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I loved China.

I loved the people. I loved the language. I loved the culture, the sights, the sounds. I loved the food. Oh, man…did I love the food! It’s not what you think. American Chinese food isn’t real Chinese food.

And maybe most of all? I loved the sense of purpose I felt the four or so years we lived there. I slept well at night, knowing that I was giving my all for the mission of God. My daughter was three months old when we moved there. I even felt at peace about that – excited that she was going to grow up in a missionary family, around a different culture and language.

I loved being a missionary in China. And I hoped, prayed, even planned to stay forever.

And then as I was on a yearly prolonged fast and praying about our future in China (not whether we would have a future in China, but what directions to go within our ministry there), I felt like God told me our time there was coming to an end.

Honestly? I shook it off and kept going. I figured it was a distraction from the holy calling God had given me. I was sure that leaving (no matter the reason) would be less faithful than staying. Period. But I couldn’t fully shake it. Eventually, I gave in to the Spirit’s persistence and asked Him about it. As soon as I did that, I was sure I had heard right.

And then came the dread in the pit of my stomach. I was filled with it. I did not want to leave. I loved China.

So, I begged God to let me stay. I talked to Him about all the people who needed Him in China. I reminded Him of the fruitfulness He’d given our ministry and the supporters who had sacrificed finances to be there. I said things like, “What would I even do in America!? There are plenty of people willing to do ministry back home!”

I did this for months. And I only felt more certain that I was supposed to go back home when our term was up and pastor a church.

It probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to you, but at the time I felt like a failure. I know it’s sinful and prideful of me, but I wasn’t only motivated by a real love for the assignment I was in. I also felt like going home was… giving up. Wimping out. Taking the plush, easy road.

After praying with my wife and spending time on Skype with wise counselors (this was a while ago when Skype was a thing), I acquiesced. The end of my wrestling with God about it was when I felt like He gave me a choice. I could stay in China and He wouldn’t abandon me or punish me necessarily. But I’d be missing out on a greater blessing He had for me on the other side of obedience.

I felt like He gave me a choice between good and best.

I learned through that experience that something doesn’t have to be going wrong for an assignment to be over. And sometimes the hardest assignment to leave is the one you still love.

Good Doesn’t Mean Forever

Think about Philip in Acts 8.

Philip went down to the city of Samaria and proclaimed to them the Christ. And the crowds with one accord paid attention to what was being said by Philip, when they heard him and saw the signs that he did. For unclean spirits, crying out with a loud voice, came out of many who had them, and many who were paralyzed or lame were healed. So there was much joy in that city. (Acts 8:5-8)

Philip is living his best life in Samaria, isn’t he? I mean, talk about fruitfulness! The gospel is working just like it’s supposed to. He’s preaching Christ, crowds are listening, people are being delivered and healed, and “there was much joy in that city.”

All the signs I’d naturally use to decide whether an assignment is still from God. It’s a no-brainer. Obviously God wants me to continue here. Then Acts 8:26.

Now an angel of the Lord said to Philip, “Rise and go toward the south to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza.” (Acts 8:26)

And Luke adds: “This is a desert place.” (Acts 8:26b)

Leave the revival. Go to the desert.

Philip obeys, and maybe you remember what happens. He meets the Ethiopian eunuch, explains Isaiah, baptizes him, and the gospel moves somewhere Philip couldn’t have anticipated. Philip leaves a mass revival in Samaria to meet one spiritually hungry outsider on a desert road. He didn’t leave Samaria because Samaria failed. He left because God said go.

Here’s the thing: A good assignment is still just an assignment. And God being in something doesn’t mean God intends you to be in it forever.

But Hard Doesn’t Mean Over Either

I already wrote in Part 3 that an imperfect fit, weakness, unwanted responsibilities, and difficulty aren’t proof you’re in the wrong assignment. Even so, it feels careless not to at least put up a small guardrail on the other side of this lane we’re driving in. Here it is:

Good doesn’t always mean forever, but neither does bad always mean it’s over.

Yeah. I know. That’s a bit counterintuitive. And nowhere near easy. In our day, we tend to think that if things aren’t good, we’re definitely not supposed to stay. We assume God wants us where we can have bigger numbers and greater impact. But that’s not really a Biblical idea.

But I will stay in Ephesus until Pentecost, for a wide door for effective work has opened to me, and there are many adversaries. (1 Corinthians 16:8-9)

Paul doesn’t think, Hm. Lots of adversaries. Clearly God is closing the door.

And now, behold, I am going to Jerusalem, constrained by the Spirit, not knowing what will happen to me there, except that the Holy Spirit testifies to me in every city that imprisonment and afflictions await me. (Acts 20:22-23)

Paul knows hardship awaits him and Acts 20 ends in this incredibly emotional scene – the Ephesian elders are weeping because they know they won’t see him again. And it’s not just Paul.

Isaiah accepted an assignment to preach to people who wouldn’t listen (Isaiah 6:8–13).
Ezekiel was assigned to rebellious people that refused to hear him (Ezekiel 2:3–7; 3:7). Moses went back to Egypt (to the place he’d fled) to confront Pharaoh (Exodus 3–4).
Ruth left her home, security, and prospects in Moab to follow Naomi into an uncertain future (Ruth 1:16–18).

And even Jesus walked away from obvious momentum. In Capernaum, people were being healed, crowds were gathering, and the disciples told Him, “Everyone is looking for you.” Sounds like a reason to stay, right? But Jesus basically goes, “We’re leaving. I need to preach in the other towns too” (Mark 1:32–39).

Hard doesn’t automatically mean leave. Good doesn’t automatically mean stay.

So How Do You Know?

Frustration isn’t enough. A great opportunity isn’t enough.
Fear isn’t enough. Fruit isn’t enough.
Hardship isn’t enough, but neither is comfort.

Even a sense of misalignment should be examined rather than instantly obeyed.

I can’t give you an equation. I wish I could, but this isn’t math class. This is life. But I can give you some things that I think belong in the process of discernment: prayer, Scripture, understanding your larger calling and gifting, honest assessment of the assignment, providential circumstances, sustained rather than momentary impressions, and wise people who know both you and Jesus really really well.

And most importantly, you have to wrestle honestly with this question: Have I genuinely surrendered both answers?

If you’re only asking God for permission to leave, you’re not really discerning. If you’re only asking Him to guarantee you can stay, same problem different day.

This takes time. There are no shortcuts. And in the end, you don’t leave just because it got hard. You don’t stay just because it’s still good. You listen to the One who called you.

Ugh. Easier said than done.

Give Your Geography to Jesus

Sometimes you want to stay, but God says go. Sometimes you’re begging to go, but God says stay.

Personally, my hope and prayer have always been to stay in one place until I pass from this life to the next – to go deep with one group of people for decades and enjoy the fruit of that. I’ve always prayed for that. And I believe the assignment God has given me now is one like that.

But. I don’t know for sure. Because I gave my geography to Jesus a long time ago.

Hindsight being 20/20, I can see that’s one of the providential ways God formed us. Early on in life and marriage, my wife and I fully gave our geography up to God. We moved basically as far away as is geographically possible from our comfy hometown.

It hasn’t always been easy, but it has always been good. There’s just no better place to be than smack dab in the middle of God’s will for your life, no matter what address comes with it.

So I pray God lets me stay, put down deep roots, and see decades of ministry in one location. But at the same time I submit my calling, assignment, and gifting to the will of God for my life. And that trumps everything else.

Because don’t forget: the assignment was already His to begin with.

So hold your calling confidently.
And hold your assignments with open hands.

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Waiting is hard. Slow progress is hard.

We live in a day and age where that’s true not just personally, but culturally. We want everything on demand, right now, delivered to us, and fast. And it’s not just in the realm of internet speeds, Amazon Prime, AI answers, and Walmart plus. It’s the deep stuff too. Even the stuff that should obviously take longer, because it’s worth it.

Here’s the bad news for us gotta-have-it-now types: maturity in Christ is no sprint. It’s a crawl. It takes time. Lots of it. That’s true as a whole and that’s true when it comes to our calling.

To be clear, I’m not talking about your “primary calling.” If you’re a Christ-follower, you and I have that in common: to glorify God with our lives and carry out the mission of Christ on earth to “make disciples of all nations” (Matthew 28:19). Every single follower of Jesus is given this high calling. No exceptions. Then from there, you may be called to be a wife or a husband, a mother or a father, a grandparent, etc. These are “role-based callings” that we all have.

But what we’ve been talking about in this Calling It What It Is series of articles is chiefly our calling within the mission and Body of Christ. And I think understanding that calling is a lifelong journey. Not a Saturday afternoon project.

Even Apostles Take Some Time

I think we may often read the Apostle Paul backwards. We know the finished version: the Apostle, missionary to the Gentiles, church planter, theologian, writer of a huge chunk of the New Testament. So it’s easy to picture him getting knocked in the head by Jesus in Acts 9 and immediately articulating his lifelong calling with ease.

But I don’t think that’s what happened.

Around AD 33, Jesus met Saul on the road to Damascus. Saul asked, “Who are you, Lord?” Jesus told him exactly who He was, then told Saul to get up, go into the city, and wait to be told what to do next (Acts 9:5–6). A few days later, Jesus told Ananias that Saul was His “chosen instrument” to carry His name “before the Gentiles and kings and the children of Israel” (Acts 9:15).

That’s a calling. A pretty dramatic one, actually. Paul knew Jesus had claimed his life, and he knew carrying the name of Jesus to Gentiles would be a major part of what came next. But he didn’t have a detailed map for how all of that would play out.

And then came years of assignments. Paul preached in Damascus, spent time in Arabia, went to Jerusalem, ended up back in Tarsus, and eventually Barnabas brought him to Antioch. Around AD 48, the Holy Spirit told the church there, “Set apart for me Barnabas and Saul for the work to which I have called them” (Acts 13:2). Notice the wording. Paul had already been called. Now the Spirit was identifying a particular work underneath that calling.

That continued as he traveled. Around AD 50, Paul tried to preach in Asia, but the Holy Spirit stopped him. Then he tried Bithynia. Nope. Eventually God directed him toward Macedonia (Acts 16:6–10). Paul knew he was supposed to preach Jesus to the nations. He just didn’t always know which nation. Even so, he obeyed what he understood.

As time went on, Paul also seems to get better at articulating what God had called him to do. Around AD 51, he wrote to the Thessalonians that God had “entrusted” him with the gospel (1 Thessalonians 2:4).

By the mid-50s AD, the language gets even richer. In 1 Corinthians, Paul says, “Necessity is laid upon me. Woe to me if I do not preach the gospel!” and calls what he’s doing a “stewardship” entrusted to him (1 Corinthians 9:16–17). Then around AD 55, he writes in 2 Corinthians that God has given him “the ministry of reconciliation” and calls himself an “ambassador for Christ” (2 Corinthians 5:18–20).

Same calling. But Paul has had twenty years of obedience to understand more of what that calling actually means.

By around AD 57, listen to how precisely he can describe it in Acts 20: he says his goal is to “finish my course and the ministry that I received from the Lord Jesus, to testify to the gospel of the grace of God” (Acts 20:24). Around that same time, he writes Romans and calls himself an apostle “set apart for the gospel of God,” sent to bring about “the obedience of faith…among all the nations” (Romans 1:1, 5). He later calls himself “an apostle to the Gentiles” and explains that his ambition is to preach Christ specifically where Christ hasn’t already been named (Romans 11:13; 15:20).

Do you see how even the Apostle Paul was on a journey to understand (or at least articulate) his calling? At this point, Paul can explain not only that Jesus called him, but what he’s been entrusted with, who he’s especially sent to, what he hopes his ministry produces, and even the kinds of assignments that seem to fit that calling.

Those assignments keep changing, though. By around AD 62, Paul’s in prison. What is a traveling missionary to do when he suddenly can’t travel? Instead of deciding his calling must be over, he tells the Philippians that his imprisonment has actually helped “advance the gospel” (Philippians 1:12).

The assignment changed dramatically. But what God was doing through him didn’t.

And near the end of his life around AD 67, Paul can finally look back over the whole thing and say this: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith” (2 Timothy 4:7).

I don’t think Paul spent thirty years discovering different callings, do you? I think he spent thirty years gaining a deeper understanding of the same calling. All within the context of carrying out one God-given assignment after another.

He knew enough on the Damascus Road to start walking. It took years of walking to understand all that road actually meant.

Hold It Tight. But Hold It Loose.

Over my life, I’ve felt the Lord refine my understanding of my calling. I feel confident in it now: to teach God’s Word in a way that people can understand, apply it, and pass it on. But I also know there’s a measure of imperfection, and that I’m on a journey like everyone else. I wouldn’t be freaked out if He refined it again in five years and I understood it better.

In fact, I hope I understand it better in five years.

So hold it tightly, but hold it loosely. That made no sense, but bear with me. Hold it tightly in the sense that you’re going to confidently use it to better understand your assignments and yourself. But hold it loosely enough to let God refine it. It doesn’t mean you failed five years ago because you said your calling was something else.

One guardrail though: if your calling changes completely every two years, you’re probably confusing your calling with your assignment.

So…what’s your calling? Pray about it, then try writing it out in one sentence. Ask these refining questions after you do:

• If my role changed, would this calling change? If so, it may be more akin to an assignment.

• Does it help me make sense of the gifts I feel like God has given me?

• Do mature believers that I do life with recognize this in me?

Then try to live it. Serve. Pay attention. Ask trusted people who know you well what they see. Notice where gifting, burden, fruit, and opportunity keep coming together. Revisit the sentence a year from now and see if you can say it more clearly.

The Caller

One last thing to consider here: there is no calling without a Caller. So this isn’t just about finding your strongest internal desire. Gifts, joy, burden, and opportunity all definitely matter, but they’re interpreted under the lordship of the One who calls.

So pray. Write something down. Ask people who know you. Then go obey what you understand. You might be able to write a calling statement on Saturday afternoon but don’t expect to fully understand it by Sunday morning.

Paul knew enough on the Damascus Road to start walking. You probably do too.

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Ignore what confronts you.

Reinterpret what costs you.

Emphasize what benefits you.

Avoid what demands surrender.

The pages remain untouched, but the Bible in your heart becomes a very different book.

That’s what Redacted is about. The Bible in your hands may be intact, but the one shaping your decisions is often trimmed down to what feels safe, popular, and convenient.

This book presses on the passages we tend to black out—hell, suffering, sex, money, political allegiance, justice, discipleship, and the myth of “just me and Jesus.” Not to win arguments, but to win back integrity.

Get your copy now here:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H9B8716Z

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Think of a friend whose job, in your most humble opinion, just does not fit their personality or giftings. We all have them. The most outgoing, goofy guy you know who’s an accountant that crunches numbers all day. Your most introverted, analytical, nose-in-a-book friend who makes her money teaching third graders music and theatre.

