Just about twenty years ago, I stood before a group of men at my church and answered questions for several hours. They asked about my theology, my philosophy of ministry, and my beliefs about church life. The purpose of the meeting was to determine whether I was ready to be ordained to the preaching ministry.

I didn’t know everyone on th…

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I’m 44, and I still struggle to remember it sometimes.

The struggle isn’t remembering that I’m 44. Trust me, my knees are usually willing to remind me. The struggle is remembering that I’m actually an adult.

Technically, I became an adult when I turned 18. I could vote. I could join the military. I could get married without anyone’s permission. I had already been able to drive for two years.

But none of those things automatically make someone an adult.

I’ve met some 15-year-olds who handle responsibility better than people three times their age. I’ve also met plenty of grown people who have never quite figured it out.

So what do I mean by adulting?

Adulting is understanding that life is complicated and responding accordingly.

It is getting out of bed and going to work even when you don’t feel like it.

It is taking the problems that come your way, sorting through them, handling the ones you can deal with immediately, and slowly working through the rest.

It is realizing that ignoring a problem rarely makes it disappear. Usually, it just gives the problem time to get bigger.

Adulting is not abandoning your responsibilities when life gets uncomfortable. It is buckling down and doing what needs to be done.

But adulting is also knowing when you need to stop for a few minutes.

Sometimes the responsible thing is to take a breath, drink a cup of coffee, sit quietly, or go for a walk. Resting is not always running away. Sometimes it is what allows you to come back and face things with a clearer head.

Being an adult doesn’t mean that you always know what you’re doing.

Most of the time, you’re simply making the best decision you can with the information you have. Then you deal with whatever comes next.

So when did I realize I was an adult?

Probably about 25 years ago.

Then again yesterday morning.

And then again this morning.

Because apparently that’s how adulting works. You don’t arrive once and stay there. You wake up every day and choose it all over again.

And honestly?

Adulting is hard.

I’m sure you grew up hearing the phrase: “Treat people the way you want to be treated.”

It’s simple. Memorable. Easy to say.

But if I’m honest, it can also be easy to ignore.

Over the last few months, though, that idea has shifted for me. It’s gotten more specific. More personal. More real.

Now it sounds like this:

Treat people the way you would want someone to treat your parents.

That hits different.

Because I don’t live near my parents anymore. I’m not there to see every interaction they have. I don’t know how the cashier talks to them at the store. I don’t know the tone someone uses when they ask for help. I don’t see how a medic might speak to them if they ever have to knock on their door. I don’t sit in the room when a doctor explains something difficult.

But I think about it.

More than I used to.

And the more I think about it, the more it changes me.

It slows me down.

It softens my tone.

It makes me pause before I respond sharply or impatiently.

Because the person standing in front of me—whether it’s a stranger, a coworker, or someone I deal with for five minutes—belongs to someone. They’re someone’s son. Someone’s daughter. Maybe someone’s mom or dad.

And somewhere, someone hopes they’re being treated with dignity.

With patience.

With care.

Scripture puts it plainly in Matthew 7:12:
“Do to others what you would have them do to you.”

Most of us know that verse. But maybe we need to feel it a little differently.

Not just what would I want?
But what would I want for them?

What if that man you’re frustrated with is someone’s father—aging, tired, and doing his best?

What if that woman you’re tempted to dismiss is someone’s mom—carrying burdens you can’t see?

What if the person you’re about to rush past is fighting a battle they haven’t told anyone about?

That perspective changes things.

For me, it’s led to a simple shift:

Be more compassionate than necessary.
Be more patient than feels natural.
Be slower to speak.
Be quicker to understand.

Not because everyone earns it.

But because someone, somewhere, would want that for the people they love.

And one day, that someone might be you.

So maybe the standard isn’t just:

Treat others the way you want to be treated.

Maybe it’s this:

Treat others the way you would want someone to treat your parents when you’re not there to see it.

Because one day, you won’t be.

And you’ll be hoping someone else understands exactly what that means.

My mother is 68. She has dementia.

There are things she may not remember anymore.

But I do.

I remember how I was raised.

I remember hours invested in me.

I remember learning to work — and learning to work hard.

I remember her teaching me how to cook so I wouldn’t leave home helpless.

I remember doing my own laundry at a young age so I’d know how to take care of myself.

I remember.

