still applies. The body is healthiest when every member is free to use the gifts God has given. When we refuse to receive, we may unintentionally deny others the opportunity to participate with joy.

Receiving Is Also Faith

I come back to the idea of asking, seeking, and knocking from Matthew 7. Jesus clearly wants us to rely on the Father for things we need. The flip side to this is not to be afraid to ask our fellow believers. Not in the manner of being idle, not in the manner of being a mooch, but in the manner of realizing that His grace is sufficient.

How are we as a body of Christ creating a culture of giving? Especially in a world where giving is not as visible as it was ten years ago due to the rise of scheduled electronic giving?

While I don’t have all the answers to this, it’s a question we as the body of Christ need to be comfortable asking ourselves as we begin to embrace a renewed sense of community and involve fellow believers in contributing to the various needs of His church.

When we allow others to serve us, we aren't diminishing ourselves - we're strengthening the body of Christ.

The call to be counter-cultural has not stopped.

Guest essay by Ross Pruitt.

Ross Pruitt is an agricultural economist and stay-at-home dad. He was a professor at two different universities over the course of sixteen years, working with students, agricultural producers, and media to improve their understanding of economic and market insights. When he’s not watching his two-and-a-half-year-old son, he’s patiently waiting for the birth of his soon-to-be adopted child. He spends some of his free time refereeing soccer and being told he’s “the worst referee ever.”

Sister Act is one of my favorite movies.

I love the humor, the old nuns, and of course, the singing. I have absolutely jammed to “I Will Follow Him” while driving to work. It is, I should say, a particularly fun song to be singing and dancing to when someone is sitting at the red light beside you. (Nothing to see here, folks.)

In one of the most memorable scenes, the choir has been reworked, the music comes alive, and suddenly the church sounds different. Reverend Mother isn’t thrilled, but the sound spills out onto the street. People hear it. They stop. And before long, they start flooding into the church.

It’s a great movie moment.

It’s also a myth the church has quietly believed for a long time.

If the music were just better, more modern or compelling…
If the method were just a little more polished, a little more emotionally resonant, a little more relevant, then people would come.

Most churches would never say it that bluntly, of course. But it’s there in the way we talk, the way we plan, and sometimes the way we panic. We tweak the set list, tighten the transitions, improve the production, update the stage, and hope the room fills up.

To be clear, music matters. Beauty and excellence matter. I’m not saying they don’t. A congregation that sings with conviction is a powerful thing. But I think the church has often asked music to do something the New Testament never asks of it.

We’ve treated it as though it were the engine of church growth.

The data suggests otherwise. Music matters to some people, but it is rarely the whole story and often not the primary one. Research on why people choose a church tends to place preaching, doctrine, authenticity, relationships, and a sense of belonging near the top of the list, with worship style serving as one factor among several rather than the decisive one.1 In other words, people may notice the music. But they tend to stay for something deeper.

I find that fascinating. But it also points to a larger issue.

The goal of congregational worship is not to create a product attractive enough to fill a room. It is to form a people who love God, love one another, and bear witness to the gospel together.

That is a very different ambition.

We’ve Been Circling This Question All Along

By now, the deeper issue in this series should be fairly clear.

From the beginning, I’ve been writing about more than music.

In the first article, I traced some of the history of Christian singing and tried to show that the church has always wrestled with how to help ordinary people participate. In the second, I argued that the real historical question hasn’t primarily been about instruments but about participation. In the third and fourth, I tried to explore what makes a song “ours” and why singing matters as one of the ways the church teaches, encourages, and carries one another.

So Part 5 isn’t a pivot away from the rest of the series. It’s really the place where all of those threads come together.

Because the deeper question underneath all of them has always been this:

What are our gatherings forming people into?

The Church Has Always Known Worship Shapes Worshipers

One recurring idea throughout this series has been that worship practices shape worshipers.

As I’ve written previously, the way we pray teaches people what prayer is. The way we preach teaches people what Scripture is. The way we celebrate communion teaches people what communion is.

The way we sing teaches people what worship is.

But that principle extends beyond singing.
Everything we do together teaches.

It teaches what we value. It teaches what we expect. It teaches what we believe is normal. Over time, our habits become our instincts.

That is why the history matters.

When Christians used responsorial and antiphonal singing, they were not simply experimenting with musical form. They were helping the whole congregation participate. When Luther wrote chorales in the language of the people, he was not merely trying to modernize worship. He was trying to hand the songs back to the church. When Calvin’s congregations sang Psalms to a small body of familiar tunes, or when revivalists wrote repeated refrains that ordinary people could learn quickly, the point was not novelty for its own sake. It was participation. It was memory. It was formation.2

Again and again, the church has changed methods in order to help ordinary believers sing.

And just as often, the church has discovered how easily the congregation can drift from participation to observation.

That tension did not begin with modern worship music.

It has been with us for a very long time.

The Real Question Was Never Just Musical

But even that still doesn’t get us to the deepest question.

Why did the church keep trying to help ordinary people sing?
Why did it matter so much that the congregation had a voice?

I think the answer is found in the way Paul talks about worship in Ephesians 5 and Colossians 3.

Growing up in Churches of Christ, I often saw those passages used as prooftexts against instrumental music. Whether someone agreed or disagreed with those conclusions, the focus usually centered on how Christians should sing.

But I don’t think that’s Paul’s primary concern.

In Ephesians 5, Paul is describing what life looks like when believers are filled with the Spirit. In Colossians 3, he is describing what happens when the word of Christ dwells richly among God’s people.

Then he says:

“…speaking to one another with psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit…” (Ephesians 5:19)

And again:

“…teaching and admonishing one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit…” (Colossians 3:16)

The songs aren’t isolated commands. They are woven into the life of the community.

Paul isn’t primarily explaining music. He’s describing a church.

Singing is one of the ways believers encourage one another, teach one another, admonish one another, and proclaim truth together.

That is why it is so important to have participation. Not because participation is an end in itself. Not because a full room singing loudly is the goal. But because congregational worship is one of the ways the Holy Spirit forms a people into the likeness of Christ.

What Worship Is Supposed to Produce

That, I think, is the question churches need to ask more often.

Not simply:

• Was the service engaging?

• Did the praise team “gel?”

• Did the band sound good?

• Were the transitions smooth?

• Did people like the songs?

• Did the room feel energized?

Those questions are not meaningless. They’re just not the most important ones.

The deeper question is this: Who are we becoming?

Worship is part of spiritual formation. It is one of the ways the Holy Spirit shapes a people, teaching us what to love, what to desire, what to expect, and what it looks like to live together as the body of Christ.

Are our gatherings forming people who know how to praise God when life is good and when it is hard? Are they forming people who know how to confess sin, tell the truth, bear burdens, forgive one another, and listen to Scripture with humility? Are they forming people who know how to sing, not just when they feel inspired, but when the person beside them needs help believing the gospel that day? Are they forming consumers of religious experiences, or participants in the life of the church?

That is the real issue.

More Than an Experience

I sometimes wonder if churches have become remarkably good at producing worship experiences.

But God did not ask the church to produce experiences. He asked the church to make disciples.

Those are not always the same thing.

Disciples encourage one another. Bear one another’s burdens. Confess sin. Forgive freely. Serve humbly. Speak truth. Sing truth. Carry one another when faith grows weak.

Those things do not happen because we found the perfect worship style. They happen because the Holy Spirit forms people into the likeness of Christ. And worship is one of His primary tools.

That means the goal of Christian worship is not simply to create a moving moment, a polished service, or even a memorable Sunday.

The goal of Christian worship is a more Christlike church.

Finding Our Voice

The title of this series has been Finding Our Voice.

I no longer think that voice is simply heard in congregational singing, though it certainly includes it.

I think it is heard whenever the church becomes recognizably the church.

When people pray together.
When they confess together.
When they rejoice and grieve together.
When they gather around the Lord’s Table.
When they sing to one another.
When they leave to love their neighbors.

That is the voice the world needs to hear.

Not a flawless performance. Not perfect production.

A people whose lives have been shaped by Jesus.

If this series has had one central conviction, it is this: Worship is not something we attend. It is something that forms us.

And when the church remembers that, it does not merely find its voice.

It becomes the kind of people God intended all along.

The Question That Wouldn’t Go Away

I first started asking this question in high school.

A group of Christian students from several churches in our small town decided to start a recurring youth gathering. Every few months, one of the churches would host the event, but we always met at the high school on a Saturday morning. The idea was simple: bring Christian students together to worship and encourage one another.

When it was the Baptist church’s turn to host, they brought a worship band. That was unfamiliar territory for me (remember a cappella Church of Christ kid). At one point during an instrumental interlude, the girl leading worship stopped singing and simply held his hands out while the band played on. I had no idea what she expected everyone else to do. So I decided to put my hands out to the side, too.

She and I. Arms out. Praising Jesus. I guess.

A few months later, it was our turn. I was asked to lead the singing. I’d spent plenty of time leading worship at camps and youth rallies, so I assumed this would be no different. It turned out to be one of the most frustrating experiences I’d had as a song leader. These weren’t campers who had spent a week singing together. They were my classmates.

I started with a few fun songs to loosen everyone up. Almost no one sang. Then I moved to songs with more substance, hoping that would change things. It didn’t. People stood quietly. A few mumbled the words. Most simply watched.

I left that morning carrying a question that has stayed with me ever since: why aren’t they singing?

At the time, I assumed it must have been a musical problem. Maybe I’d chosen the wrong songs. Maybe the keys were off. Maybe I wasn’t a very good song leader. Looking back, I think I was asking the wrong question. The better question wasn’t why they weren’t singing. The better question was what had already shaped their understanding of what worship was supposed to be.

We’ve Been Asking the Wrong Question

For years, I assumed weak congregational singing was primarily a musical problem: songs that were too difficult, too high, too unfamiliar, or arrangements too complicated. Those questions matter. But over time, I began to wonder if they were secondary.

The better question isn’t simply, Why aren’t people singing? The better question is, What have we been teaching people worship is?

As I’ve written previously, the way we pray teaches people what prayer is. The way we preach teaches people what Scripture is. The way we celebrate communion teaches people what communion is. The way we sing teaches people what worship is. Every gathering forms us. Every practice disciples us. Which means conversations about congregational singing are ultimately conversations about spiritual formation.

Christians Have Always Tried to Help People Sing

One of the things that surprised me while studying the history of Christian worship is how much effort previous generations devoted to helping ordinary people participate.

Early Christians appear to have sung in ways that made participation natural. Historical evidence points to responsorial singing, where a leader sang, and the congregation responded, and antiphonal singing, where one group answered another. These weren’t merely artistic choices; they removed barriers and invited the whole church to join in.1

Later, during the Reformation, Martin Luther intentionally wrote simple chorales in the language of the people. His melodies fit comfortably within the range of ordinary voices because he believed worship belonged to the congregation, not only to trained musicians. John Calvin took a different approach, insisting that congregations sing the Psalms primarily, but even then, those Psalms were paired with a relatively small number of familiar tunes. The goal wasn’t constant musical novelty. It was helping the church carry God’s Word in its memory.2

Even the structure of many hymns reflected this same desire. Countless texts were written in Common Meter (8.6.8.6), allowing multiple hymns to be sung to the same familiar melodies. Once people knew the tune, they could focus on the words instead of learning new music every week. Then came the revival movements, where many people attending camp meetings couldn’t read music, and some couldn’t read at all. So revivalists wrote memorable refrains, repeated choruses, and melodies that could be learned after hearing them only once or twice. Critics often dismissed those songs as simplistic. Perhaps they were. But the people sang.3

Across two thousand years of church history, the methods changed dramatically. Christians borrowed melodies from their culture, translated songs into the language of the people, simplified complex music, and taught new texts to familiar tunes. The methods changed because cultures changed. The mission remained remarkably consistent: help the church sing.