Or maybe it’s a friend who hates doing a certain type of thing and it just so happens that that’s exactly what they do all day in their job. They hate organizing, details, and administrative work, but they work in logistics for a large company – spreadsheets upon spreadsheets.

My friend Karen is one of those people. She does a job that just doesn’t seem to fit her personality. Or her gifts. Even the title tells you what type of person should be doing it: “benevolence.” Maybe it’s years in vocational ministry, but that word sounds stuffy to me. It sounds like numbers, smells like piles of bills, feels like disappointment and despair.

Okay, maybe I’m being a little dramatic.

Benevolence basically means paying people’s bills. So, in general, people in benevolence ministries are number-crunchers who don’t have a problem telling a lot of people “no,” so they can say “yes” to a few. It can be… brutal.

Karen is so not “benevolence.” She’s bright, outgoing, artistic, and has clear, God-given gifts in evangelism, teaching, and prayer. And yet, I had the joy of serving at Beltway Park Church with her, where her title is “benevolence pastor.” Her 40-hour-a-week job is to do benevolence for a very large church where way more people ask for help than receive it.

But here’s the thing about Karen: she understood something early on that most of us don’t. She understood her job description told her where she was serving, but it didn’t dictate every way God could use her there.

So, while I was serving with her on staff, I would hear every week about the benevolence ministry. Not that we were paying people’s bills (although that’s awesome), but that people were being radically saved. In meetings with Karen. About their water bill. Sometimes in meetings with Karen about how she wasn’t going to be able to help with their water bill.

Karen would tell you that the water bill is just a hook. It’s what gets them in the door, but it’s not the reason God has them in her office. Jesus brings people to Karen so that she can share the gospel with them and lead them to Him.

Oh, and she also does “benevolence.”

Karen figured out from day one how to leverage that calling and gifting within an assignment that another person might carry very differently.

Use What You Received

The Apostle Peter wrote this about gifts like Karen’s: As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God’s varied grace… (1 Peter 4:10)

There’s a lot packed into that.

Each. God has equipped people differently.
Received a gift. You didn’t create it. You didn’t find it. You didn’t earn it. Someone gave it to you.
Use it. Not admire it, talk about it, wait for someone to recognize it. Put it to work.
Serve one another. The target for your gift is someone else. Not you.
Stewards. It doesn’t belong to you in the first place. You manage it for your master.
Of God’s grace. Your gift is a conduit of something specific: the grace of God. To you and through you.

I think more often than not we might approach gifting backward: “What position would allow me to use all my gifts?” Peter’s approach is closer to: “Who can I serve with what I’ve already received?” In other words…

Your gift doesn’t need a title to wear. It needs a person to serve.

A Preacher Who Leads or a Leader Who Preaches?

So where does gifting fit with everything we’ve been talking about in this series – calling and assignment? They overlap, but they aren’t the same thing. Let me break it down:

Those overlap heavily. They are not identical. And there may be seasons where your assignment doesn’t feel like it matches your gifting. In those seasons, be a Karen. Wait…not that kind of Karen. Be like my friend Karen, who leverages her calling and gifting within an assignment that (from the outside) looks like it wouldn’t fit.

I want that for you, because… there’s freedom there. There’s freedom in using what God gave you, no matter your assignment. There’s freedom in finding room for your gifts right where you are – no need to wear a title, because you can serve a person.

As a lead pastor, I read an article (or maybe a Facebook post) that talked about two kinds of lead pastors: a “preacher who leads” or a “leader who preaches.” It helped me find my fit.

Because you may not realize it, but pastors do a lot more than preach. They don’t really teach you this in seminary, but as a pastor, I’ve spent much more of my ministry career organizing, budgeting, reporting, deciding, coaching, managing, and emailing than teaching or preaching. By far. By the way, email is part of the curse in Genesis 3… I’m sure of it.

I would consider myself more of a “preacher who leads” rather than a “leader who preaches,” although I’m sure some would disagree. I like leading, and I believe God has gifted me some in leadership. But if I drill down further, I think even the specific ways I’m gifted in leadership (if I am) are tied to teaching, explaining, and moving people along a path.

Stop Waiting

I say all that to bring us here: Instead of asking, “Does my job perfectly fit me?” Maybe we should be asking: “Where is there room inside this assignment for me to faithfully use what God gave me?”

Think about it. There is no sacred/secular divide. That means every facet of human life is simultaneously a medium for ministry.

Office. Classroom. Job site. Kitchen. Team meeting. Neighborhood. Carpool line.

Stop waiting for the perfect platform and use your gifting in your assignment. In all your assignments.

I talk to people often who hate their job. Some have stuck it out for many years. Then there are others who seem to change jobs with the weather. They’re on an endless journey towards a perfect fit that just doesn’t exist.

But there’s something to be said for the joy of serving in things you don’t love—helping in ways that stretch you within the assignment. Some assignments expose weakness instead of showcasing strength. That isn’t automatically evidence that you’re in the wrong place. Sometimes it’s where you learn, “My grace is sufficient for you…” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

When I’m given an assignment that’s difficult and stretching, I find Jesus strong and the Holy Spirit gracious in ways I wouldn’t have otherwise.

“I’m not gifted for that” can be useful self-awareness. But it can also become sanctified language for: “I don’t want to.” What I’m saying is that your gifting does not exempt you from serving.

You may be gifted to teach and still need to answer email. Gifted to lead and still need to stack chairs. Gifted creatively and still need to finish the spreadsheet.

The goal isn’t a frictionless assignment where every responsibility lights you up. The goal is to use the gift God has given you. In the assignment He’s given you. To serve the people He’s given you. With the grace He’s given you.

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• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

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“What do you do?”

Ever been asked that before? Or maybe: “What do you do for a living?” It’s one of the first things people want to know when you meet them. And I feel like it’s pretty telling when it comes to what our culture values, don’t you?

In part one of this “Calling It What It Is” series, I told the story of how I was fired from a lead pastor position on the spot one day. I still don’t know why. I won’t retell that story here, but I will say that during the season before I was able to get another ministry job (and really throughout the whole four years I wasn’t a lead pastor specifically), I hated when people asked me that common “So…what do you do?” get-to-know-you question.

I had answered that the same way for many years: “I’m a pastor” or “I pastor such-and-such church.” But all of a sudden, I had no answer. If you’ve ever been “between jobs” or stuck in a job you feel overqualified for, you’re probably feeling a little PTSD quickening of the heart rate right now.

Awkward.

More than awkward, it’s embarrassing. I felt shame in those moments, didn’t you? Why do you think that is? I think it’s because…

Who I am is tied too tightly to what I do.
My identity has become tangled up in my calling, assignment, and gifting.

And I think yours probably has too. Here was another tell for me: When I stopped being a lead pastor, the difficulty wasn’t just financial or existential (am I really called?). It was that nobody needed me anymore. Nobody looked forward to a sermon from me Sunday. Nobody was waiting on my leadership. Nobody was calling me “pastor” because I held that special role in their lives.

I’m afraid sometimes we don’t just enjoy our calling.
We might depend on our calling to tell us we matter.

And that’s a dangerous, unhealthy place to be.

Jesus saw this coming in Luke 10. He’d just sent the seventy-two disciples out to do ministry on their own. They had been given a job—an assignment tied to the umbrella of their calling as followers of Jesus. And they had been wildly successful.

The seventy-two returned with joy, saying, “Lord, even the demons are subject to us in your name!” (Luke 10:17)

They’re pumped! About what they did. And I would be too, wouldn’t you? Actually, I can take that out of the hypothetical land of “would.” I’ve been pumped about what I did, what I accomplished, the results so many times. So pumped that it’s the first thing I rejoiced about. I’ve done that before. I do that often. I’ll do it again.

Jesus saw where rejoicing in accomplishments could lead. He knew that we’d easily get our identity tangled up in our calling, assignment, and gifting. So, He answered the disciples this way:

Behold, I have given you authority to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy, and nothing shall hurt you. Nevertheless, do not rejoice in this, that the spirits are subject to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven. (Luke 10:19-20)

Your calling is something God does through you.
Your identity comes from what God has done for you.

Don’t get me wrong. The calling is good. Fruit is good. Being useful is good. We should rejoice in all that God does through us. The problem isn’t the ministry. The problem is asking ministry to provide something only Christ can provide. Something really good becomes dangerous when you ask it to tell you who you are.

Being useful to Jesus is wonderful,
but belonging to Jesus is infinitely better.

Because what happens when you’re not useful in that same way anymore? What happens when the assignment that you’ve gotten your identity from for so long…ends? Moms won’t be needed by their kids in the same way forever. One day, you’ll retire from your job (no matter how much they depend on you now).

What if you get injured or become ill in some serious way that causes you to step back from work, coaching, or volunteering? What if your ministry career hits a dry spot or just isn’t as successful as you thought it would be?

Or what if it is? Sometimes calling-as-identity is more dangerous when everything is going great.

This reminds me of Colossians 3: “For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ who is your life appears, then you also will appear with him in glory” (v. 3-4).

Christ…who is your life. Not Christ who helps your real life go well. Not Christ who empowers the calling that is your life. Not Christ who makes you succeed in your calling.

Christ is your life.

Who you are is not determined by what you do. It’s determined by what Christ has already done. Remember His words on the cross: τετέλεσται. (Pastor flex. Oh… you don’t read Koine Greek? My bad…)

You probably know what it means. “It is finished” (John 19:30). But tetelestai can also carry the sense of an obligation being completed or a debt discharged. Paid in full. Or maybe even better: “The deal is done.”

That’s where your identity lies. And that’s where it remains. Throughout all seasons, famine and harvest. In all assignments, easy and hard. No matter your role in your family or the workplace. Whether you’re a pastor, a teacher, a construction foreman, or “between jobs right now.”

Celebrate being used by God, but celebrate more that you belong to Him.
Rejoice in your calling, but rejoice more in your eternity.
Get pumped about what you get to do for God.

Just get more pumped about what God has already done for you.

“What do you do?” is a perfectly fine question.
It’s just a terrible answer to “Who are you?”

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One minute I was a pastor at a church I loved, and then the next… I wasn’t.

It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever been through. It was May 2020, the height of COVID. The small governing board of the church I had loved and led for over three years (the leadership team I was part of and gave direction to) called me into a meeting and simply said, “Turn in your laptop and your keys. We’ve decided to terminate your employment.”

Just like that. I still don’t know why. I just know that while I’m imperfect, I definitely hadn’t done anything even approaching a “fireable offense.”

Just like that. I didn’t have an income. My family needed to sell our house, find a rental, and figure things out.

Just like that. I needed a new job. In the middle of COVID lockdown. When no one was hiring.

Just like that. The rental we could afford meant we couldn’t host our foster daughter any longer. It was devastating.

And just like that. After 16 years of full-time vocational ministry, I wasn’t a pastor anymore.

The thing is, I had always believed that I was “called to be a pastor.” God had called me. So, I was left with a question: Did I just get fired from my calling? Was I not “called to be a pastor” anymore?

Or was there a difference between my job and my calling?

Called Forever

You see, when I started in ministry, I started in youth ministry. And the hardcore vibe at the time went like this: “Youth ministry is not a steppingstone. You need to be in youth ministry forever if you’re going to be a youth pastor.”

I became a youth pastor because generally that’s what you do if you want to go into ministry and you’re 22, but I really thought I would be a youth pastor forever. I was like, God, I don’t want to use this as a stepping stone. I want to be in this for the long haul, so I’m going to go deep with students and be a youth pastor forever… that’s my calling.

Well, a year and a half into being a youth pastor, I took a mission trip to China with a lot of students and my wife, Erin. Erin and I were both praying during a prayer walk around the Giant Wild Goose Pagoda in Xi’an, China. Afterward, we came together and both said, “God told me something weird.” And then, “You go first.”

It was that we were supposed to come back to China. So we started that process. Everybody was supportive and we became missionaries to China. And I really thought I’d be a missionary forever. I thought that was my calling: I’m going to be a missionary until I die.

When we came back for furlough after being there for about five years, we felt the Lord leading us to pastor churches and lean into a gifting to preach. It was hard. It was one of the worst transitions of my life because I loved being in China—absolutely loved it. I felt like the Lord said, “If you stay in China, I will bless you because you’re sacrificing for Me, but it won’t be My preferred will for your life.” It was hard to tell leaders, friends, and supporters.

Then I became a lead pastor in Green Bay, Wisconsin, in the frozen tundra. God sent us to a dying church where people were literally bringing toilet paper from home because the church couldn’t afford it. And I thought, I’m called to be a lead pastor. I’m going to be a lead pastor in this church until I die or can’t do it anymore. Then about four years later, after experiencing God turn the church around, He had me pass the baton to a different pastor. Now they’re even healthier and reaching people I don’t think I could’ve led them to reach.

We prayerfully went from Wisconsin to Illinois and I thought, This is it. This is the church God has called me to for life. And then one day, I went from being a lead pastor to being out of vocational ministry in the time it took to say, “We’ve decided to terminate your employment.” Just like that.

Assignment Versus Calling

What if your assignment and your calling are not the same thing?

Think about 1 Corinthians 7:17 for a second: Only let each person lead the life that the Lord has assigned to him, and to which God has called him…

The life God has assigned to him and the life to which God has called him. Both. Paul isn’t giving career advice, but he is telling Christians to follow Jesus faithfully within the life presently entrusted to them. So isn’t it interesting that the Holy Spirit uses both ideas in the same sentence? I think we often collapse them into one. We think of our job or assignment as our calling. You feel God led you to serve in kids ministry, so you think that’s your lifelong calling. God made you a teacher, so that’s your calling. He has you in the vocation of doctor, so that’s your calling.

In that first transition from youth pastor to missionary, I began to develop this understanding of calling and ask questions about it. What I came down to was this principle:

Calling and assignment are not the same thing.

Calling also can’t be the same as vocation, can it? Think about it. If I think I’m called to be—you fill in the blank—what happens when I retire? If I retire at 65 and live to 85, are those 20 years just living outside of my calling? What if I get fired?

You had a calling before you were working, you have a calling while you’re working, and you will have a calling after. We can’t limit our calling to our assignments.

What is your calling? Every Christ-follower is first called to Christ and His mission. Within that, God shapes each of us to contribute in particular ways. We’re also given role-based callings like being a wife, husband, mother, father, or friend. We’ll come back to some of that later in this series.

What I’m describing here is that broader thread that can continue through multiple jobs and seasons. And if I were drawing it on a whiteboard, I would draw an umbrella—a half circle—and that’s my calling. Underneath that would be different assignments through the years.

For me personally, I feel like the Lord has narrowed my calling down to this: to preach and teach the Word of God in a way people can understand, apply, and pass on. It’s pretty general, isn’t it? But I believe that’s what I’m supposed to do. Right now, as I write this article, I’m operating in my calling. When I wrote Redacted, I was operating under my calling.