And because I remember… dementia is changing the way I parent.

I’ve become more intentional.

I don’t want my kids to remember me sitting on the couch every night staring at my phone.

I don’t want them to remember me as too busy.

I don’t want the loudest memory of me to be walking in the door from work irritated and short-tempered.

Because one day I too may lose my memory.

But they will have theirs.

So I’m shifting things in our home.

Phones down a little more.

Time outside a little longer.

Teaching them things they’ll need.

Laughing more.

Apologizing faster.

Being present on purpose.

I can’t control what the future holds.

But I can shape the memories we’re building right now.

If one day my mind fades… I want their memories to be clear, warm, and steady.

Dementia is stealing some things.

But it’s also teaching me what matters most.

To me, it was beautiful. Not because it was perfect. Not because it was a masterpiece. But because it was mine. I remember carrying it onto the school bus like it was a priceless artifact, holding it steady as the bus bounced along the roads. That walk from the bus to the garage felt like delivering a gift to the world. Or at least to my world.

What surprised me most was how much my dad loved it. He lifted it out of my hands like it was something fragile and worth protecting. He found a spot in the garage and set it down gently, as if it belonged there. And then he left it there. Not for a week or a year, but for decades.

I grew up. I moved on. I forgot about the little barn. But every now and then, when I’d go back home, I would notice it sitting quietly in the corner. Still there. Still preserved. Still valued.

It wasn’t the craftsmanship that made him keep it. It was the boy who made it. Our parents often hold on to things long after we’ve outgrown them because they aren’t just saving wood or paint or school projects. They are saving pieces of us. Tiny snapshots of who we were when the world was simple and we still believed that a little barn made in shop class was something worth carrying home with both hands.

Sometimes I forget how much those little moments matter. But then I remember that somewhere in a garage, my dad kept a small barn for decades because it meant something to him. And in a quiet way, that tells me something important about love, family, and the small things we build that last far longer than we expect.

This week I had the chance to travel back to my childhood home to visit my parents and help them out with a few things. It’s been over twenty years since I’ve really lived there, but something about walking through that front door still feels familiar — like time pauses for a moment.

One of the best parts of the visit was simple: sitting down in the morning with my parents and sharing a cup of coffee. Nothing fancy. Just that quiet time together, talking about life, catching up, and remembering things that matter.

We’ve all changed over the years — I can see it in the way we talk, the pace we move, and the stories we tell. Life has a way of shaping us. But that cup of coffee hasn’t changed. It’s still the same warm comfort, the same smell that fills the kitchen, the same start to the day that feels like home.

There’s something beautiful about that consistency — the reminder that no matter how much life shifts, some small things remain steady. A cup of coffee, a familiar laugh, a morning with your parents. Those are the moments that stay with you.

So no matter how busy life gets, and no matter how much everything changes, take time to go back home — even if just for a cup of coffee. Because sometimes, that simple moment is all it takes to remind you who you are and where you came from.

Growing up, I attended a pretty conservative church. The kind that believed celebrating Halloween was wrong — even dangerous — because it was “the devil’s holiday.”

I remember the warnings: it was all darkness and demons, they said. Stay home, keep the lights off, and don’t open the door. But for a few years in my young life, I broke the rule.

I dressed up.
Once as Chuck Norris. Another time as Woody Woodpecker.

I went door to door with a pillowcase, collecting candy from strangers.
And I didn’t die.

Those moments didn’t summon evil or draw me closer to Satan — they just made for fun memories and a sugar rush that probably tested my parents’ patience.

But looking back now, as someone trying to live out my faith in a complicated world, I have to ask: What does the Bible actually say about all this?

What the Bible Says (and Doesn’t Say)

Here’s the thing — the Bible never mentions Halloween. Not once.
But it does talk a lot about light and darkness, good and evil, and how we choose to live in the middle of it all.

Ephesians 5:11 says,

“Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.”

That reminds us not to glorify evil. If something celebrates fear, witchcraft, death, or rebellion against God — we’re called to stand apart from it.

At the same time, Romans 14:5-6 says,

“One person considers one day more sacred than another; another considers every day alike. Each of them should be fully convinced in their own mind.”

It’s possible to look at the same day two different ways.
Some people see October 31st as a night for fear and darkness.
Others see it as a time for fun, community, and creativity.

It’s not the day itself that’s evil — it’s what we do with it.