Reading Paul Again

This is one reason I’ve come to read Ephesians 5 and Colossians 3 differently than I once did.

Growing up in Churches of Christ, those passages were often discussed in conversations about instrumental music. Whether someone agreed or disagreed with those conclusions, the focus usually centered on how Christians should sing. But I no longer think that’s Paul’s primary concern.

Look at the context. In Ephesians 5, Paul isn’t writing about worship styles. He’s describing what life looks like when believers are filled with the Spirit. In Colossians 3, he isn’t trying to settle a debate about music. He’s describing what happens when the word of Christ dwells richly among God’s people. Then he writes:

“...speaking to one another with psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit...” (Ephesians 5:19)

And again:

“...teaching and admonishing one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit...” (Colossians 3:16)

The songs aren’t isolated commands. They’re woven into the life of the community. Paul isn’t primarily explaining music; he’s describing a church. Singing is one of the ways believers encourage one another, teach one another, admonish one another, and proclaim truth together. When we reduce these passages to debates about a cappella singing or instrumental music, we unintentionally make them smaller than Paul intended. His vision is much larger: a Spirit-filled community ministering to itself through song.

Participants or Spectators?

This is why I don’t think the conversation is ultimately about musical style. I’ve heard deeply participatory worship led by bands. I’ve also experienced a cappella churches where very few people actually sang. I’ve worshiped in churches with organs, orchestras, choirs, praise teams, and a single guitar where congregations sang with remarkable conviction. The issue has never really been the instrument, nor has it been the style.

The deeper issue has always been participation, not because participation is the goal, but because participation forms us. Every time the church sings together, we rehearse the gospel. We remind one another who God is. We declare truths that someone else may barely have the strength to believe that morning. Sometimes the person beside you is singing for you until your own faith catches up. That’s far more than music. That’s discipleship.

Juanita

There was a woman in our congregation named Juanita. She was ninety-nine years old and had lived one of the most remarkable lives I’ve ever encountered. Talking with her was a little like talking with Forrest Gump. Somehow, she seemed to have a front-row seat to history. She remembered hearing Franklin Roosevelt on the radio the day after Pearl Harbor. She had been married young and widowed young. Her father encouraged her to become a pharmacist because, during the Depression, pharmacists always seemed to have work. She took his advice, built a remarkable career, and never stopped learning.

By the time I knew her, Juanita was mostly homebound, spending her days in a hospital bed in her daughter’s house. But there was one thing that hadn’t dimmed: she loved to sing. Her favorite hymn was Count Your Blessings, and she knew every word.

When we heard she wasn’t doing well, several of us from the church staff went to visit her. She woke up when we arrived, turned toward us, and started visiting as though we’d simply stopped by for coffee.

Then we started singing.

Something changed. She lit up in a way that our conversation alone hadn’t reached. The songs did something our words couldn’t.

Juanita lived to celebrate her one-hundredth birthday before she went home to the Lord. At her funeral, we sang Count Your Blessings.

I’ve thought about those two moments many times. What happened in that bedroom, and what happened again at her funeral, wasn’t a performance. It was the church doing exactly what Paul described: speaking to one another, teaching and admonishing one another, and encouraging one another. We carried Juanita in song when she needed carrying, and then we sent her home the same way.

When I think back to that Saturday morning in high school, I realize I was trying to solve a musical problem. I thought better songs, better leadership, or a better key might encourage people to sing. Now I’m not so sure. People don’t become participatory worshipers because someone finds the perfect song. They become participatory worshipers because, week after week and year after year, they’ve learned that singing is one of the ways the church ministers to itself. That’s what I was missing then, and I suspect it’s what many of us are still recovering today.

Finding Our Voice

My concern isn’t that churches sing contemporary worship songs. My concern isn’t that churches use instruments. My concern isn’t even that worship has become more professional. My concern is much simpler: are our gatherings forming people into participants?

Because if Paul is right, congregational singing has never merely been about making music. It has always been about building the church. The church has always been at its best when its people sang - not because they were musicians, but because they belonged to one another. That’s why I still believe congregational singing matters. Not because every song is perfect. Not because every voice is beautiful. But because, in singing together, the church becomes what God intended it to be: a people who teach, encourage, strengthen, and carry one another with the truth of the gospel.

That’s what I was beginning to discover as a confused teenager standing in a high school auditorium. It’s what Juanita reminded me of nearly thirty years later. And it’s why I believe finding our voice is still worth pursuing.

Next in the Series

Part 5: What Are We Trying to Form?

If every worship practice disciples us, what kind of disciples are our gatherings producing? We’ll conclude the series by asking what faithful, participatory worship is ultimately meant to form.

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Singing around a Table

A few years ago, I found myself sitting around a table with a group of ministers at the home of Bob Russell, the longtime minister of Southeast Christian Church.

Bob hosts preacher retreats several times a year to encourage and equip ministers. At this particular retreat, there were eight preachers representing several traditions, Bob and another instructor, and several volunteers who helped make the retreat possible. It was a genuinely diverse group.

On the final evening, Bob invited us to his home for dinner.

After dinner, we all sat around the table and Bob led us in a discussion meant to help us talk about ourselves. Favorite movies, favorite TV shows, etc. Then we turned to music - particularly worship music.

We began talking about songs that had shaped us over the years—favorite hymns, favorite worship songs, songs that had stayed with us long after Sunday morning was over.

Someone mentioned “Goodness of God.” Another mentioned “Gratitude.” Someone would begin to sing the chorus of one of those, and we’d all join in. Simple melodies with rich lyrics.

As the conversation continued, one hymn kept coming up: It Is Well With My Soul.

At some point, Bob looked across the table and said, “Robin, you’re an a cappella guy. Can you lead us in that song?”

So there we were, an eclectic group of Jesus followers from different backgrounds and experiences. Preachers, professors, volunteers, and friends from different traditions. There were no screens, no hymnals, and no accompaniment. Just voices.

And everyone joined in.

We sang all the verses.

When we finished, there was a feeling in the room that is difficult to describe. It was one of those moments that remind you why congregational singing matters.

Looking back, I’ve often wondered what made that moment so meaningful.

Part of it was the song itself. Part of it was the people around the table. Part of it was the memories attached to the words.

But another part was much simpler: everyone knew it.

Several of the songs we discussed were contemporary worship songs, and one was a hymn written more than a century ago. The song's age wasn’t what united us.

The fact that we knew them did.

Those songs belonged to all of us.

More Than a Melody

At the end of the previous article, I promised to explore what makes a song congregational. Melody, range, repetition, and familiarity certainly matter.

A melody that stays within a reasonable range is easier to sing than one that requires the vocal ability of a recording artist. Repetition helps people learn a song. Familiarity builds confidence.

But the more I’ve reflected on that evening around Bob’s table, the more convinced I’ve become that there is a bigger question beneath all of them.

How does a congregation develop a shared songbook?

Or perhaps a better word is hymnody.

Not a hymnal.

A hymnody. A shared collection of songs that belong to a people.

I’ve heard congregations sing relatively complex songs with tremendous enthusiasm because they knew them well. I’ve also heard congregations struggle through songs that were musically simple but unfamiliar.

The issue isn’t merely whether people can sing a song.

The issue is whether they will.

And that has as much to do with ownership as it does with melody.

A Common Hymnody

Historically, churches sang from a relatively small repertoire.1 Whether those songs were Psalms, chants, chorales, gospel songs, or hymns, people sang them often enough that they became part of the congregation’s memory.

People carried them into hospital rooms, funerals, weddings, and moments of both joy and grief. The songs became part of the congregation’s shared language.

That was certainly true of the Psalms.

For much of Christian history, the Psalms functioned as the church’s primary songbook. Christians inherited them from Jewish worship and sang them generation after generation. They were not simply lyrics on a page. They became a vocabulary for prayer, praise, lament, confession, and hope.

The church learned to sing by singing the same songs together.

One reason early Christians used antiphonal singing and call-and-response patterns was to encourage participation2 The structure itself taught the congregation how to sing.

The goal was not merely beautiful music.
The goal was shared participation.

That concern appears throughout church history.

When Luther introduced congregational chorales, he wasn’t simply writing songs. He was giving the church a shared vocabulary of worship.

When revivalists wrote simple gospel songs, they weren’t trying to win awards for musical complexity. They were trying to give ordinary believers songs they could remember.

Again and again, Christians have asked the same question:

How do we help the church sing?

The Blessing and Burden of Abundance

Today, we have access to more worship music than any generation in Christian history.

Every week brings new releases. New artists. New albums. New songs.

In many ways, that is a gift.

Churches have access to extraordinary resources. Songwriters from around the world are producing music that helps people express their faith in fresh ways.

But I sometimes wonder if abundance comes with a cost.3

Can a congregation truly own a song if it is constantly moving on to the next one?

One of the challenges facing modern churches is not a lack of songs.

It’s deciding which songs are worth carrying.

Historically, congregations often sang the same songs for years, sometimes decades. Today, churches can introduce dozens of new songs every year.

The result is that we often know more songs while knowing fewer songs deeply.

A generation ago, many congregations shared a common hymnody. Regardless of denomination, there was a good chance believers knew How Great Thou Art, Great Is Thy Faithfulness, Blessed Assurance, or It Is Well With My Soul.

Today, I am not sure that is as true.

The church has access to more music than ever before. Yet I sometimes wonder whether we share fewer songs in common.

When a Song Becomes Ours

Perhaps that is why the most important question is not whether a song is traditional or contemporary, or whether it was written in 1725 or 2025.

The better question is whether the church will carry it.

Will people still know it when the screen isn’t there? Will they sing it around a dinner table, in a hospital room, or at a funeral? Will its words come to mind when they need comfort, courage, confession, or hope?

Not every song is capable of that. Some songs are catchy. Some are memorable. Some are tied to a particular moment or season. There is nothing wrong with that.

But the songs that endure tend to offer something more. They give us language for faith. They help us express truths that are difficult to articulate on our own. They become companions in both joy and sorrow.

That may be one reason It Is Well With My Soul continues to resonate nearly 150 years after it was written. The melody is memorable, but so is the message. The song gives voice to a faith that can stand in the middle of grief and still declare confidence in God.

The same can be said of many contemporary worship songs. The songs that last are rarely the ones that simply capture a moment. They are the ones that help believers carry truth with them long after the music has stopped.

A song becomes congregational when it belongs to the people. Not because it was performed well. Not because it topped the charts. Not because it went viral. It becomes congregational because a church sings it often enough, deeply enough, and long enough that it becomes part of its shared memory.

Congregational singing was never intended to be something a few people do while everyone else watches. It is something the church does together.

And when the church sings together, something powerful happens. The song no longer belongs to the platform. It belongs to the people.

Perhaps one of the greatest challenges facing the modern church is not finding new songs, but cultivating a shared songbook that can be carried from one generation to the next.

That raises another question.

If shared songs matter so much, why do so many congregations seem reluctant to sing?

That’s where we’ll turn next.

Next in the Series

Part 4: Why Aren’t People Singing?

If congregational singing has always been central to Christian worship, why do so many churches struggle to hear their own voices? We’ll explore the cultural, pastoral, and spiritual forces that shape participation, as well as what leaders can do about them.

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That pattern has appeared repeatedly, from medieval cathedrals to Luther’s chorales to American revivalism.