Then I look at each of my assignments. I can look back (hindsight being 20/20) and see how my calling was flowing through each assignment. As a youth pastor, a missionary, a missions/outreach pastor, and a lead pastor. It looks different in each assignment, but my calling is always there.

You know what Erin and I did about two weeks after I was fired from being a lead pastor in Illinois? We found a church and started serving in kids ministry. I did my best to teach the Bible to fourth-grade boys every Sunday in a way they could understand it, apply it, and pass it on.

Look Through the Right Lens

I think we most often look at our calling through the lens of our assignment, instead of our assignment through the lens of our calling. And that’s backwards.

Just because I’m here right now doing this thing God wants me to do doesn’t mean it’s my calling. Instead, I have to look at my assignment and think, okay, how does it move me toward my calling? How can I find my calling within my assignment without getting those two things confused?

Right now, I serve as Lead Pastor to an amazing church called New Life. My prayer and deepest desire is genuinely to be in this role until I retire or die. For real. But if that turns out not to be God’s plan (even though I’m convinced it is!), my calling will not change.

Only my assignment will. One minute I was a pastor at a church I loved, and then the next… I wasn’t.

But I was never fired from my calling.

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I hate when I don’t have what people need.

Ever been there? Maybe you’re sitting with a distraught teenage daughter, and you don’t feel like you have what you need to help her. Maybe you’ve tried everything with your toddler, and he still won’t stop throwing fits or stealing your favorite cookies from your best hiding places.

Your parents are aging and going through dementia. Your friend got laid off and the bank is coming for his house. Your neighbors seem like good people but they don’t know Jesus, and you don’t know how to help them.

As a pastor, I’m hit constantly with this feeling. Jesus said we’d always have the poor among us, and pastoral ministry has shown me how painfully true that is. There are people in need everywhere. And I don’t have enough to help them.

And Jesus’ command to make disciples? Yeah right. I don’t have the experience. The Bible knowledge. The right answers. I just don’t have enough.

Enough money. Enough wisdom. Enough margin. Enough faith. Enough… bread.

Okay, maybe not that last one. I usually have plenty of bread, because I love me some carbs. But the disciples were faced with that scenario. Their master, the Master, asked them for bread and they didn’t have what they needed to follow His command. Imagine it. The Messiah you’ve been waiting for your whole life (and your people have been waiting for through generations) asks you to do something and you just can’t.

It’s in Mark 6, and Jesus was teaching for a long time to a large crowd. They were so captivated by the truth that they didn’t eat all day. They were far from home and Jesus had compassion on them. Easy fix, right? Simply feed them. So that’s what Jesus tells the disciples to do. Just one problem: there were five thousand men, not to mention women and children. And no Costco in sight.

In the end, Jesus does this amazing miracle where He multiplies a few loaves and fish into enough to feed the whole crowd, plus twelve baskets of leftovers. But it’s something He says to the disciples that’s important for us today.

And when it grew late, his disciples came to him and said, “This is a desolate place, and the hour is now late. Send them away to go into the surrounding countryside and villages and buy themselves something to eat.” But he answered them, “You give them something to eat.” And they said to him, “Shall we go and buy two hundred denarii worth of bread and give it to them to eat?” (Mark 6:35-37)

Jesus says, “You feed them,” and they’re like, “We don’t have what they need!” Sound familiar? Ever been there? You don’t have what you need to help. You don’t have what you need to get through it. You don’t have what you need to… follow Jesus’ command. But look at what Jesus asks the disciples:

And he said to them, “How many loaves do you have? Go and see.” (Mark 6:38)

He asks them, not for what they don’t have, but for what they do have. It’s as if He was saying, “Just give Me what you already have and I’ll make it enough.”

What if Jesus is saying the same thing to you? What if He’s not asking for something you don’t have? What if He just wants you to give Him what little you do have, so He can do a miracle? It’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? Life-changing if you let it be. In 2 Corinthians 1, the Apostle Paul writes something that gives this even more weight:

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction… (2 Corinthians 1:3-4a)

It’s comforting knowing that God cares and comforts, but it’s the next part that’s meaningful when it comes to feeling like you don’t have what you need to follow Jesus’ command to make disciples and help the hurting:

[God] comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. (2 Corinthians 1:4)

If this is true, think of the implications! It means that whatever God has brought you through is not just for you. It’s for the people around you too. God has given you what you need to be what the people around you need. He’s given you enough wisdom, love, compassion, and faith. Even the struggles you’ve faced are for you to use to help others, make disciples, and lead people closer to Jesus.

As long as you give it to Jesus.

That’s the key. You give Him the little lunch you brought. He does the miracle. You follow His command with what you have. And He makes it… enough. Your part doesn’t have to be every part. It just has to be surrendered.

That may not mean you can stop your parent’s dementia, but you can sit patiently through the story you’ve already heard six times. You may not be able to save your friend’s house, but you can listen, pray, give what you can, and connect him with someone who knows what to do.

You may not have every answer for your teenager or your neighbor, but you can stay present, open Scripture, tell the truth, and share the comfort God has given you in difficult times. None of that is everything. But it’s the bread in your hand. And when you put it in Jesus’ hands, He makes it enough.

You don’t have to be everything to someone in order to help them toward Jesus. You just have to faithfully give them the little God has entrusted to you.

So what’s in your hand? How many loaves do you have?

God’s not asking you to give what you don’t have. He’s asking you to make disciples with the life you do have. Make room. Add a chair. And open your hands.

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“Oh and just one more thing…”

Ever had a boss, spouse, or friend say that phrase after just unloading enough stuff on you to last a lifetime? You’re walking away thinking, how am I going to handle this? and then they throw on one more thing.

It’s the last straw. And you’re the camel. And your back is breaking.

That’s how it feels when you’re trying to follow Jesus’ commands and live your busy life and then someone throws out – “Oh, and you need to make disciples.”

What? Make disciples? Sure. Great. Absolutely. Where exactly would you like me to put that in my already overflowing life?

Tuesday already has practice. Wednesday has small group. Thursday has the school thing nobody remembered until this morning. Friday’s nowhere to be found. Saturday is six sporting events spread across four zip codes. And Sunday is apparently the day Christians are supposed to rest by volunteering for five hours.

Now I’m supposed to add “make disciples?” What exactly does that even mean? A weekly discipleship meeting? Curriculum? A class? Does small group count?

That’s how a lot of us hear Jesus’ command – another thing we should be doing but probably won’t. We imagine a perfectly scheduled hour at a coffee shop with matching journals, thoughtful questions, and two emotionally healthy people whose calendars line up every week… until Jesus returns.

Disciple-making feels impossible. There just isn’t another room in the schedule. Every room is occupied, several have people sleeping on the floor, and somebody’s asking whether the basement can be converted into a home office. Or a man cave. Or a Pilates studio. Or all three.

And to be clear, disciple-making does cost something. It costs time—and time is the one currency modern people are deceived into thinking we don’t have. It costs margin, awkwardness, rejection, and control. When people actually open their lives, they bring the real stuff with them. Disciple-making doesn’t happen by accident, and it doesn’t fit neatly into a spreadsheet or church program.

But what if we’ve mistaken “costly” for “separate”? What if we’re falling into that sacred-secular divide again and over-compartmentalizing following Jesus? What if disciple-making isn’t supposed to become another life you stack on top of the one you already have? What if, instead of building another room, you’re just supposed to put another chair in the room you’re already using?

That’s what the Apostle Paul did. Writing to the Thessalonians, he said, “We were ready to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our own selves” (1 Thessalonians 2:8).

Paul didn’t just send them content. He gave them access. They didn’t only hear what he believed. They watched him work, suffer, pray, love, endure opposition, and all the while keep following Jesus. They saw faith under pressure and truth moving through an actual life.

A polished lesson can tell someone what you believe, but a shared life lets them see what belief does to you.

And that shared-life approach didn’t come out of nowhere. Before Paul followed Jesus, he was a Pharisee. He knew the Torah. He’d been shaped by the Scriptures from childhood. So it’s no surprise that his ministry reflected the vision God gave His people in Deuteronomy 6:

Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one. You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. (Deuteronomy 6:4-6)

And if God would’ve stopped there – with words like heart, soul, and even might – we would be able to over-spiritualize it and leave it in some lofty place we never get to. Or worse, consider it done because “Jesus knows my heart.” But God doesn’t leave it there.

You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise. You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates. (Deuteronomy 6:4-9)

That isn’t a picture of somebody adding seven more meetings. It’s a picture of truth moving through ordinary life – at home, on the road, in the morning, at bedtime. Around the table you’re already sitting at. The point wasn’t, “Build a separate religious life next to your real one.” It was, “Let God’s Word fill the life you’re already living.”

The implication is life-changing: Disciple-making isn’t a program you launch. It’s a life you live.

Don’t hear what I’m not saying. Programs and studies can help. I’m a pastor. I believe in groups, classes, books, and calendars almost enough to make them sacraments. But none of them can replace a life close enough to observe. A workbook can explain forgiveness, but it can’t let someone watch you forgive. A teaching can define repentance, but it can’t let someone hear you say, “I was wrong. Will you forgive me?”

At some point, discipleship has to move out of the meeting and into the house, the car, the conflict, the ordinary Tuesday where following Jesus becomes visible. Maybe you don’t need to add another night or another thing. Maybe you just need to stop doing everything alone.

You’re already eating dinner, so put another chair at the table. You’re already driving to practice, so let someone ride with you. You’re already fixing something, running errands, serving at church, sitting through a game, making decisions, working through conflict, and trying to pray when you don’t know what to do.

Invite someone close enough to see it. Share with them not only the gospel of God but also your life.

Now, putting another chair at the table doesn’t automatically make disciples. You can eat dinner with someone for ten years and never move past sports, work, weather, and how expensive eggs and gas are getting.

Paul shared both the gospel and his life. We need both too. Truth without proximity can stay theoretical. Proximity without truth can stay friendly but never become discipleship.

Disciple-making is relational, intentional, and repeatable. It looks like moving toward people on purpose and letting your life become a place where someone else can finally see what following Jesus actually means. I unpack that framework more in chapter 10 of Redacted, but the basic idea is simple: proximity, frequency, and truth.

That means the empty chair costs something. Convenience because another person’s questions won’t always fit the schedule. Privacy because someone may see the clutter, the tension, or the prayer that doesn’t sound all that faith-filled. Control because shared life is much harder to manage than a meeting with a start time and an agenda.

But that’s also why it works. People aren’t only receiving information about Jesus. They’re watching His truth enter a kitchen, a marriage, a disappointment, a decision… a normal week.

So maybe you really don’t have room for another meeting. Maybe the thought of adding one more thing makes you want to flip out.

Don’t build another room. Just put another chair at the table.

You don’t need to invent a new life to help someone follow Jesus. You need to redeem the life you already have—and make room for someone in it.

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Laundry is one of the clearest pieces of evidence that life under the curse is real. I think the Hebrew for “thorns and thistles” in Genesis 3 can also be translated as “missing socks and fitted sheets.”

You wash it. Dry it. Fold it. Put it away. Then by the time you get back to the laundry basket, it’s somehow already full of more dirty clothes to wash! It’s a terrible cycle of pain, death, and despair that never ends. And to make things worse? There is a monster in your laundry room that only eats socks. There has to be.

Dishes are the same. You can empty the sink, load the dishwasher, and stand there for twelve glorious seconds admiring your work. But that’s all you get. Because then somebody walks in holding a dirty bowl. They were obviously sent by Satan to test your faith.

I’d rather do almost anything than repeat chores that undo themselves. Go to the dentist. Assemble IKEA furniture without instructions. Be lightly tortured by Genghis Khan. Because at least at the end, you could say, “Well, that’s over.”

You can come home from an incredible church service where you worshipped, heard from God, and felt ready to change the world. Then you walk through the door and tumble directly into the black hole of despair and all things unclean called laundry.

One moment you’re thinking about eternity. The next, you’re scraping dried oatmeal out of a bowl. That feels like a spiritual downgrade, doesn’t it? That’s what bothers me. I don’t like doing things that don’t seem to matter in the end. I want to do important things. Lasting things.

Holy things.

But is that actually the way it works?

Because I think we sort our lives that way—into categories or rooms—without even noticing. There’s the sacred room: prayer, Scripture, worship, church, serving. Then there’s the secular room: work, traffic, homework, dishes, laundry, errands, bills, and bedtime.

One counts. The other is what you survive so you can get back to what counts. The thing is, the Bible won’t let us keep that divide.

In Colossians 3, the Apostle Paul starts with identity. If you belong to Jesus, you’ve been raised with Him and given a new life. So the old patterns—sexual sin, greed, anger, malice, lying, and the rest—can’t keep running the show. They belong to the person you were, not the person Christ is making you (see Colossians 3:1–11).

Then Paul tells us what replaces them:

Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. (Colossians 3:12-14)

But Paul doesn’t leave those qualities as theory. He puts them into real life. He says Christ’s peace should rule in us, Christ’s Word should dwell in us, and gratitude should shape us (see Colossians 3:15-16). Then he stretches the application as wide as he possibly can in verse 17:

And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him. (Colossians 3:17)

Whatever you do.

That’s inconveniently broad, isn’t it? I mean, surely there are some things we can’t really do for Jesus. Surely the Bible doesn’t really mean everything. Does it?

But Paul proves that he means it. He immediately walks this new life into marriage, parenting, work, and leadership in the back half of Colossians 3 and the beginning of chapter 4. God puts patience in a house. He puts forgiveness in a relationship. He puts humility under authority. He puts love around people who interrupt, disappoint, irritate, and exhaust you.

The Bible refuses to separate becoming like Jesus from the ordinary rooms where you actually live.

It means there isn’t a spiritual version of your life hiding underneath the regular one. There’s one life, and Jesus intends to inhabit all of it.

The dishwasher isn’t keeping you from discipleship. It’s showing you whether discipleship has reached the dishwasher.

It’s easy to feel patient when no one’s testing your patience. It’s easy to feel servant-hearted when you’re singing about surrender. Then somebody leaves a plate three inches from the dishwasher, and your spiritual formation enters the valley of the shadow of death.

Ordinary life reveals what’s being formed in us. You don’t know whether patience is growing until someone makes you wait. You don’t know whether gentleness is growing until you’re angry. You don’t know whether forgiveness is growing until someone hurts you.

But ordinary life doesn’t only reveal formation.
In the hands of Jesus, it becomes part of it.

I’m not saying that happens automatically. Irritation by itself won’t make you patient. Repetition by itself won’t make you faithful. Some people suffer through the same bitter thing over and over for forty years and just become more skilled at…being bitter.