Redeeming the Day

Maybe the real question isn’t “Should Christians celebrate Halloween?”
Maybe it’s “How can we bring light into a dark day?”

Some families hand out candy with Bible verses.
Others host fall festivals, trunk-or-treats, or community nights to meet neighbors they’d otherwise never talk to.

It’s not about conforming to culture — it’s about transforming it.
Romans 12:2 says,

“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

If Jesus could walk into the homes of tax collectors and sinners to share hope, surely we can walk across the driveway to share kindness and light — even if it’s Halloween.

So… Is It the Devil’s Holiday?

Maybe. For some people, it absolutely is.
But for others, it’s just another day — one they can use to love their neighbors, share a smile, and remind people that light shines brightest when it’s dark outside.

Do you remember that character in Beauty and the Beast named Gaston?
No one was better than him. No one was stronger, no one more handsome, no one more admired. At least, that’s what he thought.

Everyone in town seemed to agree too, except one person. Belle. She saw right through him. She wasn’t impressed by his muscles, his charm, or his ego. She saw something the others didn’t: emptiness behind all the bravado.

And that’s where I want to camp for a moment.
Because I think a lot of Christian men, husbands, and fathers are in danger of becoming Gaston in their own homes.

The Gaston Spirit

Gaston didn’t start as a villain with fangs and fire. He started as a guy who thought he was the prize.
He believed everyone else existed to orbit around him, to serve, admire, or agree with him.
That same spirit can sneak into a man’s heart quietly.

You might be providing for your family, leading your home, serving at church, but somewhere deep inside, you start to believe the house runs because of you.
You start expecting applause for doing the bare minimum.
You stop listening to your wife because you know better.
You brush off your kids when they don’t respond the way you want because, after all, you’re the dad.

It’s subtle. But it’s dangerous.

The Difference Between Authority and Arrogance

God has called men to lead. But leadership in the kingdom is never about dominance. It’s about dying to yourself.
Jesus didn’t come flexing His power; He came washing feet.
He led by example, not intimidation.

Gaston wanted control. Jesus offered compassion.
Gaston wanted to be admired. Jesus wanted to be known.
Gaston demanded loyalty. Jesus inspired love.

A man who leads like Gaston rules his home through ego and fear.
A man who leads like Jesus serves his home through humility and grace.

Belle Saw Through It

The truth always does.
Eventually, the people closest to you, your wife and kids, will see what’s really going on in your heart.
You can’t fake humility forever. You can’t mask pride with charm.

Gaston’s story ends tragically because his pride made him blind. Blind to his own faults, blind to true love, blind to redemption.
The same can happen to us if we don’t let the Spirit of God break our pride and teach us humility.

The Call

Men, don’t be Gaston in your home.
Be Jesus.
Be the one who serves first, apologizes first, and listens longest.
Be strong, but not self-centered.
Be confident, but not controlling.
Be a leader, but never a lord.

Because your family doesn’t need a Gaston.
They need a man who knows that greatness in God’s eyes looks a lot more like washing dishes than flexing muscles.

Back then, I had one of those big red buckets full of random bricks. There weren’t all these fancy themed sets yet — no Star Wars, no Marvel — just a bunch of colorful pieces and a whole lot of imagination.

I’d dump them out on the floor, sit cross-legged, and get lost for hours building worlds out of plastic.

My buddy Adam had the motherlode — a massive box of Legos, some passed down from his older brother. I’d go over to his house, and we’d cover his living room floor in bricks. Whole kingdoms came to life between two kids and a pile of creativity.

Then one day, the dollar store showed up with their own version — “plastic building blocks.” They looked kind of like Legos, and they were cheaper, so I grabbed a pack.

But man… it didn’t take long to see the difference.
They didn’t click right.
The colors were off.
They didn’t fit with the real Legos.

They looked the part — but they weren’t the real thing.

And that’s faith, isn’t it?

There’s real, genuine faith — the kind that’s been shaped through prayer, tested by hard seasons, and held together by grace. And then there’s the imitation — something that looks close but crumbles when life presses down.

A counterfeit faith might fit in at church. It might say all the right words. But when you go to build on it, you realize something’s off. It doesn’t connect. It doesn’t hold.

James 2:17 says, “Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.”
In other words, if it doesn’t work when life gets real, it’s not faith.