Which brings us to the question many pastors and worship leaders are asking today: Are we living through another one of those moments?

Recently, I listened to an Instagram Reel in which writer Kelsey McGinnis was asked whether music from churches such as Bethel, Hillsong, and Elevation encourages a performance culture. More specifically, does something about the music itself make it harder for congregations to participate and easier for musicians to become performers?1

I appreciated her response because it resisted the easy answer.

Rather than placing the blame entirely on the songs themselves, she pointed to the ecosystem surrounding modern worship music. The issue, she suggested, may have as much to do with technology, production values, stage design, social media, and the professionalization of worship ministry as it does with the music itself.

I think she’s onto something.

At the same time, I am not convinced we can completely separate the music from the environment that produced it.

A Word About My Own Context

Before going further, I should probably acknowledge my own context.

I serve in an a cappella congregation. Because of that, some readers may assume they already know where this article is headed.

But I want to be careful here.

I don’t think the challenges facing congregational singing can be reduced to the presence or absence of instruments. Church history simply won’t allow that conclusion.

Some of the most breathtaking and least participatory music in church history was sung entirely without instruments. Gregorian chant was vocal music. Renaissance polyphony was vocal music. Much of the specialized music Luther reacted against was vocal music.

The historical question hasn't really been about instruments. During the Renaissance, church leaders debated whether increasingly complex polyphony was making worship less accessible to ordinary believers. Tradition credits Palestrina's Pope Marcellus Mass with demonstrating that beautiful music and clarity could coexist. Whether the story is entirely accurate or not, it points to a recurring concern in church history: when does musical excellence begin to overshadow congregational participation?

The deeper issue wasn't harmony. It was participation.2

Likewise, there are instrumental churches where congregational singing is vibrant and robust. There are also a cappella churches where congregational singing can become passive, predictable, or dependent upon a handful of strong leaders.

Performance culture can emerge with or without instruments.

The deeper question is whether the congregation sees itself as the primary participant in worship.

The Rise of the Worship Industry

That is why I find Kelsey McGinnis’s observation so helpful. The modern worship conversation is bigger than guitars, drums, or even particular songs. It involves an entire ecosystem that has emerged over the last several decades.

For most of church history, worship music spread slowly. Songs traveled through hymnals, local traditions, denominational networks, and personal relationships. Churches learned songs from neighboring churches, traveling preachers, or published collections. Most congregations developed a distinct musical identity shaped by their own people and practices.

Today, that world no longer exists.

A church in Virginia can introduce a song written in Australia, recorded in California, arranged in Nashville, and distributed globally within days. Worship leaders can instantly access thousands of recordings, tutorials, chord charts, rehearsal tracks, and performance videos.

This has obvious advantages. Churches have access to incredible resources that previous generations could never have imagined.

It also creates new pressures.

Worship leaders are no longer comparing themselves primarily to churches down the road. Whether consciously or unconsciously, they are often comparing themselves to professional recordings and highly polished worship ministries. The benchmark is no longer the local congregation. The benchmark is frequently the recording.3

That shift matters because recordings shape expectations. They teach us what worship should sound like, how transitions should work, how emotional a moment should feel, and even what successful worship leadership looks like.

In many churches, the recording has become the model.

Can We Separate the Song from the System?

At the same time, I don’t think we can completely separate the songs from the system that produced them.

Songs teach us something about worship. They shape our expectations. They communicate what participation looks like and what worship should feel like.

Consider a simple question: What happens when you remove the arrangement? What happens when the lights, tracks, pads, electric guitars, and vocal embellishments disappear?

Some songs survive beautifully. They can be sung around a campfire, in a hospital room, in a living room, or by a congregation with no accompaniment at all.

Others struggle without the arrangement that made them popular.4

That is not necessarily a criticism. Every musical tradition has songs that function differently in different contexts. But it is an observation worth making.

Some songs seem to come alive when a congregation sings them. Others are at their best when they're listened to. Most fall somewhere in between.

The question churches must ask is not whether a song is contemporary or traditional. The question is whether the song encourages participation from the people gathered in the room.

This may help explain why so many churches are having conversations about singing right now. The issue is not simply theology or preference. It is functionality.

Can ordinary people sing these songs?
Do they invite participation?
Do they help the congregation hear itself sing?
Or do they primarily showcase what happens on the platform?

Those questions are worth asking no matter what style of music a church prefers.

What Are We Teaching People?

As someone who loves church history, I can’t help but notice how familiar this conversation feels.

The names have changed.
The technology has changed.
The styles have changed.

But the question remains remarkably similar.

Are we helping the church sing? Or are we unintentionally teaching the church to listen?

That is why I think the most important issue is not musical style.

The deeper issue is formation.

In the previous article, I suggested that worship practices shape worshipers. If that is true, then conversations about worship music are not merely conversations about preference, aesthetics, or generational taste. They are conversations about discipleship.

When congregational singing weakens, the issue is not simply that fewer people are participating in music. The deeper question is what people are being formed to expect when they gather for worship.

Are they participants or consumers? Contributors or spectators? Worshipers or audiences?

Those questions matter regardless of whether a church sings hymns, praise choruses, contemporary worship songs, or a mixture of all three.

The real question is not whether contemporary worship music is good or bad.

The real question is whether it helps the church sing.

That may sound like an obvious question, but church history suggests it isn’t.5 Not every song that works on a recording works in a congregation. Not every song that moves listeners invites participation. And not every song that succeeds on the platform succeeds in the pew.

If the goal of congregational worship is participation rather than observation, then we need to think carefully about the songs we choose and the way we lead them.

So what actually makes a song congregational?

That’s where we’ll turn next.

Next in the Series

Part 3: Can Ordinary People Sing This?

What makes a song congregational? We’ll explore melody, range, repetition, and familiarity, and why some songs invite participation while others are easier to admire than to sing along to.

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Recently, I listened to a conversation about contemporary worship music and whether it unintentionally encourages performance culture in the church. It was a thoughtful discussion, and it raised questions that many pastors and worship leaders are asking right now.

Why aren’t people singing?
Why does worship sometimes feel more like a concert?
Why do so many churches seem to be wrestling with the same concerns?

Those are important questions, but before we can answer them, I think we need to zoom out.

Much farther out.

Because the tension between participation and performance didn’t begin with Hillsong, Bethel, Elevation, praise bands, stage lighting, or livestreams. In fact, the church has been wrestling with some version of this question for nearly two thousand years.

Before I go any further, if you’ve been around for a minute, you know how much I love the church. But you also need to know my love for music and history. My undergraduate degree is in music, and I had plans to pursue musicology. I wanted to teach music history - best of both worlds! Of course, the Lord had other plans for my life, and I am now preaching. But, for the early parts of music history, it’s church history - because they kept the records. So, what a combination, huh? Music, history, and church!

So, why am I writing about it here? Every church practice teaches something. The way we pray teaches people what prayer is. The way we read Scripture teaches people what Scripture is. And the way we sing teaches people what worship is. Conversations about worship music are never just conversations about music. They're conversations about formation.

A Note on History: Church history is messy. Nearly every broad statement in this article has exceptions. Worship practices varied across regions, traditions, and centuries. My purpose is not to provide an exhaustive history of church music but to trace a recurring pattern that appears throughout the history of Christian worship.1

When Everyone Sang

The earliest Christians did not gather in church buildings. They met in homes, courtyards, and borrowed spaces. The New Testament gives us glimpses of these gatherings, though not many details. We know they devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching, fellowship, prayer, and the breaking of bread. We also know they sang.

What did that singing sound like?

The honest answer is that we don’t know.

What we do know is that it was probably simple. Early Christian worship was heavily influenced by Jewish worship practices, and most scholars believe the music would have been sung in unison or in forms that encouraged broad participation.2 There were no worship bands, no choirs in the modern sense, and certainly no worship industry.

The important point is not exactly how the music sounded. The important point is that singing belonged to the gathered church. Worship was something the congregation did together rather than something performed for them.

Then the Specialists Arrived

As Christianity spread throughout the Roman Empire and eventually became its favored religion, worship changed.

Gatherings moved from homes to basilicas. Services became more formal. Music became more sophisticated. None of these developments were necessarily negative. Some of the most beautiful music in Christian history emerged during this period.

But beauty often came with complexity.

If you’ve ever heard Gregorian chant echoing through a stone cathedral, you know how hauntingly beautiful it can be. The music seems to float through the air. For centuries, that was the sound of much of Western Christianity.

Then something remarkable happened. Musicians began experimenting with singing more than one note at a time. What started as a second voice moving alongside the melody eventually became three voices, then four, and eventually entire choirs singing independent musical lines simultaneously.

The result was breathtaking.

It was also increasingly difficult for ordinary people to participate in.

As worship became more formalized, trained clergy and musicians took on larger roles. Congregational participation never disappeared entirely, but in many places the balance shifted.3 The people listened while specialists sang.

The church had gained extraordinary music, but it had also begun to lose something else: widespread congregational participation.

Luther’s Musical Reformation

When most people think about Martin Luther, they think about theology. They think about indulgences, justification by faith, and the authority of Scripture.

But Luther was also concerned about how music was forming people.

Imagine attending church every week and hearing the entire service conducted in a language you don’t understand. The music is beautiful, but you can’t sing it. The prayers are important, but you can’t follow them.

That was the experience of many ordinary worshipers in Luther’s day.

Luther believed something had been lost. He believed worship should belong to the people, not merely to clergy and trained musicians. For centuries, much of Western worship had been conducted in Latin, a language many worshipers did not understand. The music itself often required skilled singers.

Luther responded by encouraging congregational singing. He promoted songs in the people's language. He favored melodies that ordinary worshipers could learn and sing.4 He believed that the congregation should participate actively rather than simply observe.

In many ways, Luther’s musical reforms were an attempt to give the church its voice back.

Then It Happened Again

Luther’s solution worked.

The congregation sang again.

But history has a way of repeating itself.

A century and a half later, composers like Johann Sebastian Bach were writing music of astonishing beauty.5 To this day, much of it remains among the greatest sacred music ever composed.

There was just one problem.

Most congregations couldn’t sing it.

Luther gave the music back to the people. Eventually, the musicians took it back.

Choirs performed. Orchestras accompanied. Congregations often listened.

The cycle repeated itself. Music became more polished, more complex, and more dependent on specialists.

Revivalists Push Back

A few centuries later, revival movements spread throughout Europe and America.

These preachers faced a different challenge. They were not ministering primarily in cathedrals. They were preaching in fields, tents, and frontier settlements. Many of the people they were trying to reach couldn’t read music. Some couldn’t read at all.

So they created songs that could be learned after hearing them only once or twice.
Repeated choruses.
Memorable refrains.
Simple melodies that stayed in your head long after the meeting ended.

Critics complained that the music was too emotional and too simplistic.

Yet the people sang. They were designed for participation rather than performance.6 Whether one loves or dislikes revival music, there is little doubt that it succeeded in getting people to sing.

Once again, music returned to the congregation.

And once again, the pattern repeated itself.

The Same Conversation, Different Century

Looking back across two thousand years of church history, it becomes clear that the central issue has never really been style.

The debates have involved chant and hymns, choirs and organs, revival songs and praise teams/bands. The forms have changed dramatically, but the underlying question has remained remarkably consistent: How do we encourage the gathered church to participate in worship rather than merely observe it?

Church history suggests that every generation faces a similar temptation. As musicians become more skilled, technology advances, and music becomes more polished, the congregation can gradually shift from active participation to passive observation.7

It rarely happens intentionally. In fact, most of the people involved are trying to help others worship. Yet over time, the center of gravity can shift from the congregation to the platform. When that happens, the question is not simply whether people are singing less. The deeper question is what they are being formed to expect when they gather for worship.