But when you remain in Jesus and surrender the moment to His Spirit, ordinary pressure—or even monotony—becomes material He can use. The interruption becomes a place to practice love. The repetitive task becomes a place to practice faithfulness. The behind-the-scenes service becomes a place to practice humility.

That’s why spiritual practices matter so much. Prayer, Scripture, worship, gathered church, confession, and Christian community root us in Jesus. They train our attention and open us to the Spirit’s work. But they aren’t meant to become an escape from ordinary life.

Your quiet time isn’t the finish line.
It’s preparation for the life waiting outside the room.

You don’t read about compassion so you can admire compassion. You stay near Jesus so His compassion can show up when your spouse is hurting and you’re tired. You don’t pray for patience so you can enjoy ten peaceful minutes. You pray because eventually a child will ask the same question again, that one coworker will send another annoying email, and someone (everyone?) will create more laundry.

The goal isn’t to feel close to Jesus for 30 minutes.
It’s to become like Him for the other 1,410.

This doesn’t mean every demand is from God or every unhealthy environment should be endured. Abuse isn’t a spiritual exercise. Sometimes faithfulness means saying no, setting a boundary, confronting sin, asking for help, or leaving danger.

But most of us aren’t being destroyed by the laundry. We’re just offended that becoming like Jesus is happening somewhere so unimpressive.

We want a dramatic assignment. Jesus gives us a sink.

We want to do something holy. Jesus asks us to become holy while doing what’s already in front of us.

The task may be ordinary.
The person being formed through it isn’t.

The sink will fill again. The laundry will get dirty again. But by the grace of God, you don’t have to be exactly the same person the next time you stand there.

There is no regular life.
There’s only the life you have—and Jesus is already at work in it.

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

Want to Use This Article?

• You’re welcome to use my original ideas and material without attribution in sermons, teachings, or conversations, though sending more readers my way is always a blessing.

• When using this material in writing, just include a link to the original article.

• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

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I keep waiting for life to calm down.

You probably do too. After this project. After the school year. After baseball season. After vacation. After we recover from vacation. After the holidays. After the kids get older. After work settles down. After we move. After I finally get my act together.

Then I’ll have time to… fill in the blank. Rest. Spend more one-on-one time with the kids. Start doing date night again. Or worse: pray more consistently, read Scripture like I know I should, deal with that sin, join a group, serve somewhere, have people over, share my faith, repair the relationship…

After [whatever present thing is eating my calendar] is over, I’ll finally have time to become the kind of deeply rooted, emotionally healthy, spiritually mature person that I long to be. Future Jake will get there. Future Jake will have the time, discipline, and perseverance to make it happen.

Future Jake is impressive.

He wakes up early without complaining. He never loses patience with his kids. His inbox is empty, his house is clean, and nobody interrupts his quiet time to ask what’s for dinner.

I think Future Jake must live in a cabin…in the woods…by himself…with no internet signal.

Unfortunately, Future Jake doesn’t exist.

Here’s what I’ve learned waiting on that future era of spiritual and emotional bliss to arrive: every season promises to hand me a quieter life when it leaves, but then the next one walks in carrying its own calendar, problems, and excuses. Every. Single. Time.

The life I’m waiting for is always right around the corner. The problem is, my life is more like a roundabout—I’m forever curving left. It’s nothing but corners.

That’s because the life I’m waiting for isn’t real. There’s no future version of you with unlimited energy, perfect discipline, no distractions, no wounds, no demanding people, no bills, no responsibilities, and a completely open calendar.

And Jesus didn’t call a future version of you.
He called you—here and now.

There’s a scene near the end of Luke 9 that has always felt unusually harsh to me. Several people walk up to Jesus and express a desire to follow Him, and at first it sounds great. These are new disciples stepping forward. But each conversation exposes something.

As they were going along the road, someone said to him, “I will follow you wherever you go.” And Jesus said to him, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” (Luke 9:57-58)

That’s Jesus-speak for “I doubt it.” He’s telling the man that following Him will cost more comfort than the man is ready to give up.

To another he said, “Follow me.” But he said, “Lord, let me first go and bury my father.” And Jesus said to him, “Leave the dead to bury their own dead. But as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” (Luke 9:59-60)

Ouch. They said they’d follow Jesus after they took care of burying their father and Jesus basically said, “It’s now or never.”

Yet another said, “I will follow you, Lord, but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” Jesus said to him, “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” (Luke 9:61-62)

“I’ll follow You, but first…” I bet that’s one of the most common prayers Christians pray. And never realize they’re praying it.

Jesus, I’ll go all-in with You, but first let me get through this season.
I’ll obey You, but first let me feel more confident.
I’ll forgive, but first let them understand how badly they hurt me.
I’ll confess, but first let me see if I can get it under control myself.
I’ll give, but first let me get the promotion…so it doesn’t cost as much.
I’ll tell someone about You, but first give me an opportunity where there’s no possibility of awkwardness, rejection, or them asking a follow-up question I don’t know how to answer.

I’ll follow You, Lord. But first.

The uncomfortable thing is that the reasons these people give Jesus in Luke 9 don’t sound evil to me. That’s what makes the passage seem harsh. Because it’s not like Jesus is only confronting drunkenness, greed, sexual immorality, or open rebellion. He’s confronting delayed obedience.

I don’t think He’s condemning responsibility. I say that because I know you’re thinking, “But I can’t just quit my job, stop taking care of my kids, and move to a monastery to pray all day, can I?” Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but…no. You can’t. So go make dinner, set your alarm tonight before you go to bed, and make sure you take a shower. You got big-kid stuff to do tomorrow.

Jesus isn’t condemning responsibility. Family matters. Work matters. Grief matters. Some seasons really are brutal. Sometimes the baby’s up six times a night, your dad’s health is getting worse, and your job is acting like every email is a five-alarm fire. Sometimes getting through the day takes everything you have.

Jesus knows the weight you carry better than anyone does. But His knowledge of your limits doesn’t mean His invitation has been postponed.

He calls you here—not in the imaginary life where your children never interrupt you, your boss never frustrates you, your body never gets tired, your church never disappoints you, and obedience finally becomes convenient.

Here. In this life. With these people. With this schedule. With this amount of energy.

We imagine that saying no to Jesus would sound dramatic. We picture shaking our fist at heaven and announcing that we refuse to follow Him. And we think, I would never do that!

But what if we just found a more respectable way to say no?

“Not yet.”

“Not yet” lets us feel spiritual because we still intend to obey eventually. We haven’t rejected Jesus. We’ve simply rescheduled Him. But delayed obedience has a way of becoming permanent disobedience. In other words, we give it to Future Jake and Future Jake never shows.

The conversation never happens. The confession never comes. The habit never begins. The relationship never changes. The person never hears about Jesus. The thing God made clear stays parked on a spiritual to-do list while we keep waiting to become someone who’ll finally do it.

Future You gets blamed for a lot. Future You is supposed to get serious about Scripture, finally deal with the hidden sin, become generous, repair the marriage, join the group, start serving, invite the neighbor, and become more intentional at home.

You keep handing that imaginary you the list, but here’s the harsh truth: imaginary you can’t obey Jesus for real you.

So what do we do? I’ll tell you what we don’t do: overhaul our entire lives before bedtime. That would just become another impossible spiritual project for us to feel guilty about not finishing. No, let’s try something different.

Let’s just stop using our fear of the distance we have to travel
to avoid the next clear step.

You may not know how you’ll follow Jesus faithfully for the next twenty years. Or how you’ll ever manage to get to where you want to be. You don’t need to. You just need to respond to what He’s asking today.

Maybe today’s obedience is sending a text. Or admitting the truth. Or opening your Bible before opening your feed. Maybe it’s apologizing without explaining why your sin was understandable. Maybe it’s praying with your spouse or child instead of continuing to say you want your home to become more spiritual.

Maybe it’s doing the last thing God made clear before asking Him to show you something new.

You’re not disqualified because your life is complicated. Trust me, Jesus is well aware of your responsibilities and struggles. But you also can’t keep using a complicated life as permission to ignore Jesus.

So where are you saying, “I’ll follow You, but first…”? What act of obedience have you assigned to tomorrow because obeying today feels too costly?

The life you’re imagining may never arrive, but Jesus’ invitation to abundant life already has.

Follow Him in the life you have.

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

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• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

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Yesterday was my 22^nd wedding anniversary.

I know, I know. I’m surprised that she made it that long married to this guy too. I married wayyy up! But I digress…

So I did the good-husband thing. I made a reservation at a nice restaurant. I didn’t just wake up thinking we’d stumble into it. I picked a place, checked the time, and called ahead. I arranged the conditions so that when we showed up, there’d be a table waiting for us.

I know. You know how reservations work. Hang with me, because it got me thinking: that kind of planning proves intention, purpose, and resolve. And when it’s something good like an anniversary dinner, that’s great. Or on the spiritual side of things – establishing a Bible-reading habit, creating a generosity budget, etc. – even better.

But what about when it’s on the not-so-good side of things? That also proves intention, purpose, and resolve, doesn’t it?

You see, I think when it comes to sin, many of us are already resolved to carry it out ahead of time. We pick the place and the time. We keep the contact or the app. We leave the door open and get our excuses ready. We arrange the conditions.

Then, when we sin again, we call it a struggle. But is it really a struggle?

“I’m struggling with it.” Maybe. Or maybe “struggling” just sounds more spiritual than saying, “I’ve already decided I’m doing it again.”

I don’t think those are the same thing.

Struggles are real and I’m not discounting that. Temptation is real. Weakness is real. Some patterns are incredibly hard to break. Some sins get their hooks deep, and getting free may take years of confession, accountability, counseling, boundaries, tears, prayer, and Spirit-powered endurance. Romans 7 actually gives language for the Christian who hates sin, wants obedience, feels the war inside, and cries out for rescue. It’s one of my favorite passages in all of the Bible.

For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate…For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing…So I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil lies close at hand. (Romans 7:15, 18-19, 21)

That kind of struggle is painful. But it’s honest. The struggle is real. What I’m talking about is different.

I’m talking about the kind of “struggle” where you already know what’s going to happen tonight. You already know what website you’ll visit, who you’ll text, what story you’ll tell, what bottle you’ll reach for, what conversation you’ll enter, what bitterness you’ll rehearse, what anger you’ll feed, what compromise you’ll make.

You’re not surprised. You’re not ambushed. You’re not fighting with both hands.

You made a reservation.

And then you baptized the reservation with the word “struggle” so you’d feel better about your sin. And that’s where Romans 13 cuts clean. The Apostle Paul tells believers:

…let us cast off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light. Let us walk properly as in the daytime, not in orgies and drunkenness, not in sexual immorality and sensuality, not in quarreling and jealousy. But put on the Lord Jesus Christ… (Romans 13:12-14)

And then look at the last part of the verse. Don’t miss it:

…and make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires. (Romans 13:14)

“Make no provision.” It means preparation. It means you don’t stock the shelves for the sin you claim you don’t want. You don’t set the table for rebellion and then act shocked when rebellion sits down to eat.

Planned disobedience is not the same as temptation.

Temptation knocks. Planned disobedience leaves the door unlocked, lights a candle, and says, “Come by around 9:30. I made a reservation for us.”

We say, “I’m struggling with lust,” but we keep the private account, the unfiltered device, the late-night phone, and the secret pattern protected.

We say, “I’m struggling with gossip,” but we keep showing up to the same conversations with the same people and acting like our mouth got hijacked.

We say, “I’m struggling with anger,” but we rehearse the speech, sharpen the comeback, and wait for the right moment to detonate.

We say, “I’m struggling with generosity,” but we’ve already decided God gets whatever is left after comfort has eaten first.

That’s not Romans 7 struggle. That’s Romans 13 provision. For the flesh. For sin.

And maybe you go, “Whoa, calm down a little bit here. What about grace? What about mercy? What about Jesus’s sacrifice covering my sin?”

Here’s the thing: grace doesn’t make sin safe. It makes sinners safe.

Romans 6:1 asks the question some of us are quietly living even if we’d never say it out loud: “Are we to continue in sin that grace may abound?” God’s answer is not, “Well, nobody’s perfect.” His answer is an alarm bell: “By no means! How can we who died to sin still live in it?” (Romans 6:2).

No. Absolutely not. Don’t do that. In fact… you shouldn’t even be able to.

Because grace doesn’t exist to help us manage rebellion with less guilt. Grace doesn’t make sin less deadly. Grace forgives sin, yes, but it also breaks sin’s claim over us. Grace doesn’t hand you permission to go back to the chains Jesus died to break.

Which means “I’ll ask forgiveness later” isn’t repentance. It’s presumption.

A lot of us aren’t planning repentance. We’re planning relief. We want to sin, feel bad, confess enough to quiet the guilt, and then leave the door cracked for next time. We treat grace like spiritual mouthwash after we already decided we’re going to eat a cup of sugar soon after.

Grace is not a coupon code for premeditated sin.

If your plan requires forgiveness afterward, it might not be a struggle. It might be a reservation with rebellion.

Now, don’t miss the mercy here. My goal isn’t to crush the honest struggler. If you’re fighting, keep fighting. If you’re grieving sin, confessing sin, dragging sin into the light, asking for help, and taking costly steps, don’t let shame tell you God is done with you. Romans 7 is in the Bible for a reason. Jesus is patient with weak people who come to Him honestly. But Jesus also loves us too much to let us keep lying.

Romans 7 gives hope to the honest struggler. Romans 13 gives warning to the planner. Romans 6 shuts the door on using grace as permission.

So maybe the question is simple: where have you made a reservation? Where have you already arranged the conditions for sin?

Cancel the reservation. Delete it. Pour it out. Block it. Confess it. Move the phone. Tell the truth. Change the plan. End the conversation. Leave the group chat. Ask someone to check in. Resolve not to sin but to flee from it.

Make no provision.

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

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• You’re welcome to use my original ideas and material without attribution in sermons, teachings, or conversations—though sending more readers my way is always a blessing.

• When using this material in writing, just include a link to the original article.

• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

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Everybody wants balance.

Work-life balance. Family balance. Emotional balance. Calendar balance. Church balance. It’s like our goal is some Eastern idea of “Zen,” where we flit around like butterflies in perfect harmony, untouched by the cares of this world.

And it’s not just when we’re fighting calendars, careers, and the chaos of kids. We seek balance in behaviors too – like we don’t want to drift too far into sainthood or heathenism. Even sin. I won’t do the worst, but it’s not that big of a deal if I sin a little in this area.

Extremes are avoided, while balance in all things is held up as the ultimate goal. But here’s what I’ve been thinking lately:

Balance is too small a goal.

Because… have you heard what Jesus said? He doesn’t sound like a life coach helping you maintain a manageable rhythm.

He says deny yourself and take up your cross daily (Luke 9:23).
He says whoever wants to save his life will lose it (Luke 9:24).
He says let the dead bury their own dead (Luke 9:60).
He says no one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom (Luke 9:62).