Real faith has a sound to it — a click.
When the pieces come together — your prayers, your choices, your trust — they fit. Not because you forced them, but because they were made by the same Maker.

So here’s the question I’ve been asking myself lately:
Is my faith the real thing?
Is it something that holds up when life presses down?

Because once you’ve experienced the real thing… the counterfeits just don’t fit anymore.

But six years ago, I walked away.

Why? Because God told me to. And that’s the real heart of ministry—not clinging to titles or roles, but obeying God wherever He leads. For a season, He called me to pastor full time. And then, just as clearly, He called me to step away. To lay down what I thought was permanent in order to pick up something new: part-time ministry, relief work, and faithful lay service in my local church.

It felt insecure. It felt strange. It felt like failure at first. But here’s what I’ve come to realize: it’s not failure to follow God—it’s faithfulness. The true security of ministry isn’t in the paycheck, the pulpit, or the position. It’s in walking in step with the One who called you in the first place.

So if God calls you to step into full-time ministry, obey. If He calls you to step out, obey. If He calls you to serve quietly behind the scenes, obey. The role doesn’t define the calling—obedience does.

And that’s not just okay. That’s freedom.

Perspective is everything, isn’t it?

It seems like just when I finally catch up on things, something else happens. Case in point: I had a plan for my next few paychecks. The list was pretty straightforward—catch up on a few car repairs and knock out those pesky property taxes. Finally, I thought, a little breathing room.

And then…the water stopped. You guessed it—water pressure problems at the homestead.

One more thing.

Life feels like that sometimes. Just when we’re standing on level ground, something shifts under our feet. A bill we didn’t expect. A diagnosis we didn’t want. A situation we didn’t plan for. And there we are again—back at the edge, wondering why God lets us get so close to stability, only for another challenge to roll in.

But maybe that edge isn’t punishment. Maybe it’s perspective.

When I’m comfortable, I start thinking I’m in control. I map out the paychecks, I schedule the repairs, I plan the timing. But the edge reminds me—God is the one holding it all together. It’s humbling. It’s frustrating. But it’s also shaping.

Paul wrote that God’s strength is made perfect in weakness. That’s not just spiritual weakness—it’s financial stress, family strain, broken pipes, busted cars, and unpaid taxes. At the edge, I’m reminded to lean, not on my plans, but on His provision.

So, what do we do with “one more thing”?
We breathe.
We pray.
We adjust.
And we keep trusting.

Because maybe the edge isn’t where God loses us. Maybe it’s where He meets us.

Not because I am antisocial (although I can be at times). Not because I think I am better than anyone else. But because I had to make a choice about how I wanted to use my time, and I chose differently.

There were a few reasons for that choice.

First, I do not drink. That is a personal conviction I made a long time ago. There are several reasons for it — some health-related, some spiritual, some just practical — but together they have formed a boundary I do not want to cross.

Second, at this point in my life, I feel no social obligation to say yes just because everyone else is going. When I was younger, there was pressure to be part of the group, to be included, to be liked. I remember how heavy that felt — as if one “no” might cost me friendships or respect. But age and experience teach you something: you can say no and still be accepted. You can be kind and polite without feeling forced into every invitation. I do not owe anyone my presence if being present means sacrificing my priorities.

And third, I wanted to be more productive with my time. I was out of town for a reason — to learn, to grow, to focus. Evenings became my time to process what I had learned, review my notes, make phone calls home, and get enough rest to show up sharp the next day. I also wanted to protect time for prayer, reading, and simply sitting in silence after a busy day. Those quiet hours became a gift.

And honestly, saying no felt good.

There is a strange kind of freedom in realizing you do not have to do what everyone else is doing. That your worth is not tied to your ability to keep up with every social activity. That you can choose what is best for you and your family and not feel guilty about it.

I could have gone. I could have sat at the table, smiled, and nursed a water while everyone else had a drink. But deep down, I knew that was not the best use of my limited time. By saying no, I gave myself permission to rest. I gave myself permission to focus. I gave myself permission to keep first things first.

I do not regret saying no. In fact, I am thankful I did. I came home rested. I came home with my work done. I came home with my heart clear.

Sometimes saying no is the most productive, most faithful thing you can do.