If history teaches us anything, it is that churches periodically ask whether the congregation has lost its voice.

Many pastors, worship leaders, and church members seem to be asking that question again today.

And that brings us to the question behind this series.

Is there something about contemporary worship music itself that encourages this pattern? Is modern worship creating spectators, or is the issue bigger than the songs we sing?

Those are the questions I want to explore next.

Next in the Series

Part 2: Is Contemporary Worship Music the Problem?

We’ll look at a question many pastors and worship leaders are asking today: Is there something about modern worship music that encourages performance culture, or are there larger forces at work shaping how churches sing?

They come from people you once trusted. People you served beside. People you loved.

And sometimes the hardest part is not what was said in the moment, it’s when the accusation keeps echoing long after the moment has passed.

A conversation.
A memory.
A passing comment.
An old failure suddenly dragged back into the present.

Recently, I realized how easy it is to become trapped inside old narratives.

Old wounds. Old misunderstandings. Old failures. Old versions of yourself.

And the truth is, I did not always navigate those seasons wisely.

Stress has a way of exposing what is already inside us. Fear sharpens our words. Exhaustion lowers our defenses. Sometimes I said things I wish I could take back. Sometimes I reacted poorly. Sometimes I carried frustration instead of grace.

Repentance means telling the truth about ourselves, not curating our own innocence.

But there is another danger too: living as though your worst moments are the truest things about you.

That is where accusation becomes poison.

The Difference Between Conviction and Accusation

One of the enemy’s oldest weapons is accusation.

Because accusation is slower. More subtle. More spiritual. More exhausting.

Satan in Scripture is called the accuser.

The voice that whispers:

“You are disqualified.”
“You are the problem.”
“You ruined everything.”
“God cannot possibly still use you.”

And if we are not careful, we begin to confuse accusation with conviction.

But conviction leads toward repentance and freedom. Accusation leads toward shame and paralysis.

One draws us into the light. The other keeps us hiding in darkness.

Flawed and Held

Psalm 3 has become deeply personal to me lately.

David writes:

“Lord, how many are my foes!
How many rise up against me!
Many are saying of me,
‘God will not deliver him.’”

That line cuts deeper than criticism.

Not merely: “David failed.” But: “God has abandoned him.”

And the painful truth is that David was not blameless either.

Psalm 3 is written during Absalom’s rebellion - a rebellion born partly out of David’s own failures as a father and king.

David is wounded. David is grieving. David is being accused.

And David is also flawed.

Which is why the next line is so powerful:

“But you, Lord, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high.”

That image undoes me.

Because despair lowers your head. Shame lowers your head. Depression lowers your head. Exhaustion lowers your head. Accusation lowers your head.

But God lifts it again.

Not because you suddenly become innocent. Not because everyone finally understands you. Not because the past gets rewritten.

But because grace refuses to let accusation have the final word.

Held Through the Night by His Grace

At the church camp I grew up attending, we sang a song every night before bed. It’s a simple song, on the surface. But some truths become more meaningful with age.

“All through the night, all through the night, my Savior will be watching over me.”

Years later, I sang that same song to my babies.

Rocking them in dark rooms. Half awake. Exhausted. Trying to soothe their fears while not fully understanding my own.

Funny how old songs return when you need them most.

Because despair often grows loudest at night.

When the house is quiet. When old accusations return. When exhaustion strips away the strength you carried through the day.

And sometimes faith is not loud.

Sometimes it is a father whispering borrowed hope into the darkness.

“My sins are all forgiven, I’m on my way to heaven, walking in the smile of God.”

That line hits differently now. Because shame imagines God scowling.

Grace imagines Him smiling.

Not because sin is ignored. Not because failure is erased. But because sons and daughters are still loved.

Love as a Tether

Lately, I have been thinking about love as a tether. Not triumph. Not certainty. Not emotional stability.

There were moments this past season when I understood, more than I ever wanted to, why some people stop fighting.

And what kept me was not clarity or strength.

It was love.

Just enough grace to keep you from drifting completely into darkness.

Sometimes the tether is Scripture. Sometimes it is prayer. Sometimes it is a spouse. Sometimes it is a friend who sits quietly beside you. Sometimes it is simply the stubborn refusal of God to let go of you even while you are struggling to hold onto Him.

I have lived exhausted, still trying to win trials Jesus already settled at the cross. Trying to prove I am good enough. Trying to rewrite the narrative. Trying to make everyone understand.

But resurrection does not come through self-vindication. It comes through surrender.

There is freedom in finally admitting:

I cannot control who misunderstands me.
I cannot heal every distorted memory.
I cannot spend my life reliving every accusation.
I cannot force reconciliation.

But I can remain tethered to love.

And maybe that is enough for today.

Psalm 3 ends with these words:

“From the Lord comes deliverance.”

Not from public opinion. Not from vindication. Not from finally explaining yourself perfectly.

From the Lord.

And sometimes survival itself is an act of faith.

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For earlier generations, it was Social Security numbers, barcodes, and the internet. Now it’s microchips, digital currency, AI, and biometric surveillance. Spend five minutes on social media, and someone is confidently mapping Revelation 13 onto whatever technology scared them this week.1

I get it. Some of it isn’t crazy. Technology is advancing faster than our ability to handle it. Governments and corporations know more about us than we probably want to admit. Christians should be paying attention.

But there’s a problem with how most of these conversations go.

We treat Revelation like a codebook for predicting headlines rather than what it actually is: an apocalyptic letter written to real people who were suffering under Rome, being pressured to bow to Caesar, losing their livelihoods, and sometimes their lives for refusing to play along with the empire’s religious demands.2 That context isn’t a footnote. It’s the whole point.

The “mark of the beast” wasn’t a prophecy about subcutaneous technology. It was about who you belonged to. The imagery has deep roots in the Torah.

Exodus 13 calls the Passover ordinances a “sign on your hand and a reminder on your forehead,” and Deuteronomy 6 uses the same language for the Shema, the foundational declaration of loyalty to the God of Israel. See, the forehead and hand meant mind and action, orientation and deed - the totality of a life directed toward God. Exodus 28 picks it up again with the high priest’s golden plate worn on his forehead, engraved “Holy to the LORD,” marking whose he was and who he represented.

Revelation knows all of this. The beast’s mark is a deliberate counter-image - a rival claim on the same territory. Rome marked its people too, through coins bearing Caesar’s image, through guild membership, and through participation in imperial cult worship.3 You either played along or you paid for it. The beast wants what God wants: your mind and your actions, the whole of you.

Let’s be real for a moment. It’s genuinely easier to speculate about a future microchip than to sit with the uncomfortable question of whether our hearts have already been captured by something that isn’t Jesus. Politics. Nationalism. Outrage. Ideology. Comfort. Fear. These things are discipling people right now, shaping how they think and what they do, and a lot of those people are sitting in church on Sunday.

Revelation contrasts two groups throughout the book. Those marked by the beast, and those marked by the Lamb.4 The difference isn’t really about a physical mark. It’s about formation. Who made you? Who are you becoming? What does your life actually show you’re loyal to?

Those are harder questions than “Will there be a chip someday?”5

The early church faced versions of this constantly. The pressure wasn’t always violent. Sometimes it was just social - the slow accumulation of small compromises, the gradual drift toward whatever the empire valued, the quiet realization one day that you’d become someone who served Caesar more comfortably than Christ. Revelation was written to interrupt that drift. To name it. To call people back.

We need the same interruption.

Not because technology isn’t worth thinking about, it is. Not because power and surveillance aren’t real concerns, they are. But because the church has a long history of being far more alarmed by the threats outside it than the ones forming quietly within it.

The greater danger probably isn’t a chip. It’s the person who has given their deepest loyalty to a political movement, wrapped it in Christian language, and stopped noticing the difference.

So yes - think carefully.
Be discerning.
Ask wise questions about technology, power, and influence.

But above all else, make sure your allegiance belongs fully to Jesus.
Because the greatest threat to the church may not be a chip implanted in the body.

It may be the quiet formation of the heart.

And every now and then, something cuts through the noise and makes people stop.

Recently, an image spread online. It depicted the President as Jesus. Not symbolic. Not vague. Clear enough that most people immediately knew what they were looking at.

And the reaction was strong.

Criticism. Frustration. Even outrage.
It felt wrong. Not just politically but spiritually.

Because something in us recognizes when a line has been crossed.

But what if that moment wasn’t just something to react to…

What if it was something to reveal?

A Mirror We Didn’t Expect

Because as shocking as that image felt, it may have simply exposed something we’ve been doing all along.

Not publicly. But personally.

We may not create images like that…

But we do reshape Jesus.

We make Him easier to understand.
Easier to agree with. Easier to follow - on our terms.

And if we’re not careful, we begin to make Him look a lot like us.

An Old Problem

That’s not a new problem. It’s as old as Scripture.

In Exodus 32, the people of Israel grow impatient waiting for God. So they take gold, form a calf, and say,

“These are your gods, Israel, who brought you up out of Egypt.”

They don’t think they’re rejecting God. They think they’re representing Him.

But they’ve taken something they can see, control, and understand, and they’ve attached God’s name to it.

That’s what makes idolatry so dangerous.

It doesn’t always look like rebellion.
Sometimes it looks like worship.

The same thing happens in the Gospels.

People constantly try to shape Jesus into what they want Him to be.

A king who overthrows Rome.
A miracle worker who meets their needs.
A teacher who says what they already believe.

Even His own disciples struggle with this.

When Jesus begins to talk about suffering and the cross, Peter pushes back.

And Jesus responds,

“Get behind me, Satan” (Matthew 16:23).

That’s a strong response. But it reveals something important.

You can be close to Jesus and still be resisting the real Him.

The Jesus We Prefer

That tension hasn’t gone away.

We still do this today. We take the parts of Jesus we like, and we hold onto them tightly. We quietly set aside the parts that challenge us.
We emphasize what affirms us.
We downplay what confronts us.

Over time, we don’t just follow Jesus, we form a version of Him.
A Jesus who always agrees with us.
A Jesus who supports our views.
A Jesus who fits comfortably into our lives.

But a Jesus who never disagrees with you is not the real Jesus.

He’s a reflection.

The Idol We Don’t See

And that’s where this becomes more than a cultural moment.

It becomes a heart issue. Because Scripture doesn’t just warn about rejecting God.

It warns about replacing Him.

Paul writes in Romans 1 that people

“exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images made to look like a mortal human being.”

That exchange is subtle. It doesn’t always feel like walking away from God.

Sometimes it feels like staying close just on our own terms.

The Portrait That Reveals Us

I remember seeing a series of portraits of Jesus from different cultures around the world.

Each one reflected the people who painted Him.

Different features. Different expressions. Different tones.

At first, it felt like a beautiful reminder that the gospel is for every nation.

And it is. But the longer I looked, the more I realized something deeper.

Every artist had done the same thing.
They made Jesus look like their people. There’s something meaningful in that.

But there’s also something revealing. Because the moment we stop asking, Who is Jesus? and start deciding, What do I want Him to be like? we’ve crossed a line.

We’re no longer receiving Him. We’re recreating Him.

The Real Jesus

And Jesus doesn’t allow that.

Hebrews 1:3 says He is

“the radiance of God’s glory and the exact representation of His being.”

He is not a reflection of us. He is the revelation of God.

Which means following Jesus is not about shaping Him into our image. It’s about being shaped into His.

That’s why Romans 12:2 calls us to be “transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

Not affirmed in everything we already think. Transformed.