Read that last one again. Ouch. Does that sound like Jesus is primarily concerned with your ministry burnout? Sound like He’s building a brand around low-cost discipleship to get people in the door? There’s more.

He says if your hand causes you to sin, cut it off, and if your eye causes you to sin, tear it out (Matthew 5:29–30).
He says anyone who does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, even his own life, cannot be his disciple (Luke 14:26).
He tells the rich ruler to sell everything and follow him (Luke 18:22).
He tells a parable where a servant buries what was entrusted to him and is cast into outer darkness (Matthew 25:14–30).

None of that sounds like balance. It sounds like complete and total surrender.

We have somehow convinced ourselves that Christian maturity is a well-managed life where Jesus gets a respectable slice of the pie. A little Sunday. A little prayer. A little generosity. A little Bible when the schedule allows. A little church when sports, travel, fatigue, weather, mood, and brunch don’t interfere. We want Jesus present, but not disruptive. Honored, but not obeyed too quickly. Consulted, but not enthroned.

But Jesus doesn’t share the throne.

He’s not applying for a seat on the committee of your priorities. He’s not one value among many. He’s Lord. And that’s not a decorative title. It means He gets the final word. Lord means nothing is off-limits: calendar, wallet, body, family, ambition, sexuality, bitterness, comfort, future, and the secret thing you keep hoping He’ll ignore.

I think maybe “balance” has become a word for domesticating obedience. Or maybe emasculating it.

That’s the danger. Balance as lord. Balance as the excuse we use to keep Jesus from touching too much at once. Balance asks, “What can I keep and still follow Jesus?” Surrender asks, “What am I still holding back from the One who gave everything for me?”

See the difference? Balance lets me feel like I’m a managing partner with Jesus in the firm of my life. Like Jesus is great and all, but He can’t have the whole thing. I still get my share.

A balanced life can still orbit the wrong center.

That’s why Jesus didn’t come to improve the old you. He came to put the old you in the grave. The gospel isn’t self-improvement with a Christian t-shirt on and worship music playing in the background. It’s death and resurrection. You can’t get more unbalanced and extreme than that.

Paul says he has been crucified with Christ (Galatians 2:20). He says believers present their bodies as living sacrifices(Romans 12:1). He says he dies daily (1 Corinthians 15:31). He says we have died, and our life is hidden with Christ in God (Colossians 3:3).

Not adjusted. Not improved. Not balanced. Crucified.

Think about what Jesus did. The eternal Son of God didn’t leave heaven, take on flesh, carry a cross, absorb the wrath of God, bleed, die, rise from the grave, and conquer sin and death so that we could respond with, “Thanks, Jesus. I’ll try to work you into my schedule.”

How ludicrous is that? How incomprehensible that we would respond to the extreme actions of Jesus with such moderation. The King didn’t leave the throne of heaven so he could become a manageable accessory to your already-decided life. He came to save you, claim you, remake you, reign over you, and guess what? Use you. For His purposes. All of you.

I’m not sure we want Jesus to be Lord. I think we’d probably rather Him just be helpful. We want Him to reduce anxiety, bless our plans, comfort our kids, protect our future, forgive our sins, and make life meaningful. We want resurrection benefits without crucifixion. Salvation without surrender. Crown without cross.

But Jesus just isn’t into partial allegiance.

That may not mean that every follower of Jesus has the same assignment, sacrifice, or daily rhythm. But it does mean every Christian must hand Jesus the same blank check: “Anything.”

Anything you say.
Anywhere you send.
Anyone you ask me to forgive.
Any sin you expose.
Any idol you confront.
Any comfort you call me to surrender.
Any obedience I’ve delayed because I kept calling it “balance” when it was really rebellion.

That’s not imbalance. That’s allegiance.

And weirdly enough, that’s where life begins. Jesus doesn’t call us to die because he hates our lives. He calls us to die because everything we refuse to crucify eventually enslaves us. Lust enslaves. Greed enslaves. Approval enslaves. Comfort enslaves. Control enslaves. Bitterness enslaves.

The more desperately you try to preserve your life, the smaller it gets. You protect your comfort until comfort becomes a cage. You protect your money until money becomes your master. You protect your reputation until people’s opinions become your prison. You protect your schedule until your calendar becomes your god.

But when you surrender to Jesus, you stop being owned by lesser things. You die to the old master. You die to the old life that was really death all along.

And then you really live.

Balance may make your life manageable. Jesus wants to make your life new. The question is not, “Is my life balanced?” The question is, “Is my life surrendered?”

Jesus didn’t call you to balance. He called you to die.

And in his kingdom? That’s where life begins.

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

Want to Use This Article?

• You’re welcome to use my original ideas and material without attribution in sermons, teachings, or conversations—though sending more readers my way is always a blessing.

• When using this material in writing, just include a link to the original article.

• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

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I learned pretty early in ministry that most people like the idea of change until change moves their furniture.

When I was a rookie pastor, the Lord led us to a church that had been dubbed a “revitalization project” by the denomination we were part of. That’s a kind way of saying, “This thing may not survive.” People were bringing toilet paper and basic supplies because the church could barely afford them. My family lived in the parsonage, which had been the church office for about 25 years, because that was part of what they could pay us.

And I loved those people. Jesus was faithful there, and we made lifelong friends. I’ll always be grateful. But it wasn’t easy (now I know it never is). Everyone knew the church had to change or die. Everyone voted for change. But not everyone wanted to change.

I remember one man in particular. He was incredibly encouraging when I first got there. Supportive. Kind. Excited about reaching new people and vocal about being willing to change to do it.

Then about six months later, he was in my office screaming at me and pounding my desk.

His big issues were threefold: I moved the sacred desk, wore jeans to preach, and talked about money too much.

I’ll be honest. It took me a minute to decode “sacred desk.” Turns out, he meant the enormous pulpit/podium thing I had moved so I could preach from a simple music stand. The money thing was a three-minute offering moment I had added to each service because, again, people were bringing toilet paper. And yes, I wore jeans. Just like I had when I candidated and he voted yes.

Welcome to change leadership.

But here’s what I know now that I didn’t know then: the sacred desk was not just a desk. It was memory, stability, identity, and “the way we’ve always done it” with mahogany wood stain on it.

That doesn’t make the desk sacred. And it doesn’t make screaming okay. But it does mean a leader needs enough wisdom to know when someone is attacking the mission and when someone is grieving a world that is changing faster than they can process.

That tension does something inside a leader. And if you’re not careful, you start sorting people fast. Supportive? Faithful. Hesitant? Difficult. Questioning? Negative. Pushback? Rebellion.

Not everyone who asks a question is trying to overthrow you. Some people aren’t resisting the change. They’re just trying to understand it. Some people aren’t attacking your leadership. They’re just trying to find themselves inside a future they didn’t choose.

That’s true in a church. But it’s also true in a home, a marriage, a school, a workplace, a team, or anywhere real people are being led through real change.

A teenager asking “why?” might be stalling. Obviously. Teenagers are gifted that way. But they might also be trying to understand the heart behind the rule. A spouse raising concerns might not be fighting you. A student trying to change something at school might need to learn that passion is not the same as wisdom, and pushback from teachers or administrators is not automatically oppression.

Annoyingly enough to fast-paced leaders like me, some resistance is useful before it’s rebellious.

It may reveal confusion, fear, poor communication, bad timing, real risk, or a place where trust has been bruised. Which means if I crush every question, I may crush the feedback God wanted to use to make me wiser.

Ouch.

Paul gives a better framework in 1 Thessalonians 5:14. And we urge you, brothers, admonish the idle, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, be patient with them all.

Don’t miss it. Different people need different responses. Some need warning. Some need encouragement. Some need help. Everyone needs patience.

That is annoyingly inconvenient.

It would be easier if one tool worked for everyone. Hammer every question. Hug every complainer. Explain forever. Pick your favorite mistake and call it leadership. But godly leadership learns the difference.

Some people are all-in. Train them. Encourage them. Empower them. Don’t ignore the faithful because the loudest people keep stealing the room.

Some people are unsure. Give them vision. Answer questions. Have the conversation. Say the quiet part out loud. Explain not only what’s changing, but why it matters.

Some people are wounded or afraid. Be gentle. Sometimes resistance is just fear wearing a cape. Maybe the last change hurt, trust was broken, and “new” doesn’t sound exciting. It sounds unsafe.

Some people may even be “godly exiters.” They’re not rabble. They’re not enemies. They may simply not be called to go where you are leading. Double-check clarity with them. Bless obedience to God. Don’t make someone a villain because their assignment changes.

Some people are complaining and need correction. Not every question is rebellion. But neither is every question honest. Sometimes “I just have questions” is fog for pride, appetite, control, or unbelief. Sometimes people don’t want clarity. They want veto power.

Acts 15 helps here. The early church faced a massive change as Gentiles came to Jesus. That was bigger than moving a sacred desk. There was real disagreement, real history, real theology, real concern. Nobody was wrong for caring about faithfulness. The question was what faithfulness required now that God was clearly saving Gentiles.

But the leaders didn’t panic. They gathered. Listened. Debated. Testified to what God was doing. Searched the Scriptures. Decided. Communicated. And then acted. Listening wasn’t weakness. Clarity wasn’t harshness. Godly leaders can make room for questions without handing the steering wheel to confusion.

But yes, some people really are rabble. That’s why we also need Numbers 11. Israel had been rescued from slavery, carried through the sea, led by God’s presence, and fed with bread from heaven.

Bread. From heaven.

And still, “the rabble that was among them had a strong craving” (v. 4). They wanted meat. Then their craving spread until other people started weeping about what they used to eat in Egypt.

The rabble aren’t unsure or wounded. They’re not honestly confused. The rabble are people whose appetite has become contagious.

Bread from heaven won’t satisfy a heart still hungry for Egypt.

It’s lazy and defensive to call people rabble too early. But it’s naïve and cowardly to pretend the rabble doesn’t exist. Jesus knew the difference. In John 6, He feeds the crowd, teaches hard truth, and many disciples grumble and walk away.

And Jesus lets them.

He doesn’t chase them down by softening the call. He turns to the Twelve and asks if they want to leave too. Jesus was patient with doubters, gentle with the weak, merciful to sinners, and willing to answer honest questions.

But He didn’t let grumbling disciples set the terms of discipleship.

So here are two mirrors for you as you think about leading change. First: where am I getting defensive? Where am I writing people off too soon? Who needs clarity instead of correction, patience instead of suspicion, or help instead of a lecture?

Second: where am I the rabble? Where has God given me bread from heaven, and I’m still demanding meat? Where am I disguising craving as concern? Where am I saying, “I just have questions,” when what I really mean is, “I don’t want to follow”?

Defensiveness writes people off too soon. Fear lets complaint lead too long. Jesus shows us a better way: patient with the weak, clear with the confused, firm with the rebellious, and faithful to the Father even when people walk away.

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

Want to Use This Article?

• You’re welcome to use my original ideas and material without attribution in sermons, teachings, or conversations—though sending more readers my way is always a blessing.

• When using this material in writing, just include a link to the original article.

• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

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You ever had a passenger in your car that was just an elite driver from that passenger seat.

They see every missed turn, every questionable lane choice, every opening in traffic that apparently only they, with their self-declared superpowers, can see. As the driver, I should really be grateful for the help.

But there’s one small problem: they’re not driving. I am. That’s annoying in traffic. It gets more serious in life.

I had a tough situation with one of my kids recently. I found out they had been doing something they were not supposed to be doing, and hiding it for weeks. It was painful. Dishonesty. Betrayal. Consequences. So many tears. So, you know, regular day in parenting teenagers.

At one point, my wife and I asked something like, “Why did you do this when you know it’s wrong?” To which my beloved child answered, “That’s the thing. I don’t agree with you that it’s wrong.”

Oof. That one landed.

Not just because of the moment itself, but because it revealed something deeper. My kid thought our authority mattered only when they agreed with us. In other words, “I will submit to your authority as long as your authority confirms what I already believe.” I wish I could say that was only a teenager problem. It isn’t. My kid just said out loud what I often live quietly.

But that’s not submission. That’s agreement.

And agreement is easy. Agreement lets me stay in control while feeling obedient. Agreement lets me nod, cooperate, and call it humility, when really I just happen to like the direction we’re already going.

Submission begins when agreement runs out.

That’s where a lot of us get exposed. We’re fine with authority until authority contradicts our desire, preference, comfort, timing, opinion, or plan. Then suddenly we become defense attorneys for our own will.

“I just don’t agree.”
“I don’t feel peace about that.”
“I think God told me something different.”
“I’m just following my convictions.”

And maybe sometimes that’s true. I know some of you want to go straight to the other side of this conversation: What if the person in authority is wrong? What if they’re mean? What if they’re sinful, abusive, foolish, or unsafe?

Those are real questions. They matter. They deserve careful answers. Biblical submission never means obeying sin, enabling abuse, ignoring harm, or calling evil good. We submit first to Jesus. But that is not what this article is mainly about.

This article is about the other side. The submission side. The part that is much less fun to talk about, because it’s easier to throw stones at messed-up leaders than deal with my own rebellious heart. Hebrews 13:17 says this:

Obey your leaders and submit to them, for they are keeping watch over your souls, as those who will have to give an account. Let them do this with joy and not with groaning, for that would be of no advantage to you. (Hebrews 13:17)

That verse puts weight on leaders, for sure. Authority is not control or power. It is weight. Responsibility. Accountability before God. But it also puts weight on those being led.

If God has placed real leaders in real authority, then I don’t get to treat submission like an optional gift I offer only after I approve the decision. I can ask questions. I can seek clarity. I can raise concerns. I can appeal. I can disagree.

But disagreement is not an automatic exemption from humility.

Let me press this further. If I agree with a leader, I have not necessarily submitted yet. I’ve agreed. And that’s good. It may even be unity. It may be shared wisdom and a gift from God. But it’s not submission. Not yet.

Submission only shows up when I disagree.

Does that mean I should submit every time I disagree? Not necessarily. But it does mean that Godly disagreement is an opportunity for Godly submission. Here’s the filter I recommend running the disagreement through:

Is the person in authority leading me toward something immoral, unbiblical, or unethical?

Is this asking me to sin? Is this violating God’s Word? Is this harming people? Is this dishonest, abusive, or corrupt? If so, don’t spiritualize compromise and call it submission.

But if not, then what remains is a matter of opinion. And in matters of opinion, we submit to authority. That’s when I say, “This is not what I would choose, but I’m not God, and I’m not in charge here.” Or we ask God to move us. But what we don’t get to do is idolize our preference, call it conviction, and turn our disagreement into rebellion.

That’s hard in the home when your parents draw a line you don’t like. It’s hard at work when your boss chooses the plan you wouldn’t have chosen. It’s hard in church when leaders move in a direction that’s not your preference. It’s hard in marriage when mutual surrender costs more than saying “that’s fine” while secretly keeping a ledger more detailed than the IRS.