How to Say No Well

If saying no feels hard for you, here are a few simple ways to do it with grace:

Be kind but clear. You do not owe anyone a long explanation, but you can still be polite. A simple, “Thanks for inviting me, but I am staying in tonight,” is enough.

Know your why. Saying no becomes easier when you are clear about what you are saying yes to instead — rest, focus, health, family, faith, or simply peace of mind.

Release the guilt. Saying no is not rejection. It is choosing what matters most in that moment. You are allowed to prioritize your time without apology.

Stay consistent. The more often you practice saying no, the more natural it becomes. Over time, people learn to respect your boundaries.

But here is the danger. You can be so busy for Jesus that you have no time to actually be with Jesus.

Think of the story of Mary and Martha in Luke chapter ten. Jesus came to their home. Martha opened her house and immediately set about preparing everything to be perfect for Him. She worked hard. She was serving. She was doing a good thing. But as she worked, her frustration began to grow. Her sister Mary was sitting at the feet of Jesus, listening to Him teach. Martha complained to Jesus about her sister’s lack of help.

Jesus responded with words that cut to the heart of this issue.

“Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things. But only one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”

Notice what Jesus said. He did not rebuke Martha for serving. He did not say that her work was unimportant. He simply reminded her that one thing was most necessary: to be with Him.

If we are not careful, we can fall into the same trap. We can be the first to sign up for every ministry opportunity, the first to show up at every service project, the first to stay late and lock the doors after church. We can teach Sunday school, run the sound booth, lead the youth group, organize the nursery schedule, and even preach sermons, but still neglect to spend quiet time with the Lord in prayer. We can open the church building but never open the Scriptures for ourselves.

Activity is not the same as intimacy.

Being busy for Jesus can make us feel close to Him, but it can actually cover up a shallow relationship with Him. When our serving replaces our sitting, when our doing replaces our abiding, we are in spiritual danger. The result is often exhaustion, resentment, and pride.

Jesus never asked us to speed up our lives or fill our schedules to the breaking point. He asked us to abide in Him. In John chapter fifteen He said, “Abide in Me, and I in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself. It must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in Me. I am the vine. You are the branches. If you remain in Me and I in you, you will bear much fruit. Apart from Me you can do nothing.”

All of our serving and all of our work must flow from that abiding relationship. Otherwise, we are just busy.

It is worth asking hard questions about your life. Do I make time every day to sit quietly with Jesus? Do I pray and read His Word because I love Him, or simply because it is one more item on my to-do list? Am I serving from a heart that is full, or am I running on empty?

Busyness for Jesus can be good, but intimacy with Jesus is better. One fuels the other. If we get them backwards, we can end up doing a great deal for Him while missing Him entirely.

Take a deep breath. Step back. Look at your schedule. Is there space for quiet prayer? Is there space for reading Scripture, not to prepare a lesson, not to get something done, but simply to hear from the Lord? Make that time a priority. Guard it. Sit at His feet. Listen to His voice.

That is the better thing.

Hate is a strong word. We throw it around casually. We say things like, “I hate this weather,” “I hate traffic,” or “I hate Mondays.” But when we direct that word toward a person, something much deeper is happening inside of us.

To truly hate someone takes effort. It takes rehearsing the wrong they did to you over and over again in your mind. It takes collecting every failure, every offense, and stacking them up as evidence against them. It takes stripping away everything good about them until all you can see is the wound they caused.

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I Hate Rest. But I Need It.

It has been a busy month. Most of it has been filled with projects that needed finishing, details that needed tying up, and a schedule that felt like it was bursting at the seams. I had one goal in mind: clear the slate so I could go out of town for vacation. Family time. A little breathing room. Some rest.

The truth is, I hate resting. I’m not good at it. My personality leans toward the constant movement of doing, fixing, planning, and pushing forward. Rest feels unproductive. It feels like wasted time. My hands itch for work, and my mind races with what’s next on the list.

But I need it.

Jesus Himself showed us the necessity of rest. He told His disciples, “Come away by yourselves to a desolate place and rest a while” (Mark 6:31). He modeled it by withdrawing to quiet places to pray. He built rest into creation itself when He set aside the seventh day as holy.

Rest is not laziness. Rest is trust. When I stop working, I’m forced to remember that the world keeps spinning without me. My projects can pause. My plans can wait. God does not need me to keep everything together. He already does that.