And that kind of transformation doesn’t happen when Jesus fits neatly into our lives.

It happens when He confronts us.
Calls us.
Changes us.

The Question Beneath It All

So yes, the image that circulated was wrong. But it wasn’t the real problem.

It was a symptom.

Because every time we soften what Jesus says, every time we ignore what challenges us, every time we shape Him to fit our preferences, we are doing the same thing.

Maybe not publicly. But just as personally.

And that leads to a simple, but difficult question:

Where have I made Jesus look more like me than like Himself?

The Call

Because the call of the gospel is not to make Jesus more like you.
It is to become more like Him.

And that’s not always comfortable. But it is where life is found.

We don’t need a Jesus who reflects us.

We need a Jesus who can save us from ourselves.

It can feel like walking through a dark tunnel. You know there’s light ahead—you can see it—but the darkness still presses in. It surrounds you. It shapes what you see. And if you’re not careful, it can begin to shape how you think.

Every day brings new headlines, new tensions, new uncertainties. It can feel like things are unraveling, like the ground beneath us isn’t as steady as it once was. It’s not hard to see why people feel anxious about the future. It’s not hard to see why conversations about the end of the world, the return of Christ, or the rise of evil seem to be everywhere again.

But this is exactly why Easter matters.

Because Easter reminds us of something we are prone to forget: the worst thing is never the last thing.

On a Friday, it looked like power had won. Rome had done what Rome always does. Authority was exercised. Control was asserted. Jesus was crucified. The One they believed in was gone. Hope seemed buried with Him. His followers were confused, afraid, and unsure of what came next.

And then Sunday came.

The resurrection of Jesus is not just a moment we remember once a year - it is the foundation of our hope every single day. It tells us that God is not absent in the chaos. It tells us that death does not win. It tells us that even when things look dark, God is still at work.

That truth reshapes how we see the future.

The Bible does not call us to panic about what is happening in the world; it calls us to trust the One who holds it. Yes, Scripture is clear that there will be a day when God sets everything right. Jesus will return. Evil will be judged. Death will be defeated. But the point of that promise is not fear - it is hope.

Some approaches to the end times are driven by anxiety. They try to connect every headline to prophecy, every technological development to Revelation, every global shift to the rise of the Antichrist. But that is not how the earliest followers of Jesus lived.

They lived with a steady confidence: Jesus is already King. And because He is risen, the future is secure.

The book of Revelation was not written to make us anxious about governments, technology, or cultural change. It was written to remind the church to remain faithful in a world full of competing allegiances. It pulls back the curtain to show that, behind the chaos of history, the Lamb is on the throne.

So the question Revelation presses on us is not, “Can we identify the latest sign?” but, “Who has our loyalty?”

Even the language of the “mark of the beast” is often misunderstood. In Scripture, it is not presented as a piece of technology that can be accidentally received or forced on someone without their awareness. It is about allegiance - who we worship, who we follow, whose way of life we embrace.

And when the New Testament speaks about the return of Christ, it does not paint a picture of escape from the world, but of restoration. Jesus is not abandoning His creation; He is coming to renew it. The hope of believers is not to get out of the world, but to see it made new under His reign.

There’s a tension we live in as followers of Jesus.

We long for Him to come again. We want the day when everything is made right, when sin and death are finally defeated, when all things are restored.

And yet… we also know what that day means.

So we find ourselves praying two prayers at the same time:

“Come, Lord Jesus.”
And also, “Not yet.”

Because we want more people to know Him. We want our family, our friends, the people we sit next to each week - those who are close, but haven’t yet given their lives to Him - to experience His grace.

What feels like delay is not indifference. It is mercy.

That changes how we live right now.

Jesus told His followers there would be wars and rumors of wars - like birth pains. Not signs to panic, but reminders that something is unfolding. You can know the season.

We don’t know when the hottest day of the year will be, but we can recognize the season we’re in.

And recognizing the season doesn’t make us anxious; it makes us active.

Instead of being consumed with fear about what might happen next, we are called to live with purpose. We love our neighbors. We pursue holiness. We share the good news of Jesus. We remain faithful no matter what comes.

We do not need to decode the future to be ready for it. We just need to follow Jesus.

Because in the end, our hope is not in predicting events. Our hope is in a Person.

He is alive, and He is coming again.

And no matter how dark the tunnel may feel, we are not walking toward darkness - we are walking toward the light.

Entire movements organize around it.
Wars are fought over it.
Careers are built on it.

Who has power
Who deserves power.
Who should lose power.

But the Bible tells a much older story about power.

Long before politics or institutions, Scripture reveals something about the human heart: We have always wanted more authority than we were given.

The serpent’s temptation in Genesis was simple but profound:

“You will be like God.” (Genesis 3:5)

Not simply knowing good and evil. Like God.

The first sin was not just disobedience. It was the desire to grasp authority that did not belong to us. And ever since that moment, the story has repeated itself.

The First Abuse of Power

Not long after the garden, the pattern appears again.
Cain becomes angry with his brother Abel.

God warns him:

“Sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.” (Genesis 4:7)

But Cain refuses the warning.
Instead of confronting the darkness in his own heart, he removes the one he envies.
He takes what power he has and uses it to destroy his brother.

And the ground drinks Abel’s blood.

From that moment forward, the same pattern echoes throughout Scripture.

Saul clings to his throne and hunts David.
David himself, at the height of his authority, takes Bathsheba and arranges the death of Uriah.

Again and again the lesson appears:

When power is distorted by sin, people get hurt.

Sometimes deeply.
Sometimes permanently.

The Temptation Inside the Church

And the temptation does not disappear once people enter the church. In fact, Scripture shows us how seriously God takes the integrity of His people.

In Acts 5, a couple named Ananias and Sapphira sell a piece of land and bring money to the apostles. But they pretend to give everything while secretly keeping part for themselves.

Peter confronts them:

“You have not lied just to human beings but to God.” (Acts 5:4)

The issue was not the money. Peter makes that clear. The issue was the heart.

They wanted the reputation of sacrifice without the reality of it. The honor of generosity without the integrity.

They wanted the status that comes with spiritual devotion.

But God was protecting something larger: the integrity of His church.

Both fall dead, and Luke records:

“Great fear seized the whole church.” (Acts 5:11)

God was making something unmistakably clear:
The church is not a stage for spiritual performance.

Leadership, influence, and reputation in the body of Christ are not games to be played.

They are sacred trusts.

The Church and Power

History shows that the church has not always handled power well.

For the first three centuries, Christians had almost none. The church lived on the margins of society, often persecuted and misunderstood.

But after Christianity became legal in the Roman Empire, something changed.

The church suddenly possessed cultural influence.
Political access.
Institutional authority.

And with that influence came the same temptation that has followed humanity since the garden.

The temptation to control. To dominate.
The temptation to protect power rather than steward it.

Not every chapter of church history reflects the humility of Christ. But those failures only reinforce the warning Scripture has always given:

Power is never safe in sinful hands.

The Different Way of Jesus

Which is why the way of Jesus stands in such stark contrast to the instincts of power.

Jesus entered a world that understood power the same way ours does - through dominance, status, and control.

But He refused that path.

“You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them…
Not so with you.” (Matthew 20:25–26)

Instead of grasping power, Jesus chose humility.
Instead of protecting His status, He took the role of a servant.

Paul writes:

“Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves.” (Philippians 2:3)

And then he points to Christ:

“Though he was in the form of God,
he did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped,
but emptied himself,
taking the form of a servant.” (Philippians 2:6–7)

Leadership Is a Gift, Not a Status

This becomes especially important when we think about leadership in the church.
The New Testament never presents leadership as personal status.

Instead, Paul describes it this way:

“Christ himself gave the apostles, the prophets, the evangelists, the shepherds and teachers, to equip his people for works of service, so that the body of Christ may be built up.” (Ephesians 4:11–12)

Notice the direction of the gift.

Christ gives leaders to the church.

Leadership is not primarily a gift to the individual leader.
It is a grace-gift from Christ for the good of the body.

Its purpose is not to elevate the leader. Its purpose is to strengthen the people of God.

The Better Way

Which is why integrity matters so much.

When spiritual authority is abused, victims suffer. Communities fracture.
And the credibility of the church’s witness suffers as well.

People who already struggle to trust the church see those failures and wonder whether the message we proclaim is real.

But the failures of leaders do not invalidate the way of Jesus. They reveal how desperately we need it.

The goal of Christian leadership is not to become more important. It is to help the body of Christ become stronger.
- To equip.
- To build up.
- To protect the vulnerable.

And when leaders remember that - when leadership reflects the humility of Christ - the church begins to look the way it was always meant to.

Not a place where power is grasped. But a community where people are built up. Where the character of Jesus becomes visible. And where authority is expressed the same way Jesus expressed it:

Through humility. Through service. Through love.

That is the better way.

The way of Jesus.

Entire arguments rise and fall over them. And whatever someone’s position, we all understand something instinctively:

Pronouns matter.

They tell you who the action belongs to.
They tell you where the weight falls.

And when it comes to salvation, pronouns matter more than we think.

Because there is a version of Christianity that sounds faithful - deeply faithful - but uses the wrong pronoun.

When asked why we are saved, many of us instinctively answer in the first person:

“I believed.”
“I repented.”
“I was baptized.”
“I try to live faithfully.”

None of those things are wrong.

But if your confidence ultimately rests on “I,” the weight has shifted.

The only stable answer is in the third person.

Because He.

Because He lived the life I could not live.
Because He bore the judgment I deserved.
Because He said, “It is finished.”

The First Crisis Was About Pronouns

In Acts 15, the early church faced its first doctrinal crisis:

“Unless you are circumcised according to the custom of Moses, you cannot be saved.”

Here’s the tension: that argument came from Scripture.

Circumcision was commanded by God. It was a marker of belonging to the covenant. And it had centuries of sacred history behind it.

This wasn’t caused by people who wanted to spark rebellion.
It was careful, Bible-based reasoning.

And yet it was wrong.

Not because circumcision was false, but because Christ had fulfilled what it pointed to. To insist on it as necessary for salvation subtly shifted the pronoun:

From
“Because He fulfilled the law…”

to
“Because you must complete it.”

Peter corrects the drift:

“We believe it is through the grace of our Lord Jesus that we are saved…” (Acts 15:11)

Through grace.

And notice the pronoun shift: third person.

Because He.

The apostles fought to keep salvation there.

The Same Battle in Colossae

The church in Colossae faced a similar instinct.

We need to add practices, restrictions, and visible markers of seriousness.

Paul responds with a cascade of third-person verbs:

He made you alive.
He forgave us all our sins.
He canceled the debt.
He nailed it to the cross.
He disarmed the powers.

You were dead.

See, dead people don’t assist in their resurrection.

God did it.

That’s why Romans 8:1 can say:

“There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

There is no probation, no spiritual treadmill. There’s no need for quiet anxiety that you might not have done enough.

You haven’t. You will never be able to.

But He has.

They song, Before the Throne of God Above, captures it perfectly:

“Because the sinless Savior died,
my sinful soul is counted free.
For God the just is satisfied
to look on Him and pardon me.”

Because He died.
Because God is satisfied.
Because Him.

My freedom rests entirely on someone else.

That is the grammar of grace.

Grace Changes Us

But grace does not leave us unchanged.

In Colossians 3, Paul says:

You have been raised with Christ.
You have put off the old self.
You have put on the new.

Notice what Paul does - identity first, transformation second.

Because He died, my old self died.
Because He rose, I rise into new life.

The pronoun of justification is third person. But the fruit of that grace shows up in the first person.