And yet if I only follow when I agree, I’m not being led. I’m being confirmed.

This isn’t just important when it comes to being led. It’s important when it comes to your future leadership as well. Because so many of us want influence without formation. We want to lead before we’ve learned to be led. We want authority before we’ve learned humility under authority. In Luke 16, Jesus said this:

One who is faithful in a very little is also faithful in much, and one who is dishonest in a very little is also dishonest in much. (Luke 16:10)

One of the “little” places God forms leaders is the hidden place where nobody claps for our humility.

Can you be led when you don’t get your way?

A person who’s dangerous under authority will usually be dangerous with authority. If I treat every disagreement as resistance-worthy when I am under authority, what do you think I’ll do when I have authority? Probably lead with the same pride I refused to surrender.

Which takes this a step deeper. It’s not mainly about parenting, church leadership, workplace structure, or organizational charts. It’s about discipleship. Following Jesus means I’m not the final authority over my life.

My desires are not ultimate.
My instincts are not infallible.
My perspective is not complete.
My feelings are real, but they are not Lord.

As always, Jesus shows us the better way. In Gethsemane, facing the cross, Jesus prayed, “Not my will, but yours, be done” (Luke 22:42). Don’t rush past that. Jesus didn’t submit because He lacked a will. He had one. He didn’t submit because obedience was easy. It was agony.

Submission isn’t pretending you don’t want something. Jesus wanted the cup to pass. Submission is bringing your real will, real desire, real ache, and surrendering it to the Father anyway.

Not the absence of a will. The surrender of one.

So maybe the question is not, “Do I agree?” Maybe the question is, “Can I obey God in the place where I don’t?” Can I ask honest questions without turning my preference into a throne? Can I stop calling it discernment every time I don’t get my way?

My kid didn’t need to agree with me for my authority as a father to matter. And I don’t need to agree with every authority God places over me before humility matters.

Agreement is easy. But submission starts when agreement runs out.

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

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• When using this material in writing, just include a link to the original article.

• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

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Summer has a way of making everything feel looser.

The calendar loosens. The routines loosen. The bedtimes and budgets loosen. Even the standards for what qualifies as “dinner” loosen dramatically. Suddenly “eat whatever you can find in the pantry” counts as a meal. It’s fine. Everyone survived. Probably.

And honestly, I love summer. I love the warmer weather, vacations, cookouts, baseball games, slower evenings, later bedtimes, and the general feeling that everything can breathe a little. It’s in that breath (margin) that deep conversations with those I love most often bubble to the surface.

Rest is biblical. Slowing down can be good. Making memories matters.

But summer can also expose something in us. When the normal structure disappears, we find out what was actually holding our spiritual life together. Was it love for Jesus? Was it conviction? Was it desire?

Or was it just… routine?

Because if we’re not careful, summer doesn’t just loosen our schedule. It loosens our devotion. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Not with some big announcement.

Usually it happens slowly.

One busy weekend turns into one missed gathering with God’s people. One missed gathering turns into two. Two missed gatherings turn into, “We’ll get back into rhythm soon.” And before long, “soon” becomes August. Or September. Or never.

The same thing happens with prayer.

One late night turns into one skipped morning. One skipped morning turns into a week of “I’ll get back to it tomorrow.” And before long, Bible reading feels awkward, prayer feels forced, and God feels distant.

But here’s the part I want you to understand: most people don’t drift from God because they make one bold decision to walk away. They drift because they never made an intentional decision to stay close.

That’s the danger.

Spiritual drift rarely feels like rebellion in the moment. It feels like summer fun, full calendars, travel plans, and one more week where you’ll get back to normal soon. You can drift away from Jesus with a smile on your face and these words on your lips: “This is just a busy season.”

And the scary thing is, it may be true. It may really be a busy season. Travel really does disrupt routine. Kids really are home, schedules really are weird, and at some point every parent is just trying to keep everyone fed, mostly dressed, and away from open flames.

That’s what makes drift so deceptive. The reason sounds reasonable while the result becomes dangerous.

In other words, we don’t usually say, “I’m choosing distance from Jesus.” We say, “We’ve just had a lot going on with the kids’ sports and camps.” We don’t say, “God’s Word can wait.” We say, “I’ll get back into a rhythm when things slow down.” We don’t say, “Worship doesn’t matter.” We say, “It’s only a few weeks.”

Every one of those sentences can sound reasonable while still training our hearts to live without Him.

And please hear me: busy doesn’t automatically mean bad. The question is not whether your summer is full. The question is who gets pushed to the margins when it is? Hebrews gives us a better way:

Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near. (Hebrews 10:23-25)

Hold fast, stir one another up, and do not neglect meeting together. That’s not legalism. It’s wisdom.

God knows we’re not as strong alone as we think we are. We need worship, the Word, encouragement. We need people around us who help keep our eyes on Jesus when we’re tired, distracted, tempted, or drifting.

Because nobody drifts upstream.

You don’t coast into Christlikeness. You don’t accidentally grow in holiness. You don’t stumble into spiritual maturity because June, July, and August happened to cooperate. That’s why Paul tells Timothy to train himself for godliness (see 1 Timothy 4:7-8).

Train.

Nobody trains by vaguely hoping they’ll be stronger in a few months. Training requires attention, repetition, sacrifice, and a plan. Which is frustrating, because a lot of us like the idea of spiritual growth more than the structure that produces it.

We want peace without prayer.
We want wisdom without Scripture.
We want community without consistency.
We want godliness without training.
We want fruit without roots.

But Psalm 1 describes the blessed person like a tree planted by streams of water, bearing fruit in season (see Psalm 1:1-3).

Fruit comes from being planted, not from floating.

Maybe that’s the best question to ask yourself before summer gets away from you: Am I planted, or am I floating?

Floating sounds nice. Floating is easy. Floating feels restful. But floating means you go wherever the current takes you. Planted means your roots are sunk into something stronger than the season.

That doesn’t mean every week of summer has to look the same. It won’t. You may travel, visit family, have tournaments, vacations, lake weekends, cookouts, and all kinds of good things on the calendar.

The problem is not enjoying those good gifts. The problem is when those good gifts become excuses to neglect the Giver.

Decide now that worship with God’s people will matter. Decide now that Scripture will not become a Fall hobby. Decide now that prayer will not get buried under travel plans. Decide now that generosity will not take the summer off. Decide now that your kids, your friends, your spouse, and your own soul will not learn from your calendar that Jesus is important only nine months out of the year.

Because your calendar is discipling you. Worse than that? It’s discipling those God has given you influence over. It’s teaching them what matters, what can wait, what gets protected, and what gets sacrificed first.

And please hear this clearly: this is not about earning God’s love by having a perfect summer quiet time streak. If your whole plan is, “I will be spiritually impressive this summer,” good luck with that. Pride loves a checklist.

This is about staying close to the One who already loves you. Because a branch doesn’t remain in the vine to prove it’s worthy. It remains because that’s where life is (see John 15:4-5).

So enjoy summer. Seriously. Take the vacation. Go to the cookout. Watch the fireworks. Eat the ice cream. Sit by the pool. Let the kids stay up late. Make the memories.

But don’t drift. Don’t let summer decide your spiritual priorities for you. It will if you let it.

Instead, decide before the drift starts. Stay planted. Stay close. Stay awake. Because your soul doesn't’t need a vacation from Jesus. It needs Him in every season.

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

Want to Use This Article?

• You’re welcome to use my original ideas and material without attribution in sermons, teachings, or conversations—though sending more readers my way is always a blessing.

• When using this material in writing, just include a link to the original article.

• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

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When I fly, I never get to fly first class. I just get to walk past the first class people…

Big seats. Leg room. Meanwhile, I’m headed to row 89, where my knees will be punished by the seat in front of me and I get enjoy the bathroom smell through multiple time zones.

And you know what I think when I see the first class people? I would totally appreciate that seat more. But here’s the annoying truth: the seat does not belong to the person who would appreciate it most. It belongs to the person whose name is on the boarding pass. I may think I’d steward it better. Maybe I’m right.

Still not my seat.

This doesn’t just happen on airplanes. It happens at work, in families, in churches, or anywhere someone has a role we think we could handle better. You watch someone get promoted and think, “That’s the pick?” Maybe you’re more gifted. Maybe you’re smarter. But you still don’t get to walk into your boss’s office, sit in the chair, and say, “Good news. I’m in charge now.”

That’s not leadership. That’s how you meet security.

We understand this almost everywhere. But when our pride gets spiritual vocabulary, things get weird. We start saying, “God speaks to me too.” Or, “I see this more clearly.” Or, “I’m just trying to protect people.” And maybe some of that is true. But gifts do not equal authority.

That’s one lesson buried in Numbers 12:

Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses…for he had married a Cushite woman. And they said, “Has the LORD indeed spoken only through Moses? Has he not spoken through us also?” And the LORD heard it. (Numbers 12:1-2)

Miriam and Aaron were not nobodies. Miriam was a prophetess. Aaron was the high priest. These were not bitter sideline critics who had never been used by God. They had history and credibility. They had real roles among God’s people.

And their question wasn’t crazy. Had God spoken through them? Yes. That’s what makes it so dangerous. Their rebellion was not built on a total lie. It was built on a partial truth used in a prideful way.

“God speaks through us too” was true. “So why does Moses get that seat?” was not.

They confused usefulness with authority. They confused gifting with appointment. They assumed that because God had spoken through them, they had the right to challenge the role God had given to Moses. But God does not respond by saying, “I have never used you.” He responds by making it clear that Moses has been appointed differently.

If there is a prophet among you, I the LORD make myself known to him in a vision; I speak with him in a dream. Not so with my servant Moses. (Numbers 12:6-7)

Not so with Moses.

And God doesn’t stop there. He says Moses is “faithful in all my house,” that He speaks with Moses “mouth to mouth,” and then He asks the question that should make every gifted person slow down:

“Why then were you not afraid to speak against my servant Moses?” (Numbers 12:8)

In other words: “Yes, I speak through prophets. Yes, I’ve used you. But Moses is not just another gifted person in the room. He’s my servant in the role I assigned him. So why did you think you could speak against him so casually?”

That’s hard for gifted people.

Because gifted people often see gaps. They see weaknesses. They see how things could be better. And sometimes they are right. Sometimes they really do see something that needs to be seen. But seeing a weakness doesn’t mean you’ve been assigned a seat.

That’s where pride gets sneaky. Pride doesn’t always sound like, “I want to be important.” Sometimes it sounds like, “I just care more than everyone else.” I rarely call it pride when it happens in me. I call it discernment, burden, vision. I call it “just trying to help.”

And maybe sometimes it is. But sometimes I’m not trying to serve the mission. I’m trying to move my name to a seat God didn’t assign me.

Sometimes… you are too.

To be clear, this doesn’t make leaders untouchable. Biblical submission never means violating God’s Word, enabling abuse, or staying silent while people are harmed. We submit first to Jesus. Leaders can need correction, accountability, and even removal. But once that guardrail is in place, we still have to deal with our pride.

There’s a difference between faithful correction and self-exalting rebellion. There’s a difference between protecting people and positioning yourself. The existence of weakness in a leader doesn’t somehow make rebellion righteous in a follower.

King David understood that.

If anyone had a reason to question the man in the seat, it was David. Saul was not just imperfect. He was paranoid, disobedient, violent, and dangerous. He tried to kill David multiple times. And what’s more, David had been anointed by Samuel. David did have God’s promise and calling. If David wanted to justify taking matters into his own hands, he had a folder full of evidence.

And then, in 1 Samuel 24, David gets his chance. Saul walks into a cave, not realizing David and his men are hiding inside. David’s men basically say, “This is it. God has delivered him into your hand.” And you can understand why they thought that. Here’s the enemy. Vulnerable. Alone. Exposed. One quick strike, and the seat is David’s.

But David refuses.

“The LORD forbid that I should do this thing to my lord, the LORD’s anointed, to put out my hand against him, seeing he is the LORD’s anointed.” (1 Samuel 24:6)

Here’s what’s convicting: David doesn’t honor Saul because Saul is honorable. David honors Saul because God’s appointment matters more than Saul’s failures. Saul was obviously the bad guy in the story. But David refused to take by force what God promised to give in time.

Miriam and Aaron show us one danger: “I’m gifted too, so why not me?” David shows us another: “He’s flawed, so why not now?” One says, “My gifting gives me the right to challenge the role.” The other says, “His failure gives me the right to seize the role.” But both can come from the same place: trusting our assessment more than God’s appointment.

God often works through leaders we wouldn’t have picked. Moses was hesitant and overwhelmed. Saul was deeply compromised. David would later create his own wreckage.

God doesn’t choose perfect leaders. He chooses forgiven ones.

Biblical authority isn’t control or power. It’s weight, responsibility, stewardship, and accountability before God. The leader doesn’t own the people. The leader answers to God for how he feeds, leads, protects, and serves them.

So be careful before you decide someone else’s weakness is your permission slip.

That’s where Philippians 2 brings the whole thing into focus. Paul says Jesus, “though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. (Philippians 2:6-8)

Jesus had more right to authority than anyone who has ever lived. He was not just gifted. He was God. If anyone could have grasped, demanded, seized, flexed, or forced His way into position, it was Jesus.

But He didn’t grasp.

He emptied Himself. Became a servant. Humbled Himself. And then died. The most authoritative person who ever lived was the most submitted. Then Paul says,

“Therefore God has highly exalted him…” (Philippians 2:9)

Jesus didn’t exalt Himself. The Father exalted Him. Faithfulness doesn’t have to steal what the Father knows how to give.

So maybe the question isn’t, “Could I do that better?” Maybe you could. The better question is, “Has God assigned that to me?” You may be right about your ability and still wrong about your authority.

If God has assigned you to a seat, steward it humbly. If God has not assigned you to that seat, serve faithfully where you are. Speak when you should. Correct when you must. Refuse evil. Protect people. Obey God over man.

But don’t dress pride up as discernment or frustration as calling. Because if God wants you in that seat, He doesn’t need you to steal it.

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

Want to Use This Article?

• You’re welcome to use my original ideas and material without attribution in sermons, teachings, or conversations—though sending more readers my way is always a blessing.

• When using this material in writing, just include a link to the original article.

• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

Give a gift subscription

We’ve all felt that sickening moment by now.

A pastor, leader, teacher, author, or Christian voice we respected falls. Not a small stumble. A devastating moral collapse. The kind that leaves people wounded, churches shaken, critics smirking, and Christians wondering what to do with all the sermons, books, podcasts, songs, articles, and moments of help they received through someone who clearly had darkness growing behind the scenes.

One of the most natural responses is, “How could they?”