Rest is also a gift. It refreshes the body. It restores the soul. It creates margin for family, for reflection, for worship. It gives me space to remember who I am apart from what I produce.

So here I am, on vacation. Fighting the urge to fill every moment with busyness. Trying to let go of my restlessness so I can actually rest. And even though I hate it, I know I need it. Because Jesus said so.

When you think of something deadly, you probably picture something terrifying—a snake coiled and ready to strike, a shark fin cutting through the water, or a black cloud of smoke. But the truth is, some of the most dangerous things in the world don’t look frightening at all. They look… cute.

Think about it:

• The poison dart frog is bright and beautiful—people are drawn to its vibrant colors, but a single touch carries enough toxin to kill.

• The slow loris, with its big, round eyes and teddy-bear face, looks cuddly—but it delivers a venomous bite.

• The blue-ringed octopus is the size of a golf ball and fascinating to watch—but it carries venom powerful enough to kill in minutes.

• Even certain fuzzy caterpillars look soft enough to pet, but their tiny hairs inject painful, even deadly venom.

Harmless? No. Appealing? Absolutely. Deadly? Without a doubt.

That’s exactly how sin works.

Sin’s Pretty Packaging

If sin always showed us the result—broken marriages, ruined reputations, destroyed health, guilt, addiction, emptiness—we’d never touch it. But sin rarely shows us the price tag up front. It comes dressed in beauty, pleasure, and excitement.

The Bible says in James 1:14-15:
“Each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire. Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death.”

Do you see it? Lured and enticed. That’s the bait. Nobody bites a bare hook—there’s always something shiny hiding it. Sin sparkles. It looks innocent. It looks fun. That’s the danger.

Why We Fall For It

Sin works because it connects to something inside us. It’s not just that the frog is colorful—it’s that we’re curious. It’s not just that gossip is juicy—it’s that we want to feel important. It’s not just that lust excites—it’s that we crave intimacy. Sin attaches itself to good desires but twists them into something destructive.

Hebrews 11:25 admits that sin is pleasurable—for a season. That’s the truth: sin works because it feels good for a moment. Just like a poisonous creature that looks cuddly, sin’s beauty hides its bite.

The Deadly Results

The world tells us sin is harmless fun. But Scripture reminds us: “The wages of sin is death” (Romans 6:23). Not inconvenience. Not mild discomfort. Death.

• Spiritually, Sin severs our fellowship with God.

• Relationally – Sin destroys trust, love, and unity.

• Emotionally, Sin leaves guilt, shame, and regret.

• Physically – Sin often brings real-world consequences that wound our health and future.

What begins looking like a sweet little pet ends up being a predator.

The Escape

Here’s the hope: Jesus didn’t just warn us about sin—He came to rescue us from it. On the cross, He took sin’s poison into Himself so we could be healed. And through the Holy Spirit, He equips us to recognize temptation for what it is.

First Corinthians 10:13 promises that God always provides “a way of escape” when we face temptation. In other words, when sin looks cute and inviting, God whispers, “Look closer. There’s poison in that bite. Here’s the way out.”

Some things are too cute to trust. The world is full of dangerous beauty—things that attract our eyes but destroy our souls. Sin works the same way.

So next time temptation stares you down, don’t just look at how appealing it is. Ask: What’s behind this? Where does this lead?

Because sin may look harmless, but its bite is deadly. Only in Christ do we find the life, joy, and freedom that sin promises but never delivers.

About twenty years ago, I heard a sermon that has stuck with me. The odd thing is, I don’t remember the full sermon itself. I don’t remember the illustrations or even the preacher’s exact words. What I do remember is the title: “How to Be a Zero.”

At the time, the title confused me. Who wants to be a zero? From the moment we are children, we are taught to strive to be something—to stand out, to win, to achieve, to climb, to matter. Nobody aims to be a zero. But that was the brilliance of the message: the Bible teaches us that the way up is down, and that the way to truly live is not by exalting ourselves, but by humbling ourselves before God.

It’s a lesson I’ve had to relearn again and again: the Christian life is not about making a name for myself but about making much of Christ.

A Zero in Pride

The book of James tells us plainly: “God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble” (James 4:6). Pride whispers that we are more than we are—that we are in control, that we are deserving, that we can manage life on our terms. Pride convinces us that we’re not a zero but a ten, maybe even higher.