“I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.”

When the Gospel Rewrites Our Speech

Now, here’s where it gets practical.
When Christ saves a person, He doesn’t just forgive them. He makes them new.

And when you are made new, certain things no longer fit.

Certain habits, loyalties, words.

There are words people use casually - words that demean or dehumanize people made in the image of God. You know what they are. We justify them with “Well, they use them,” or “That’s just what we’ve always said.”

Loved one, hear me:
If Christ has saved you…
If your old self has died…
If you have been raised into a new humanity where “Christ is all, and is in all”…

Then those words no longer belong to you.

Not because you are earning righteousness.

But because resurrection has happened.

The same mouth that confesses “Jesus is Lord” cannot comfortably speak contempt over people He died to redeem.

Grace changes grammar. And then it changes speech.

You will never do enough to earn heaven.
But Christ has already done enough to give it.

And when that settles into your bones, you don’t become careless.

You become new.

That’s the grammar of grace.

It was full of clarifications.

“I didn’t watch it.”
“I watched the other one.”
“It was garbage.”
“It was historic.”
“I can’t believe Christians supported that.”
“I can’t believe Christians were offended by that.”

What struck me wasn’t the performance.
It was the urgency to position ourselves.

Not just with opinions, but public alignment.

Almost as if silence might be mistaken for compromise.
Almost as if not announcing our stance would make us suspect.

And that’s when I realized:

The halftime show wasn’t the story.

The posturing was.

Why Did We Need to Announce It?

There’s a difference between conviction and signaling.

Conviction can be quiet. Signaling needs to be seen.

Conviction doesn’t panic if it goes unposted.
Signaling fears misinterpretation.

I kept wondering: Why did so many of us feel the need to clarify? Not just what we thought, but who we belonged to.

In anxious times, belonging feels fragile. And when belonging feels fragile, signaling gets loud.

We reassure our tribe.

“I’m still with you.”
“I still see it the right way.”
“I’m not drifting.”

But somewhere in the rush to position ourselves, I felt something deeper stirring.

Grief.

This isn’t about which performance was more moral, more tasteful, or more political. Christians are free to discern culture thoughtfully. The question that lingers for me is not what we watched, but why we felt compelled to announce it, and what that urgency reveals about how we are being formed.

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When Scripture Becomes a Caption

Some of the posts didn’t just express opinion. They wrapped themselves in Bible verses.

That’s where it becomes heavier.

Not because Christians shouldn’t have convictions.
Not because culture doesn’t matter.

But because when Scripture becomes a caption instead of a shaping force, something fractures.

Paul writes in his Letter to the Romans:

“The name of God is blasphemed among the Gentiles because of you.” (Romans 2:24)

He was speaking to religious people who knew the law, quoted the law, and yet lived in ways that contradicted it.

Jesus’ harshest words were not for outsiders. They were for insiders who performed righteousness publicly while neglecting it privately.

In the Gospel of Matthew 23, He says:

“You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence.”

The danger isn’t cultural disagreement. It’s religious performance without transformation.

The Damage of Posturing

The world acting like the world does not confuse anyone.
Babylon is gonna Babylon.

But when Christians speak loudly about morality while embodying contempt…
When Bible verses accompany dehumanizing language…
When allegiance to Christ is indistinguishable from allegiance to a political tribe…

The watching world doesn’t see courage.

It sees contradiction.

And younger generations, especially, are perceptive. They don’t parse theological nuance. They simply conclude that Christianity must be about power, not character.

Paul warns in his letter to Titus:

“They claim to know God, but by their actions they deny Him.” (Titus 1:16)

That verse doesn’t describe atheism.

It describes hypocrisy.

The Halftime Show Revealed Something

The halftime show itself wasn’t sacred. But our reaction to it revealed something.

It revealed how quickly we move to posture.
How deeply we fear being misunderstood by our tribe.
How instinctively we use public moments to reinforce identity.

James writes,

“Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry.” (James 1:19)

But the algorithm trains us to be quick to post, quick to declare, quick to distance.

And somewhere along the way, formation gets replaced by performance.

What Actually Protects the Witness of Christ?

Peter gives a different strategy in 1 Peter 2:12:

“Live such good lives among the pagans that… they may see your good deeds and glorify God.”

Notice what he does not say.

He does not say, “Clarify every controversy.”
He does not say, “Announce your position at every cultural flashpoint.”
He does not say, “Win the algorithm.”

He says: Live good lives.

Integrity over signaling.
Character over commentary.

Now, I want to be clear here. I do believe the church should speak out about injustice and work to correct what is wrong. Silence in the face of real harm is not faithfulness. But when people say, “The church should speak up,” what they often mean is, “The church should speak up in the way I would.” And that expectation exists on both sides. We want the church to echo our outrage, reinforce our priorities, and validate our alignment. But the church does not belong to a tribe. It belongs to Christ.

The credibility of Christianity in America will not be restored by louder declarations. It will be restored by quieter integrity. By love that is not selective. By speech that reflects gentleness and self-control. By lives that embody the fruit of the Spirit rather than merely quote it.

The halftime show will fade. The next controversy will come. There will always be another moment demanding alignment.

The deeper question remains: Are we becoming people who look like Jesus?

If our allegiance to Christ is secure, it does not require constant public reinforcement. If our identity is rooted in Him, it does not depend on clarifying our cultural coordinates every week.

The world does not expect unbelievers to resemble Jesus.
But it does expect Christians to.

That’s why this feels less like frustration and more like grief.
Because when Scripture becomes a slogan rather than a shaping force, the name of Christ is diminished - not by those outside the church, but by those who claim it most loudly.

And that is something worth grieving.

In his fable The Wind and the Sun, Aesop tells a story about how the Wind and the Sun once argued over which of them was stronger. They decided to test their strength on a traveler wearing a cloak. The Wind went first. He blew with all his might, harder and harder, determined to force the cloak off. But the stronger the gusts became, the tighter the traveler clutched his cloak.

When the Sun took his turn, he did nothing dramatic. He simply shone, steady and warm. And in time, the traveler loosened his grip and removed the cloak himself.

Fables use story to teach truth. This particular fable tells the truth about how fear works. Pressure does not create openness. It creates defensiveness. Urgency does not produce surrender. It produces grip.

That dynamic has been on my mind as I have continued to wrestle with what I called the cost of anxious faith. Beneath our debates about when the church should speak or act, beneath the tension between silence and urgency, there is a deeper force shaping us.

Tribalism.

Tribalism and the Human Need to Belong

Tribalism is not first a political instinct. It is a human one.

When fear rises, people look for something solid to stand on. They look for belonging, clarity, and protection. Tribes provide all three. They tell us who we are, who we are not, and where safety can be found. Over time, convictions harden into loyalties. Loyalties become sacred. And once belonging is worshiped, disagreement feels like betrayal.

The sociologist Emile Durkheim once observed that communities are held together not merely by shared beliefs, but by shared rituals and symbols that generate solidarity.1 In other words, tribes do not just argue; they rehearse. They catechize.

This is why tribes feel so powerful. They don’t just give us opinions. They give us identity.

And identity, when threatened, is defended instinctively.

Worship as Formation, Not Just Expression

Scripture treats worship with far more seriousness than we often do. Worship is not merely expression. It is formation.

“What you worship,” writes James K.A. Smith, “is what you love. And what you love is what you aim your life toward.”2 Worship orders our loves long before it shapes our words. It trains our instincts. It tells us what matters most, what feels nonnegotiable, and what feels like a threat.

Seen this way, tribalism is not a failure of belief so much as a misdirection of worship.

When certainty becomes sacred, doubt feels dangerous.
When being right becomes holy, humility feels weak.
When emotional clarity becomes a marker of faithfulness, discomfort feels like failure.

None of this is accidental. It is the fruit of formation.

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Anxious Faith and the Grip of the Wind

In my last Substack, The Cost of Anxious Faith, I argued that fear is a poor shepherd. Scripture agrees. “God did not give us a spirit of fear,” Paul writes, “but of power, love, and self-control” (2 Timothy 1:7).

Yet anxious faith thrives wherever urgency replaces trust.

When faith is sustained by emotional certainty, speed begins to feel like obedience. When outcomes are treated as proof of faithfulness, pressure feels justified. This is why anxious faith so easily becomes tribal. The tribe promises clarity when faith feels costly. It offers safety when trust feels fragile.

The Wind believes that force will produce the desired result. If the cause is important enough, pressure feels righteous. But the method misunderstands the human heart. The harder the wind blows, the tighter the grip becomes.

History bears this out.

Writing in the nineteenth century, Alexis de Tocqueville warned that when moral causes are driven by fear rather than conviction, they may succeed briefly but hollow out the soul of a people in the process. The ends may appear righteous, but the means quietly deform those who use them.3

Anxious faith produces anxious action. And anxious action, over time, produces hardened people.

Law, Injustice, and the Moral Weight of Discipleship

This is where the tension becomes unavoidable.

We see real injustice. We see abuse of power. We see human suffering. Yet, we recognize the presence of law, order, and responsibility. Sometimes, the victims of injustice are also those who have violated the law. These truths collide. When they do, fear demands a simple answer.

Scripture rarely offers one.

The dilemma faced by Christians in Nazi Germany shows this collision with painful clarity. It was illegal to shelter Jews. Obedience to the law was framed as moral order. Disobedience was framed as chaos, even treason. Many Christians chose silence. They called it prudence or neutrality.

Others, like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, chose resistance. They knew it would involve guilt, danger, and cost. Bonhoeffer did not imagine himself morally pure. He understood that faithfulness in a fallen world is rarely clean. He also knew that obedience to Christ could not be reduced to obedience to the state.

For Bonhoeffer, discipleship was not about preserving moral comfort. Rather, it was taking responsibility under the lordship of Christ. This was true even when no option was without consequence.

That distinction matters. Faithfulness is not the same thing as moral innocence.

Action, Discernment, and the Way of Jesus

This is not an argument for apathy or withdrawal. Scripture offers no shelter for complacency. The prophets speak with clarity and courage against injustice. Jesus feeds the hungry, heals the sick, confronts hypocrisy, and crosses boundaries that make religious people uncomfortable. “Faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead” (James 2:17).

But Scripture is equally clear that not all action is faithful.

Jesus consistently refuses the logic of the Wind. He resists the urge to deliver spectacle urgency when crowds it. He refuses to be rushed when others panic. He walks steadily toward the cross while His disciples argue about power and position. “My kingdom is not from this world,” He says plainly (John 18:36).

Jesus acts, but His action flows from trust, not anxiety.

Peter later describes Him this way. “When he was abused, he did not return abuse. When he suffered, he did not threaten, but entrusted himself to the one who judges justly” (1 Peter 2:23).

That is not passivity. It is disciplined, worship-shaped trust.

Discernment becomes dangerous when it costs us nothing. But action becomes dangerous when it is disconnected from worship, when it flows more from fear than from allegiance to Christ.

The Sun and the Reordering of Our Loves

The Sun does not coerce. He forms.

He creates conditions that make release possible. He loosens the grip rather than tightening it. This is what rightly ordered worship does. It reorients our loves. It trains us to act without panic, to speak without contempt, and to remain faithful even when outcomes are unclear.

The biblical writers are not interested in results alone. Kings are judged not only by what they accomplish. They are judged by what they trust and who they become in the process. “Not by might, nor by power,” the Lord tells Zerubbabel, “but by my Spirit” (Zechariah 4:6).

Tribal faith feels bold. It feels decisive. It feels righteous. But it also clenches the fist.

Worship, when rightly ordered, opens the hand.