But the better response may be the saying I heard from someone much more mature in the faith years back: “There go I, but for the grace of God.” Or maybe, “Why do I think I couldn’t end up in the same place?”

One of the most dangerous things a Christian can believe is, “I’m past that now.”

You’re not. I am not. No one is too mature to fall.

That doesn’t mean every Christian should live in constant paranoia, like spiritual failure is hiding behind the shower curtain with a chainsaw. That’s not maturity. I’m just saying that the opposite error is just as dangerous: the quiet pride that says, “I would never do that. I’ve been walking with Jesus too long. I’m stronger than that.”

Careful. Sin has eaten stronger people than you.

In Genesis 4, before Cain murdered his brother Abel, God warned him that sin was crouching at the door. Sin crouches. Sin deceives. Sin hardens. Sin kills. Which means the mature Christian can’t be casual about it.

I’m not talking about self-hatred. I’m advocating for sober realism. It’s a godly fear that says, “Apart from the grace of God and the power of the Spirit, I am absolutely capable of wrecking my life.”

The Apostle Paul seems to think this way. In his first letter to Timothy, he tells his young protégé to stay in Ephesus and deal with false teachers. Bad doctrine was spreading. People were devoting themselves to myths and speculation. Some wanted to be teachers of the law even though they didn’t understand what they were saying.

So Paul spends most of the letter giving Timothy practical direction for a church with real problems and real doctrine to defend. But toward the end, Paul turns the mirror back toward Timothy:

Have nothing to do with irreverent, silly myths. Rather train yourself for godliness… Practice these things, immerse yourself in them, so that all may see your progress. (1 Timothy 4:7, 15).

You see the turn? Verse 16 is where it becomes even clearer:

Keep a close watch on yourself and on the teaching. (1 Timothy 4:16)

Keep a close watch on the false teachers? Yes. Keep a close watch on the doctrine? Yes. Keep a close watch on the church? Yes. But also, Timothy, keep a close watch on yourself.

Not just them. You too. Not just their drift. Your soul too.

I feel like this is a word some of us need badly. We can diagnose the culture, critique bad theology, call out compromise, and still neglect the quiet places in our own heart where sin is crouching at the door.

I can be right about them and still be blind about me.

That’s why Paul says, “Keep a close watch on yourself.” Not a quick glance or an annual review. A close watch. The kind that refuses to coast and knows spiritual maturity doesn’t make accountability unnecessary. It makes accountability obvious.

The immature person says, “I don’t need guardrails.” The mature person says, “I know exactly why I need guardrails.”

Imagine driving a mountain road with a cliff on one side and saying, “I’ve driven this road for years and never gone off the edge. We should probably remove these guardrails.” That would be insane. The guardrail is not an insult. It’s a mercy.

It’d be like taking the batteries out of your smoke detectors because your house hasn’t burned down yet.

Or like me buying exterior cameras for my house. For the first few months, I used them like crazy. (Basically Liam Neeson with a Ring account). But nothing ever happened. So now? They’re all still mounted outside. With dead batteries.

No one has robbed me, so I guess I don’t need cameras, right?

That logic is ridiculous. And yet we do the same thing spiritually. Nothing terrible has happened, so we assume the protection is unnecessary. We haven’t fallen, so we stop paying attention. But the reason you haven’t driven off the mountain may be because the guardrails have been doing their job.

Maybe it starts small. We stop confessing. We stop letting people ask direct questions. We keep our phone private in ways that are less about privacy and more about secrecy. We nurse bitterness. We justify the flirtation because “nothing has happened.” We think we deserve the drink, the fantasy, the attention, the escape, the little compromise.

And then one day we find ourselves further down the road than we ever thought we’d go, wondering how in the world we got there.

But the hard truth is that we got there one step at a time. Almost nobody blows up their life all at once. They usually remove one guardrail, ignore one warning, hide one sin, justify one compromise, and take one more step toward the thing they once said they’d never do. Then they do it again down the road.

That’s why “I would never” might be one of the most dangerous sentences in your life.

So Paul tells Timothy to watch himself. And he tells the Corinthians to examine themselves (2 Corinthians 13:5). And he tells the Philippians to work out their salvation with fear and trembling (Philippians 2:12). Not because God is weak or grace is fragile, but because we should stop being so impressed with our own grip on Him.

But I’ve always liked what comes immediately after the “fear and trembling” verse:

…work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure. (Philippians 2:12-13 ESV)

That’s the divine tension, isn’t it? Work out your salvation with fear and trembling because God is at work in you.

Your effort, watchfulness, obedience, and choices matter. But none of it is self-powered. The Christian life is not, “Jesus saved me, and now I’ll take it from here.” That’s how we find ourselves picking up the wreckage of our home after a fire, wishing we’d put batteries in the smoke detectors.

Spiritual maturity is not needing Jesus less. It’s realizing more deeply that you never outgrow your need for Him.

So yes, be a little scared of yourself. Your flesh is real. Sin still crouches. Pride lies. Secrecy grows teeth. Too many people have said, “I would never,” right before they did.

And then? Be more confident in Jesus than you are scared of yourself. Be more dependent on the Spirit than you are convinced of your track record. Be more committed to walking in the light than protecting your image.

You are never too mature to fall.

So keep a close watch.

On your doctrine, yes. On the world, yes.

But don’t forget yourself.

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

Want to Use This Article?

• You’re welcome to use my original ideas and material without attribution in sermons, teachings, or conversations—though sending more readers my way is always a blessing.

• When using this material in writing, just include a link to the original article.

• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

Give a gift subscription

A while back, I came downstairs in the morning wearing a Captain America T-shirt.

My son Joshua, who was four at the time, saw me and said, “You’re wearing a Captain America shirt today?!”

Then he took off upstairs. A few minutes later, he came back down wearing his Captain America shirt too. Then he said, “I’m just like you, Dad!”

Disciple number one.

Then my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter Hannah saw what was happening and said, “Daddy, I want to wear Captain America too!” So we ran upstairs, got her Captain America shirt, and she came back down saying, “I’m just like Daddy!”

Disciple number two.

By the end of it, I think all three of my kids we had at the time and Erin were all wearing Captain America shirts “just like Daddy.” Which is, of course, the goal of fatherhood. But that little moment is also a picture of something deeper.

We imitate what we follow.

Whether we realize it or not, all of us are already following someone. Some ideology, personality, or lifestyle. Or maybe a parent, friend, or feed.

You’re already a disciple. That’s why Jesus’ invitation is so simple and so disruptive. In Mark 1, Jesus sees Simon and Andrew casting a net into the sea, and He says:

“Follow me, and I will make you become fishers of men.” (Mark 1:17)

In Mark 2, He sees Levi sitting at the tax booth, and He says:

“Follow me.” (Mark 2:14)

In Mark 8, He calls the crowd with His disciples and says:

“If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.” (Mark 8:34)

In Mark 10, He looks at a rich young man and says:

“You lack one thing: go, sell all that you have and give to the poor…and come, follow me.” (Mark 10:21)

Jesus was constantly saying this to people. Not “like me.” Not “admire me.” Not “keep me around in case of emergency.”

Now, to be clear, Jesus does call us to believe in Him.
He calls us to love Him.
He calls us to trust Him.

But in the Gospels, He keeps pressing all of that into these two words: Follow me.

And I think that may be a problem for us, because we’re more conditioned to be fans or friends than followers. More into likes than lordship. And they’re not the same.

A fan of Jesus likes what Jesus does.

A fan of Jesus says, “Yeah, I like Jesus. He was a good guy. He helped people. He cared for the poor, loved outsiders, stood up to hypocrites. I’m a fan.”

Some fans are casual. They don’t know much, but they like the idea of Jesus. Others are more serious. They know the stats. They can quote some verses. They know the main stories. They may even have strong opinions about Jesus.

But they’re still fans, watching from a distance.

A fan can like what Jesus does without surrendering to who Jesus is. Which is safer, isn’t it? Because admiration doesn’t cost much. You can admire Jesus and still run your own life. You can appreciate His teachings without obeying His commands. You can respect His compassion without rearranging your priorities around His mission.

A fan likes what Jesus does. But a friend of Jesus goes a step further.

A friend of Jesus says, “Jesus has done so much for me. He’s helped me through hard times. He’s given me peace and blessed my family. I talk to Him. I appreciate Him. I even go to His birthday party every December 25. He’s very generous. Everybody gets gifts.”

You see, a friend of Jesus doesn’t just like Jesus. A friend likes what Jesus does for them.

And even that falls short of Jesus’ call. Because sometimes we treat Jesus like a friend we call when life gets hard, but not like the Lord who gets authority over everything.

We want Him close enough to comfort us, but not close enough to confront us.
Close enough to help, but not close enough to lead.
Close enough to forgive, but not close enough to change the way we spend money, treat people, use our bodies, order our calendars, handle conflict, or define success.

But He said, “Follow me.” A fan likes what Jesus does. A friend likes what Jesus does for them.

A follower of Jesus does what Jesus does.

That’s the difference.

A follower talks the way Jesus talks. Loves what Jesus loves. Cares about what Jesus cares about. Gives the way Jesus gives. Forgives the way Jesus forgives. Runs after what Jesus runs after. Gets bothered by what bothers Jesus. Gives life to what Jesus gave His life to.

That’s why following Jesus cannot stay vague or theoretical. Eventually, it has to touch real life. Your money. Your mouth. Your marriage. Your parenting. Your private sin. Your grudges. Your schedule. Your entertainment. Your politics. Your generosity. Your comfort. Your mission.

Fans admire Jesus until He contradicts them. Friends appreciate Jesus until He asks too much. Followers obey Jesus because He is Lord.

That’s not easy. Jesus never said it would be. In fact, He seemed pretty committed to making sure people counted the cost. Nobody takes up a cross as a hobby. Nobody denies himself because Jesus is a casual interest. Nobody follows Jesus to the cross while keeping Him as a nice inspirational figure on the edge of life.

Jesus isn’t looking for likes. He’s looking for followers.

But here’s the problem: Jesus is not the only one saying, “Follow me.” Your whole life is full of competing calls. Your career says it. So do your comfort, politics, kids’ schedules, appetite, anger, insecurity, money, and, of course, your phone.

And here’s an even scarier thought: you’re not only a follower. You are also being followed.

Just like the Apostle Paul said, “Follow me as I follow Christ” (1 Corinthians 11:1), you’re saying the same with your life. It’s saying something like, “Follow me as I follow comfort.” Or busyness. Or money. Or my kids. Or culture. Or my feelings. Or me.

Your kids are watching. Your friends are watching. Your coworkers are watching. The people closest to you are learning from the life you actually live, not the values you claim on paper.

They’re noticing the shirt you wear, and oftentimes running upstairs to put a matching one on.

When you leave this world, you will leave followers behind. The question is not whether people will be shaped by your life. They will. The question is what shape they’ll take.

Will they be more anxious because you followed fear?
More bitter because you followed anger?
More materialistic because you followed comfort?
More self-absorbed because you followed yourself?

Or will they see in you a life that says, imperfectly but honestly: Follow me as I follow Christ?

That’s the invitation. Not to be impressed by Jesus from a distance. Not to keep Jesus around as a helpful friend when life gets hard. But to follow Him so closely that, over time, you start to look like Him.

Like a little kid coming down the stairs in the same shirt as his dad, smiling and saying, “I’m just like you.”

So are you a fan of Jesus? A friend? Or a follower?

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

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• You’re welcome to use my original ideas and material without attribution in sermons, teachings, or conversations—though sending more readers my way is always a blessing.

• When using this material in writing, just include a link to the original article.

• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

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Ever been to a bookstore?

No? Well, maybe you should check one o

ut sometime. And when you get around to it, look for the “Self-Help” section. It won’t be hard to find. There are books on how to get in shape, make more money, become more confident, parent better, beat destructive habits, overcome insecurity, and probably how to stop buying so many self-help books.

And they’re not all bad. Discipline matters. Habits matter. Wisdom matters. Sleep, exercise, therapy, budgeting, accountability, and friendship all matter. But underneath a lot of self-help is one foundational assumption: You can fix yourself. Because if you can’t help yourself… why read a self-help book?

You’ll find the problem with that premise in a different book within a different section of that bookstore you’re going to visit. It’ll be in the “Religious Books” section.

The Bible isn’t against effort, discipline, wisdom, or growth. In fact, Scripture calls us to obedience, repentance, self-control, endurance, and action. Biblical Christianity is not sitting on your couch waiting for a craving for holiness to come over you like a craving for tacos. On a Tuesday.

But the Bible is absolutely opposed to the idea that what’s broken in you can be repaired by you.

Maybe you’re thinking, Wait a second. I can work hard and fix my behavior. I can improve my attitude. So…can’t I make myself better?

Sure.

Well, kind of.

There is a level of change a person can accomplish through discipline, effort, pressure, willpower, and good systems. Some people can build a pretty impressive version of themselves that way.

The problem is that none of it reaches deep enough. The Bible’s diagnosis is not that we are merely underdeveloped, poorly coached, or lacking the right morning routine. The Bible’s diagnosis is that we are sinners. Sin is not just something we do. It’s something that has infected what we are.

If the problem were only behavior, then with enough time, effort, discipline, pressure (and maybe a very aggressive spreadsheet), we could eventually clean ourselves up. But if the problem goes deeper than behavior, then self-help eventually hits a wall.

It can manage symptoms, improve appearances, and make you more functional. And again, that’s not nothing. I am very much in favor of people becoming more functional. (So is everyone who has ever had to sit through a meeting that should have been an email.)

But functional is not the same as free. Improved is not the same as redeemed. Behavior modification is not resurrection. Why? Because most self-help assumes your deepest problem is weakness. You need more discipline, better habits, clearer goals, stronger boundaries, a better morning routine. Some of that may help. But the Bible presses deeper. It says your deepest problem is not weakness. It’s death.

You can improve weakness. You can coach weakness. You can manage weakness. But you cannot self-help your way out of a grave.

Isaiah 64 says, “all our righteous acts are like filthy rags.”

Think about that a second. The scary part of the Bible is not only that God sees our wickedness. It’s that compared to the holiness of God, even our goodness falls short—our best efforts, our cleaned-up life, our “I’m not as bad as most people” speech we keep ready in our back pocket.

The standard isn’t “better than you used to be.” The standard is God. And once God is the standard, self-help can’t save you. It can’t even get close.

That’s why the gospel is not advice. It’s not God saying, “Here are five tips to become a better you.” It’s not a spiritualized self-improvement plan with a worship playlist going in the background.

That’s resurrection, not self-improvement, because how can something broken at its core fix itself? How can something dead raise itself? How can sinners make themselves righteous before a holy God? They can’t. You need Someone outside of you. Someone whole. Someone holy.

You need Jesus.