But here’s the sobering truth: God actively resists the proud. He sets Himself against them. Pride doesn’t lift us; it shuts us out of the very grace we need.

Humility, on the other hand, is the posture of a zero. It’s not thinking less of ourselves—it’s seeing ourselves clearly before God. It’s admitting, “I am not enough on my own.” And when we reach that place, God’s grace rushes in.

A Zero in Self-Reliance

Jesus said in John 15:5, “Apart from me you can do nothing.” Nothing. Zero.

That statement cuts against the grain of everything our culture celebrates. We love the idea of being self-made, independent, and strong. We want to believe we can handle life if we just try harder. But the deeper we walk with Christ, the more we realize how true His words are. Without Him, our best efforts collapse. Without Him, our accomplishments fade. Without Him, even our good works are empty.

Paul himself reached this conclusion. After a lifetime of achievements, he wrote, “I count everything as loss compared to the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord” (Philippians 3:8). In other words, when he added up his life’s scorecard, without Christ it totaled to zero.

And yet, in admitting that, Paul found the greatest treasure of all—life lived not in his strength, but in the power of God.

A Zero in Recognition

John the Baptist had a moment when his followers were worried. They saw Jesus drawing larger crowds and gaining more influence, and they came to John almost as if to complain: “Rabbi, he who was with you across the Jordan… is baptizing, and all are going to him” (John 3:26).

John’s response is one of the most profound statements of humility in Scripture: “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30).

That’s what it means to be a zero in recognition. It’s not about competing for attention or trying to hold onto our platform. It’s about being content—even joyful—when Christ is exalted, even if it means we fade into the background.

In a world obsessed with likes, followers, and applause, John’s words are a piercing reminder: our worth isn’t in being noticed. It’s in making Jesus known.

Becoming a Zero, Finding Everything

Here’s the paradox of the gospel: when we become a zero in ourselves, we discover that in Christ, we are worth everything.

Paul captures this beautifully in Galatians 2:20: “I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.”

Paul had learned that life wasn’t about building his name or relying on his strength. He had become a zero to the world’s values—but in Christ, he found life abundant and eternal.

This is the mystery of the gospel: when you lose yourself, you find your true self. When you decrease, Christ increases. When you lay down your pride, self-reliance, and craving for recognition, you make space for God’s power, God’s grace, and God’s glory.

So, how do you become a zero? You humble yourself under God’s mighty hand. You stop pretending you can do it all alone. You step out of the spotlight and point others to Jesus.

And when you do, you’ll discover the paradox that has shaped Christians for centuries: being a zero in yourself makes you infinitely valuable in Christ.

The world may never understand it. But the kingdom of God is built on it.

Recently I walked into the kitchen at the firehouse and saw a bag of dill pickle flavored corn puffs. I was intrigued… so I tried one… and it was delicious… so I ate another one… and then 10 more. Then I looked at the ingredients—and it was NOT good. It was so appealing and so tasty that I wanted more even though I knew they would be bad for me. I had to stop myself.

That moment is a perfect picture of how sin works.

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We live in a culture that thrives on performance. At work, in school, even in church, people are praised for how well they can “measure up.” The pressure is real: be good enough, look spiritual enough, act holy enough. And if we’re not careful, we can drag that same performance mindset into our walk with God.

But here’s the good news. God is not impressed by performance. He isn’t moved by polished routines, empty rituals, or religious showmanship. What He desires is far simpler and far deeper. God wants our obedience.

The prophet Samuel said it bluntly to King Saul:
“Does the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices as much as in obeying the Lord? To obey is better than sacrifice, and to heed is better than the fat of rams” (1 Samuel 15:22).

God Rejects Empty Performance

King Saul thought he could cover his disobedience with a sacrifice. He spared what God told him to destroy, and then tried to dress it up as worship. But Samuel saw right through it. Saul’s “performance” wasn’t worship at all. It was rebellion wrapped in religious packaging.

Jesus confronted the same spirit in the Pharisees. They performed religion to perfection with long prayers, public fasting, and spotless rituals. Yet He said they had neglected the “weightier matters of the law, justice, mercy, and faithfulness” (Matthew 23:23).

Performance might impress people. But it never fools God.

Obedience Flows From Relationship

Obedience isn’t about legalism. It isn’t about being good enough to earn God’s love. It flows from a relationship.