If anxious faith has a cost, one of its deepest costs is distorted worship. Until we name what our anxiety is actually serving, we will keep mistaking reaction for righteousness and belonging for belief.

The church does not need better tribes.

It needs better worship.

I’ve been thinking about that lately - not because I’m trying to comment on a particular policy or party, but because I’m watching how easily fear reshapes what Christians cheer for, excuse, or demand from one another.

That’s a spiritual problem before it’s a political one.

A personal note before going on: I didn’t write or post here last week because I was sick. So this post will be a little longer than usual. The pause forced a slower rhythm than I’m used to. And during that stillness, some questions wouldn’t leave me alone. Sometimes restlessness clarifies what urgency obscures.

Scripture Is Honest About Power, Even When We Aren’t

One of the things that has struck me again as I’ve spent time in the Old Testament -especially the books of Kings - is how rarely Scripture is impressed by results alone.

Kings are not evaluated simply by what they accomplish. They are judged by how they wield power, what they trust, and who they become in the process.

Victories don’t excuse violence.
Security doesn’t sanctify arrogance.
Urgency doesn’t absolve faithlessness.

Again and again, rulers who “got things done” are still condemned for pride, cruelty, or misguided trust. God does not deny reality, but He refuses to let necessity redefine righteousness.2

The biblical question is not only what happened, but what happened to the people while it happened.

That distinction matters more than we often admit.

Jesus and the Absence of Anxious Faith

That same concern runs straight through the Gospels.

Jesus is remarkably non-anxious.

He refuses to be coerced when crowds demand spectacle.
He resists urgency when others demand immediate action.
He walks steadily toward the cross while others panic.

“Follow me” is costly, demanding, and life-altering, but it is never an ultimatum motivated by fear.

Jesus never said, “There is no middle ground.”
He said, “Come to me… and you will find rest” (Matthew 11:28–29).

See, the cross remains as the centerpiece of our Christian faith, not because it proves God’s strength, but because it reveals God’s way. Power is redefined. Victory is reframed. Faithfulness is measured not by domination, but by love that refuses to become violent, even when it suffers.

“My kingdom is not from this world,” Jesus says plainly (John 18:36).

That sentence alone should slow us down.

1 Peter and Faithfulness Under Uneven Power

This tension has been especially sharp as I’ve been sitting with Peter.

Peter writes to people living under authority they did not choose - some of them slaves. He does not address the system itself. He addresses people inside it.

And here’s the hard truth: Peter still holds them accountable, not because the system is just, but because they belong to Jesus.

He does not excuse sin because they suffer. But neither does he pretend suffering always reflects guilt.

Instead, Peter calls believers to a deeper kind of faithfulness:

“When he was abused, he did not return abuse; when he suffered, he did not threaten, but entrusted himself to the one who judges justly” (1 Peter 2:23).

That is not passivity.
It is not a moral retreat.
It is costly, disciplined, Christ-shaped trust.

Peter does not loosen moral expectations. He intensifies formation - especially when power is uneven, and fear would be understandable.

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Compassion, Truth, and the Cost of Healing

I want to be clear: compassion apart from truth or accountability is destructive. Scripture never denies that. Care that soothes symptoms without confronting causes leaves harm intact. Treating pain without addressing its source leaves people unchallenged, unchanged, and ultimately unhealed.

But accountability divorced from Christlike posture is no better.

The gospel does not say, “You’re fine as you are.”
It also does not say, “You are expendable if you fail.”

Biblical faith holds truth, mercy, justice, and humility together - not because it’s neat, but because separating them always distorts the witness of Christ.

“What does the Lord require of you?” the prophet asks.
“To act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8).

Remove any one of those, and the whole thing collapses.

The Pressure to Speak and the Guilt of Restraint

I also need to confess something more personal.

There is a quiet guilt that comes with times like these - a sense that as a church leader, I should speak into every crisis, every news headline, every injustice, every breaking story. Immigration. Racial violence. Political power. Murder. Policy. Fear. The expectation is constant, and the pressure is rarely subtle.

Silence, we’re told, is complicity. Hesitation is cowardice. Discernment is weakness.

But I’m no longer convinced that faithfulness requires commentary on every moment. Scripture doesn’t call preachers and pastors to be first responders to the news cycle. It calls us to be shepherds of souls.

The prophets spoke when God gave them a word. Jesus remained silent more often than we remember. And the apostles did not publicly interpret every event, but they devoted themselves to prayer, teaching, and the slow work of formation.

That doesn’t mean social issues don’t matter. They do. Deeply. But not every issue needs a sermon, and not every crisis warrants a statement. Sometimes the most faithful thing a pastor can do is refuse to let urgency replace wisdom, or outrage replace prayer.

I’m learning that the pressure to speak immediately is often driven by fear, not reverence. And fear, Scripture warns us, is a poor guide for faith.

When Preaching Trades Formation for Mobilization

This is where my concern about preaching comes into focus.

Sermons are never neutral. They shape imagination. They train instincts. They tell us what to fear, what to celebrate, and what kind of people faithfulness requires us to become.

When sermons begin to frame political outcomes as matters of ultimate faithfulness…
When space for conscience disappears…
When disagreement is treated as betrayal…
When fear becomes the organizing principle…

The pulpit has shifted from forming disciples to mobilizing allegiance.

That may produce urgency.
It will get applause from some.
It may even produce unity of a sort.
But it does not produce Christlike people.

Scripture consistently warns us that fear is a poor shepherd.
“Perfect love drives out fear,” John writes; not denial, but fear (1 John 4:18).

When fear becomes a tool of formation, rest disappears, and with it, trust.

Restlessness as a Diagnostic

I’m increasingly convinced that much of our spiritual restlessness is not caused by a lack of clarity, but by a lack of trust.

When we no longer believe Christ is truly Lord, urgency rushes in to fill the gap. Certainty replaces humility. Winning replaces faithfulness. And the soul never rests.

But Jesus does not form His people through panic.

Faithful preaching leaves people more anchored in Christ, not more afraid of one another. It sharpens conviction and deepens humility. It calls us to courage without hardening us, and to truth without contempt.

A Closing Confession

I don’t have clean answers. I’m still wrestling.

But I know this much: any faith that cannot survive without fear is not the faith Jesus taught. Any sermon that cannot form humility alongside conviction has lost something essential.

The gospel was never meant to make us frantic.
It was meant to make us faithful.

Our calling remains unchanged: seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God. These are not distant ideals; they are our true north, anchoring us in every season.

Even now.
Especially now, when fear presses in, our faithfulness stands as our witness.

But it doesn’t feel abstract right now.

Peter is writing to people who are afraid.
People living under an authority they did not choose.
People who feel exposed, vulnerable, and easy to discard.

What unsettles me isn’t only what’s happening in the world around us.
It’s how quickly fear can reshape what we cheer for.

And 1 Peter has something important to say about that.

Who Peter Is Actually Writing To

One of the most important things to remember when reading 1 Peter is this:

Peter is not writing to people who control the system. He is writing to people living under it.

These believers are not powerful citizens with leverage. They are resident aliens.
Suspected. Marginal. Slandered.
They do not carry the sword. They are not protected by the machinery of the state.

So when Peter speaks about submission, suffering, and endurance, he is not talking to people “on top.”

He is speaking to people trying to survive with integrity.

That distinction matters - especially right now.

Submission Is Not Endorsement

Peter’s words in this passage are often misunderstood or misused, so it’s important to say clearly what he is not doing.

Peter does not say:

• that authority is always just

• that violence is righteous

• that suffering is good

• or that power deserves celebration

Instead, he does something far more demanding. He calls believers to live in a way that exposes injustice without mirroring it.

“For it is commendable,” Peter writes, “if someone bears up under the pain of unjust suffering because they are conscious of God.”

That is not passive obedience but costly conscience.
It’s faithfulness that refuses to let fear remake the soul.

Jesus at the Center of the Passage

Peter doesn’t end this section with Rome. He ends it with Jesus. And, this is crucial.

Jesus:

• suffered unjustly

• did not retaliate

• did not threaten

• entrusted himself to God

• and absorbed violence without reproducing it

Peter does not give us a strategy for winning. He gives us a Savior who shows us what faithfulness looks like when power is misused.

Jesus’ suffering did not harden Him. It healed.

That’s the pattern Peter places before the church.

Why This Feels So Heavy Right Now

Here’s where the passage presses on us.

When Christians begin to celebrate coercion, when force is applauded, when death becomes something we cheer, something in the story has been misread.

Not politically. Theologically.

Rome celebrated domination.
Rome used spectacle.
Rome believed peace came through fear, force, and blood.

So when Christians confuse strength with faithfulness, force with righteousness, or fear with wisdom, it doesn’t look like bold discipleship.

It looks more like Rome than Christ.

That’s not inflammatory. It’s historically and biblically accurate.

And 1 Peter is written directly against that instinct.

Bearing the Name Well

Part of what makes this moment so serious is that Christians don’t merely follow Jesus; we bear His name.

The Third Commandment is often reduced to speech, but Scripture gives us a deeper vision. To bear God’s name is to live as His representative, carrying His reputation into the world through our words, posture, and conduct.

The question, then, isn’t simply what we say about God, but what people see when they watch those who claim to belong to Him.

This is where an important distinction matters. Naming a distorted witness is not the same thing as demonizing people.

Demonization dehumanizes.
Discernment tells the truth about what is being reflected.

Jesus’ harshest words were not aimed at pagans or imperial power, but at those who claimed to represent God while misrepresenting His character. His concern was never cruelty but faithfulness.

The danger is not disagreement. The danger is misrepresentation.

When Christians celebrate coercion, mock suffering, or rejoice in death, the issue isn’t tone; it’s testimony.

We are bearing a name. And that name deserves to be reflected truthfully.

The Question 1 Peter Forces Us to Ask

Peter is not naïve about fear.

He is writing to people who know what it is to feel unsafe. To feel targeted. To feel powerless. And he does not shame them. He shepherds them.

This passage is not a rebuke to frightened people. It is a call to resist letting fear become formative. Because fear doesn’t just change what we do. It changes who we become.

The call of this passage is not to feel powerful. It is to remain faithful.

So the question before us isn’t:

• “Are we strong enough to win?”

• “Are we on the right side?”

But something quieter and harder:
Are we being shaped into people who look like Jesus?

Who feels safer because of how we speak? Who feels expendable? What do our celebrations reveal about our allegiance?

1 Peter does not call Christians to endorse power. It calls us to bear witness under it. And that witness will always look strange in a world that believes salvation comes through strength.

Where This Leaves Us

This passage doesn’t offer easy answers. It offers a cruciform way of life.

Not silence. Not outrage. Not triumphalism.

But a faith that refuses to let fear, force, or violence define what we love.

The question isn’t whether the world feels dangerous. Peter knows it does.

The question is whether, under pressure, we still look like the One who did not retaliate, did not threaten, and entrusted Himself to God.

That is the kind of faithfulness 1 Peter calls us to.
And it’s still costly.
Still countercultural.
Still Christ-shaped.

New year. New goals. New plans. New resolve to finally deal with whatever feels broken, behind, or unfinished. We tell ourselves this is the year we’ll get it together - spiritually, emotionally, relationally.

So gym memberships climb. We clean out the junk food and buy the kale. Rebuild our budget and cancel all subscriptions that keep us glued to our TVs or phones. We begin reading…again.

We set some goals, resolutions, and aspirations.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting growth. But January often whispers a subtle lie: that what we need most is fixing.

Fix your habits.
Fix your thinking.
Fix your past mistakes.
Fix yourself.

But formation rarely works that way.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, best known for The Little Prince, was a writer, but before that, he was a pilot. During World War II, he flew reconnaissance missions: long, quiet flights over enemy territory. No applause. No visible wins. Just responsibility, repetition, and risk.

At times, he wondered whether the work even mattered.

Years later, reflecting on those seasons, he wrote:

“What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step.”

Not a breakthrough.
Not clarity.
Not a perfectly mapped plan.

A step. Then another.

That line feels especially honest for the beginning of a year.

Most of us want change that feels decisive. We want insight that explains everything or effort that produces immediate results. But becoming doesn’t usually announce itself. It shows up quietly, almost unnoticed.

Saint-Exupéry wasn’t formed by one defining moment. He was shaped by doing the next faithful thing - flying when it felt ordinary, when it felt heavy, when it felt unseen.

That’s often how God works with us.

Not by fixing us all at once. But by shaping us slowly.
Through small, faithful steps that don’t feel impressive at the time.

We tend to assume that real growth should feel dramatic. But Scripture paints a different picture. Transformation looks like obedience without applause. Trust without certainty. Love practiced before it feels natural.

One step.
Then another.

Not because we’re trying to save ourselves.
But because God meets us in the movement itself.

So maybe the best posture for January isn’t “I need to fix myself.”

Maybe it’s “I’ll take the next step I can.”

And when tomorrow comes, another one.

That’s not fixing.
That’s becoming.

Last week, I was sitting at my desk in the basement, working on my final sermon of the year. The topic was love. Earlier in the month, I had convinced myself this would be the easiest week of Advent to prepare for.

I was wrong.

Hope has edges.
Peace has tension.
Joy can surprise you.

But love? Love doesn’t stay neat. The longer I sat with it, the more I wrestled with its complexities. We typically turn love into something sentimental: warm, soft, uncomplicated. But the story Scripture tells is far more honest.

Real love moves toward struggle. It doesn’t wait for things to settle down. It shows up before the mess is cleaned up, before the words are figured out, before anyone knows how it’s all going to end.

And that realization started reshaping the way I read the Christmas story all over again. Not necessarily through the story of the birth of Jesus, but through one of his most familiar stories: the parable of the prodigal son.

While He was Still Far Off

What stands out to me isn’t just that the son comes home. It’s where the father is when it happens.

In Jesus’ telling, God doesn’t wait at the end of the road. He doesn’t stand back with crossed arms, hoping we’ll finally figure things out. He doesn’t offer love as a reward once the right words are spoken or enough progress has been made.

When the son appears on the horizon, the father runs.

That detail matters. Because it tells us something essential about God’s love:
love moves first.

Love and Justice?

Now, some of us hesitate right there—and understandably so. We don’t want to ignore the truth that God is holy and just. Scripture never asks us to soften that. When God reveals His name to Moses, this is how He describes Himself:

“The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness… yet He does not leave the guilty unpunished.”
(Exodus 34:6–7)

Notice the order.

God does not begin with judgment.
He begins with compassion. With grace. With steadfast love.

Justice matters, deeply. But God’s first word about Himself is mercy.

That’s why the father runs. Not because holiness has been set aside, but because compassion is in motion. And that compassion doesn’t cancel justice, it absorbs it.

Dane Ortlund names this beautifully:

“God’s heart is not divided. He is not torn between mercy and justice. His justice is the way his mercy takes sin seriously.”1

Paul says it even more plainly:

“God demonstrates his own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
(Romans 5:8)

That’s not mercy without justice.
That’s mercy through justice.

Which means Christmas isn’t God pretending sin doesn’t matter. It’s God moving toward the lost, not because He is less holy, but because He is faithful to who He has always said He is.

Come Home

And yet, even knowing this, many of us still assume that coming home requires proof.

Something to offer.
Something to promise.
Something to show we’re serious this time.

But the father doesn’t wait for the explanation. He runs.

Advent love meets us before we’re ready.
Before we’re cleaned up.
Before the story is finished.

This close to Christmas, many of us are carrying both joy and fear. Gratitude and grief. Relief and exhaustion. The world feels fragile. The future uncertain. And love can feel like something we should have figured out by now.

But Advent says otherwise.

Love is not the reward at the end of the struggle.
Love is what meets us inside it.

That’s the love Christmas announces.

And it’s closer than we think.

Lights, music, and invitations surround us to be cheerful, but many of us are carrying something heavier beneath the surface. The world feels tense. People feel divided. Some are anxious about the future, others are exhausted by it. Fear shows up in different forms: economic uncertainty, political volatility, violence in the headlines, relationships strained, trust wearing thin.

And yet, somehow, we’re still asked to talk about joy.

Advent doesn’t rush us past that tension. It doesn’t pretend the world is calm. Advent lingers in the in-between. It tells the truth about the world as it is—and about what it costs to live faithfully inside it.

Which is why I always think of this story at this time of year.

Not a story about Christmas lights or silent nights, but about a man whose joy didn’t come from relief, but from being known.

Meet Polycarp

Polycarp was the bishop of Smyrna, a small but faithful church in the Roman world. By the time we meet him in history, he was eighty-six years old—an old man by any standard, especially in a time when following Jesus could cost you everything.

One evening, there was a knock at his door.

When Polycarp opened it, he found a Roman captain and his soldiers standing there. He wasn’t dragged away immediately. In fact, the captain tried to make this easy.

“Just say it,” they told him. “Just say, Caesar is Lord. You don’t have to mean it. Say the words, and this can all be over.”

It was an offer of safety. Of control. Of peace on the empire’s terms.

Polycarp refused.

“He has been my God for eighty-six years,” he said, “and He has never betrayed me. How could I now betray my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?”

So they marched him into the amphitheater. He was charged with atheism (for refusing to worship the emperor) and threatened with death by fire.

The governor pressed him again. One word would end it.

Polycarp answered calmly:
“You threaten me with fire that burns for an hour and is soon extinguished. Why do you delay? Bring on what you will.”

And as the flames rose, witnesses said Polycarp prayed, not for deliverance or vengeance, but with gratitude.

“God, thank You that You have graciously thought me worthy of this day and of this hour.”

That doesn’t sound like joy the way we usually imagine it.

But it is joy.

Not the joy of comfort.
Not the joy of safety.
Not the joy of everything turning out okay.

It is the joy of someone who knows, deep in his bones, that he is not alone.

Years before Polycarp ever stood in that arena, Jesus had written to this church. Smyrna was under pressure. They were poor. They were slandered. They were faithful and paying for it.

And Jesus didn’t minimize it. He didn’t explain it away.

He simply said:

“I know your afflictions and your poverty, yet you are rich.”
(Revelation 2:9)

I know.

Those two words change everything.

Before Polycarp ever faced the fire, he had already heard that voice.
Before Rome called him expendable, Christ had called him known.

That’s Advent joy.

Not joy because fear disappears, but joy because fear doesn’t get the final word. Not joy because the world feels stable, but joy because God is present in instability.

Advent joy doesn’t deny what’s happening around us. It doesn’t ask us to shut our eyes to anxiety, division, or grief. It simply insists on this: God knows.

He knows the pressure people are under.
He knows the fear that keeps some awake at night.
He knows the cost of staying faithful when compromise would be easier.

And He knows the courage it takes to keep hoping anyway.

NT Wright often reminds us that Christian joy isn’t about escaping the world, but about God’s future breaking into the present. This doesn’t happen all at once, not finally, but truly.

Joy is not waiting for everything to be fixed.
Joy is trusting that God is already at work, even here.

Polycarp didn’t face the fire because he loved suffering. He stood because he had learned, over a lifetime of ordinary faithfulness, that the One who came in humility would not abandon him in the end.

That’s Advent joy.

Joy that says:
I know who has come. I know who is with me. And I know who will come again.

For many of us, Advent doesn’t feel light - it feels heavy. Faith feels costly. Peace feels fragile. Joy feels easily shaken.

And maybe that’s exactly where Advent meets us.

Not with answers. Not with control.
But with a quiet, defiant assurance:

You are known.

In the fear.
In the waiting.
In the courage it takes to remain faithful today.

That kind of joy doesn’t depend on circumstances.

It lasts. Even in the fire.

How can I pray for you? With you? If the world feels heavy right now, this might be a good place to pause. Send me a message, and I’d be honored to pray along side you.

And maybe that’s why a story I read recently has stayed with me. It didn’t shout peace. It didn’t solve anything. But in a way I can’t quite explain, it helped me see peace differently. A moment from history that shouldn’t have had anything to do with peace, yet somehow, it did.

There’s a moment in the life of Martin Luther that I keep coming back to, not the fiery, dramatic ones historians love to quote, but a small scene that feels strangely like Advent.

During one of the most turbulent seasons of his life (threats mounting, alliances shifting, his future hanging in the balance), Luther found himself traveling through a small German village late in the evening. The Reformation was shaking Europe. Political and religious pressure hemmed him in on every side. It was not a peaceful world, and he was not a man who should have felt peaceful.

As he walked through the dusk, he noticed a woman in her home, quietly lighting a single candle as darkness settled over the fields.

And Luther said, almost to himself, “This simple woman lights a candle, trusting God will protect her through the night. Why do I not do the same?”

A theologian shaken by the world… steadied by the faith of someone who simply trusted God in the dark.

It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t triumphant.
It was humble.
Human.
And it carries the shape of Advent.

Advent Peace Isn’t What We Think It Is

We imagine peace as something that comes after the storm, once everything is resolved, explained, and neatly tied up.

But Scripture and Advent give us a different picture. Peace arrives before anything is fixed. Before anything is calm. Before anything makes sense.

Jesus said:

“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
— John 16:33

NT Wright often says that in Jesus, God’s future keeps breaking into the present, not entirely, not finally, but honestly.

A down payment of the world to come, showing up in the world as it is.

That’s Advent peace.

Not the peace of resolution, but the peace of presence. Not the peace of everything settled, but the peace of a God who has stepped into the unsettled.

And in the words of Isaiah:

“He will be called…the Prince of Peace.
Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end.”
— Isaiah 9:6–7

Peace is not shrinking. Peace is increasing, quietly, steadily, even when we can’t see it.

Peace in the Tension, Not the Escape

We forget this, but:

Jesus was born during a census - a moment of political tension.
He was laid in a manger - a picture of poverty and displacement.
He grew up under Roman rule - a world bracing under an empire.
His family fled as refugees - escaping violence and threat.

The first “peace on earth” was spoken into a world that was anything but peaceful.

And maybe that’s the point.

Peace does not wait for stability.
Peace does not require understanding.
Peace does not demand the chaos to quiet before it arrives.

Peace comes because Christ comes. Not because the world is calm.

The psalmist wrote:

“God is our refuge and strength,
an ever-present help in trouble…
Be still, and know that I am God.”
— Psalm 46:1,10

Not “be still because everything is calm.”
But “be still because I am God.”

Just like that candle in Luther’s story, peace is often small, flickering, ordinary…
Yet somehow steady in a world full of wind.

And Maybe That’s the Invitation This Week

Maybe you don’t need a solution this week. Perhaps you need a candle.
A reminder that the God who holds the universe also holds what keeps you up at night.

A quiet whisper that Christ is with you, not at the end of your story, but right here in the middle of it.

Peace for the tension.
Peace for the questions.
Peace for the places you can’t untangle.
Peace for the world that is aching for redemption.

The world may not feel peaceful. You may not feel peaceful.

But Christ has come. Christ is here. And peace - even a flickering, fragile peace - is real.

It’s enough to hold onto. Sometimes, it’s enough to light the night.

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