Jesus said, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments” (John 14:15). Notice He didn’t say, “If you fear me” or “If you want to look spiritual.” Love produces obedience.

Think of a child. A son or daughter doesn’t obey to earn their parents’ love. They already belong. They obey because they trust. That’s the picture of our relationship with God.

God Rewards Faithful Obedience

The Bible is filled with examples of ordinary people who simply obeyed.

Noah obeyed and built the ark, and his family was saved.
Abraham obeyed and left his homeland and became the father of nations.
The disciples obeyed Jesus’ call to “follow me,” and turned the world upside down.

None of them was a perfect performer. But all of them trusted God enough to take Him at His word.

The Real Question

So here’s the question we need to ask ourselves.

Am I living to impress others, or am I living to please God?
Do I pour energy into “doing things for God,” while ignoring His voice in the small, quiet commands like forgiving someone, living with integrity, or giving generously?

God isn’t looking for actors on a stage. He’s looking for sons and daughters who walk in trust. He doesn’t need our performance. He wants our hearts.

When we stop trying to impress Him and start simply obeying Him, we discover something powerful. Obedience is not a burden. It’s freedom. And in that freedom, we find joy, not in our performance, but in His presence.

Years ago, I sat before an ordination committee for a church. Their job was to ask me theological and practical questions to determine if I would be a good “fit” for their denomination. For the most part, it went well—except for one person.

Every single question he asked began with the phrase: “Can a Christian…”

• “Can a Christian watch certain movies?”

• “Can a Christian work in a secular environment?”

• “Can a Christian drink alcohol?”

The problem with that phrase is that it’s wide open to interpretation. It can sound innocent, even practical, but when it becomes the default way of assessing faithfulness, it can lead us in the wrong direction. Here’s why.

1. It Treats “Christian” Like a Fixed External Category

When people ask, “Can a Christian do ___?” they often mean:

• “Is it technically allowed?”

• “Can I still go to heaven if I do this?”

• “How far can I go before I stop being a Christian?”

This reduces being a Christian to a status rather than a relationship. Christianity isn’t a badge you wear; it’s a Spirit-empowered life of following Jesus.

2. It Focuses on Behavior, Not the Heart

Questions like:

• “Can a Christian watch this show?”

• “Can a Christian date a nonbeliever?”

• “Can a Christian drink?”

…miss a deeper issue: the motive behind the action. You can do something “permissible” and still be in sin if your heart is driven by rebellion, pride, or idolatry.

Jesus consistently addressed not just what people did, but why they did it (Matthew 5:21–30). Discipleship lives in the heart, not just in the action.

3. It Looks for the Minimum, Not the Maximum

Often, “Can a Christian…” really means:

“How much of the world can I keep and still be saved?”

That’s the wrong direction. It reflects a mindset concerned with boundaries more than obedience, and justification more than transformation.

Better questions are:

• “Does this reflect Christ’s heart in me?”

• “Will this help me grow in love, holiness, and faithfulness?”

4. It Ignores the Reality of False Conversion

Not everyone who claims to be a Christian actually is:

• “Not everyone who says to Me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom…” (Matthew 7:21)

• “They went out from us, but they were not of us…” (1 John 2:19)

• “Examine yourselves to see whether you are in the faith.” (2 Corinthians 13:5)

A true Christian bears fruit and responds to conviction. A false convert can look outwardly religious but remain spiritually dead.

5. It Can Excuse Sin Instead of Confronting It

If someone asks, “Can a Christian sleep with their boyfriend or girlfriend and still be saved?”—the better question is:

“Why would someone washed by the blood of Christ want to walk in darkness?”

Hebrews 10:26 warns:

“If we deliberately keep on sinning after receiving the knowledge of the truth, no sacrifice for sins is left…”

The issue is not whether sin is technically survivable for salvation, but whether your life’s direction reflects Christ or rebellion.

A Better Way to Ask

Instead of “Can a Christian…?” try:

• “Does this glorify Jesus?”

• “Would this grieve the Holy Spirit within me?”

• “Is this drawing me closer to God or dulling my love for Him?”

Final Thought

“Can a Christian…” is the language of doing just enough. Christ calls us to be all in:

“Whoever does not take up his cross and follow Me is not worthy of Me.” (Matthew 10:38)

The aim of the Christian life is not figuring out what we can get away with, but loving Jesus with our whole heart.