But here’s where this gets sneaky: the self-help instinct doesn’t disappear once we become Christians. We may stop thinking we can save ourselves, but we still assume we should be able to sanctify ourselves. We think, Okay, Jesus saved me. Now I need to clean myself up so I can be worthy of Him.

Which sounds humble, but it’s really just self-reliance wearing church clothes.

We talk a lot about depending on God, but I think our understanding of dependence is often skewed. A lot of us think the Christian life is supposed to work like this: I have a problem with pride, so I pray about it, work on it, eventually master it, and then I’m good to go in that area. Then lust. Then gossip. Then insecurity. Then anger.

Down the list we go, thinking one day we’ll become a super-Christian with no problems and fewer reasons to go back to Jesus.

But that’s not the biblical picture at all. The goal of the Christian life is not independence. God is not in heaven saying, “Come on, Mills. I distinctly remember you bringing Me this same issue in April of 2011. And now you’re bringing it again? Seriously? I thought we handled this.”

That’s not how sanctification works. Sanctification doesn’t produce independence from God. It produces deeper dependence on God. As you grow in Christ, you don’t discover fewer reasons to need Him. You discover more.

As the Spirit works in you, He reveals deeper pride, deeper fear, deeper selfishness, deeper wounds, deeper idols. So you go back to Him again. Not because you’re failing at Christianity. But because that is Christianity.

You take your pride to God, and He helps you. Then later, He reveals pride under the pride. You take that too. You take your anxiety to God, and He gives peace. Then later, He reveals the control beneath the anxiety. Then the fear beneath the control. Then the unbelief beneath the fear.

And the whole process doesn’t make you say, “Wow, I’m getting so strong I barely need God anymore.” It makes you say, “Apart from Him, I can do nothing.” Which, conveniently, is exactly what Jesus said:

“I am the vine; you are the branches...for apart from me you can do nothing.”

(John 15:5)

That’s not an insult. It’s an invitation. Jesus isn’t trying to humiliate you with your weakness. He’s trying to free you from the illusion of your strength.

Paul says, “walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh.” Then a few verses later: “If we live by the Spirit, let us also keep in step with the Spirit.”

(Galatians 5:16, 25)

Notice the language. Walk by the Spirit. Keep in step with the Spirit. That’s daily. Ongoing. Moment-by-moment. You don’t overcome sin just by trying harder not to sin. You overcome sin by walking with the Spirit.

You fight, but you fight to depend. You work, but you work from grace. You obey, but you obey by the power of the Spirit, not the fantasy that you can fix yourself if you just get serious enough this time.

So yes, work hard. Build better habits. Get counseling if you need it. Go to the gym. Make the budget. Delete the app. Confess the sin. Do the next right thing. But don’t confuse tools with resurrection. And don’t confuse effort with self-salvation. The tools may help you walk differently. They cannot make you alive. Only Jesus does that.

Maybe the question is not, “How do I finally fix myself?” Maybe the better question is, “Where am I still trying to become strong enough that I don’t have to depend on Jesus?” Because that’s not maturity. That’s just pride with a quiet time.

So how do you fix yourself? You don’t. You come to Jesus. And then tomorrow, you come to Jesus again. And then the next day, you keep in step with the Spirit.

My prayer for you today is that you stop trying to self-help your way out of the grave—and find the help you desperately need, not in yourself, but in Christ.

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

Want to Use This Article?

• You’re welcome to use my original ideas and material without attribution in sermons, teachings, or conversations—though sending more readers my way is always a blessing.

• When using this material in writing, just include a link to the original article.

• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

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The last words of Habakkuk 2 are silence. Holy silence.

“But the LORD is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him.”
(Habakkuk 2:20)

No more arguing. No more excuses. No more idols pretending they can speak. The Lord is in His holy temple, so the earth stops talking. And then chapter 3 does something surprising.

From the silence, Habakkuk sings.

Which is crazy, because nothing has changed yet. Babylon is still coming. Judgment is still coming. The fields are still failing. The stalls are still empty. Nothing but painful steps ahead.

Complaint became waiting. Waiting became silence. Silence became song.

But before the famous part—the “yet I will rejoice”—notice this: Habakkuk isn’t emotionally stable in the way people pretend to be. He’s not saying, “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Babylon is coming to destroy us, but I bought a journal and a candle, so we’re good.”

I hear, and my body trembles;
my lips quiver at the sound;
rottenness enters into my bones;
my legs tremble beneath me.
Yet I will quietly wait for the day of trouble
to come upon people who invade us.
(Habakkuk 3:16)

His body trembles. His lips quiver. His bones feel rotten. His legs shake. So “yet I will rejoice” cannot mean pretending everything is fine or detached from reality.

“Yet I will rejoice” is not emotional denial. It’s trembling trust. Some of us think joy means we cannot be honest about pain, so we fake it. We say “God is good,” and He is. But sometimes we use it like a lid, not a confession.

That might be where you are: staring at something that hasn’t changed and may not change soon. The diagnosis, marriage, kid, depression, job, bank account, grief, answer, or barren thing you prayed would blossom.

What do you do when nothing outside you has changed? That’s Habakkuk’s moment. Babylon is still coming. The fields may still fail. The stalls may still be empty. But something has changed inside Habakkuk.

He prays:

A prayer of Habakkuk the prophet, according to Shigionoth.
O LORD, I have heard the report of you,
and your work, O LORD, do I fear.
In the midst of the years revive it;
in the midst of the years make it known;
in wrath remember mercy.
(Habakkuk 3:1-2)

Then he remembers the God who comes in glory:

God came from Teman,
and the Holy One from Mount Paran. Selah
His splendor covered the heavens,
and the earth was full of his praise.
His brightness was like the light;
rays flashed from his hand;
and there he veiled his power.
Before him went pestilence,
and plague followed at his heels.
He stood and measured the earth;
he looked and shook the nations;
then the eternal mountains were scattered;
the everlasting hills sank low.
His were the everlasting ways.
I saw the tents of Cushan in affliction;
the curtains of the land of Midian did tremble.
(Habakkuk 3:3-7)

And he remembers the God who does not merely watch evil, but moves against it:

Was your wrath against the rivers, O LORD?
Was your anger against the rivers,
or your indignation against the sea,
when you rode on your horses,
on your chariot of salvation?
You stripped the sheath from your bow,
calling for many arrows. Selah

You split the earth with rivers.
The mountains saw you and writhed;
the raging waters swept on;
the deep gave forth its voice;
it lifted its hands on high.
The sun and moon stood still in their place
at the light of your arrows as they sped,
at the flash of your glittering spear.
You marched through the earth in fury;
you threshed the nations in anger.
You went out for the salvation of your people,
for the salvation of your anointed.
You crushed the head of the house of the wicked,
laying him bare from thigh to neck. Selah

You pierced with his own arrows the heads of his warriors,
who came like a whirlwind to scatter me,
rejoicing as if to devour the poor in secret.
You trampled the sea with your horses,
the surging of mighty waters.
(Habakkuk 3:8-15)

This is poetic, violent, salvation language. God rides out. God shakes the nations. God crushes wickedness. God saves His people. Habakkuk is dragging the full weight of God’s past faithfulness into his present fear.

In other words, when Habakkuk can’t understand what God is doing right now, he remembers who God has already proven Himself to be. That’s not living in the past.

It’s refusing to let the present moment become the only witness on the stand.

Your pain gets a testimony. The empty field, barren tree, closed door, hard diagnosis, unanswered prayer, grief, anxiety, waiting, and disappointment all get to say what they say. But they don’t get to be the only voice in the room.

Memory testifies too:
God was faithful then.
God saved then.
God carried me then.

Life may be doubtful, but God isn’t. The future may be undecided, but God isn’t.

And listen: if Habakkuk remembered the God who had saved before, we remember even more. We look to the cross—the place where God entered the worst emptiness, bore shame, and proved that suffering doesn’t mean He has stopped saving. In other words…

If the fig tree never blossoms, the cross is enough.
If the grapes die on the vine, the cross is enough.
If the olive crop fails, the cross is enough.
If the field stays empty, the cross is enough.
If the stalls never fill the way you prayed they would, the cross is enough.

Because at the cross, God gave Himself. The cross doesn’t answer every question we have. But it tells us enough to keep trusting when the field is empty.

The words we remember most

Though the fig tree should not blossom,
nor fruit be on the vines,
the produce of the olive fail
and the fields yield no food,
the flock be cut off from the fold
and there be no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the LORD;
I will take joy in the God of my salvation.
(Habakkuk 3:17-18)

That’s not a bad day. That is total collapse.

No figs. No grapes. No olives. No grain. No sheep. No cattle. In an agricultural world, that’s devastation. And Habakkuk says, “Yet.”

Though the fig tree does not blossom. Though the vines have no fruit. Though the olive crop fails. Though the fields produce nothing. Though the flock is cut off. Though the stalls are empty.

Yet.

Yet I will rejoice in the Lord. “Yet” is faith refusing to let circumstances have the final word.

Real faith doesn’t just rejoice because the fig tree blossoms. It rejoices because God is still God when it doesn’t. Faith matures when joy in God survives the death of every visible reason for joy.

Treading on high places

GOD, the Lord, is my strength;
he makes my feet like the deer’s;
he makes me tread on my high places.
(Habakkuk 3:19)

That image can be easy to miss if you picture deer the way we usually see them—peaceful near a stream until they launch themselves in front of your car like a suicidal missile with antlers. But I’ve seen Ibex in Israel running across cliffs that made my stomach drop. They’re known for impossible stability in dangerous places.

God doesn’t flatten the cliff. He steadies the feet.

After all this gut-wrenching back-and-forth between the prophet and God, that’s the final word of Habakkuk. Not “God explained everything.” Not “Babylon turned around.” Not “the crops recovered.” Not “the circumstances finally matched what I hoped.”

God, the Lord, is my strength.

So at the end of this 7-part series, I want to invite you to remember. Name what God has done. Write down one mercy. Pray one promise. Look again at the cross.

And then, with trembling legs and empty hands, sing anyway.

Not because the fig tree blossomed. But because God is still God when it doesn’t.

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

Want to Use This Article?

• You’re welcome to use my original ideas and material without attribution in sermons, teachings, or conversations—though sending more readers my way is always a blessing.

• When using this material in writing, just include a link to the original article.

• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.

Give a gift subscription

You ever hear a parent use the voice?

Not yelling. Yelling is amateur hour. I mean the calm, low, I have heard enough voice. The voice that makes every kid in the room suddenly stop moving and stare at the floor like it’s fascinating.

Everyone was arguing a second ago. Someone was defending themselves. Someone was blaming their brother. Then mom or dad says one sentence, and the whole room shuts down.

Not because the kids ran out of opinions. Kids never run out of opinions. They regenerate opinions like lizards regrow tails.

The room gets quiet because someone with authority has ended the discussion.

That’s where this little book of Habakkuk we’re studying is heading next. Here’s what’s happened so far:

Habakkuk: “How long will you let injustice win, God?”
God: Not long, because Babylon is coming to destroy Israel.
Habakkuk: “What? That can’t be right. They’re evil!”

Then he stood on the watchtower, waiting to see how God would answer concerning his complaint.

Then God answered: Babylon will be judged too. Their glory is borrowed, because the earth will be filled with Mine.

The fourth woe:

“Woe to him who makes his neighbors drink—
you pour out your wrath and make them drunk,
in order to gaze at their nakedness!”
(Habakkuk 2:15)

That’s an ugly verse because it’s describing an ugly sin. And let’s be clear: this is not mainly a warning about someone having one too many and making a fool of himself at a party. It’s darker than that. This is about using someone’s weakness for your advantage. It’s about getting someone vulnerable, exposed, compromised, or ashamed—and then calling it pleasure, entertainment, business, power, or just “what everyone does.”

Babylon did not just conquer people. Babylon learned how to use them.

And we shouldn’t keep this safely locked in the ancient world. That spirit is alive whenever someone’s body becomes a product, someone’s breakdown becomes a clip, someone’s shame becomes a group chat, or someone’s weakness becomes leverage. We call it watching, laughing, flirting, networking, selling, surviving. God calls it what it is.

Woe.

This isn’t just “those people out there.” I’ve used people too. I have, at times, used people to make myself feel important, desired, successful, funny, powerful, or right. That’s Babylon too. Just dressed better. Then God turns the image around:

You will have your fill of shame instead of glory.
Drink, yourself, and show your uncircumcision!
The cup in the LORD’s right hand
will come around to you,
and utter shame will come upon your glory!

The violence done to Lebanon will overwhelm you,
as will the destruction of the beasts that terrified them,
for the blood of man and violence to the earth,
to cities and all who dwell in them.
(Habakkuk 2:16-17)

That line is brutal: “shame instead of glory.”

Babylon wanted glory—power, pleasure, control, dominance, applause. But God says the cup is coming back around. What they handed to others would be placed in their own hands. The shame they poured out would return. The exposure they used against others would become their own.

That’s what sin does. Sin promises glory and eventually serves shame.

It tells you this will make you feel powerful, desired, safe, superior, free, in control. And maybe it does for a minute. But secret pleasure becomes bondage. Power becomes paranoia. Compromise becomes exposure. Babylon never understands that. We forget it too.

Sin doesn’t just break God’s rules. It breaks people made in God’s image.

Then Habakkuk moves from exploitation to idolatry:

What profit is an idol
when its maker has shaped it,
a metal image, a teacher of lies?
For its maker trusts in his own creation
when he makes speechless idols!

Woe to him who says to a wooden thing, Awake;
to a silent stone, Arise!
Can this teach?
Behold, it is overlaid with gold and silver,
and there is no breath at all in it.
(Habakkuk 2:18-19)

At first, this can seem disconnected. One minute God is confronting exploitation and shame. The next minute He is talking about carved idols. But it’s not disconnected.

Idolatry is the engine underneath everything else.

Our whole life belongs to God. Your family, your pets, your dollars, your diet, your friendships, your job, your social life, your alcohol. All of it belongs to God. And you’re either using it in a way that is idolatrous or worshipful. Either it’s bent out toward the Living God or it’s bent back toward you.

Everything in your life is bending somewhere. Bowing toward something or someone.

People use people because they worship something that’s less than God. If your god is pleasure, people become bodies. If your god is power, people become threats. If your god is money, people become numbers. If your god is comfort, people become interruptions. If your god is self, people become tools.

Idolatry is never harmless. We like to think of idols as little private sins. A thing I struggle with. A thing I enjoy too much. A thing I know I should probably surrender eventually, but not yet, because let’s not get dramatic.

But idols never stay private, because whatever you worship will eventually shape how you treat people.

Peter Kreeft once said, “The opposite of Christianity is not atheism. It’s idolatry.” I think he’s right. Everyone worships. We bow to approval, comfort, control, a phone, a body, a platform, a political tribe, a future we refuse to surrender.

If you follow your schedule and your wallet, you’ll find your god. And honestly, you can probably add your fear, your anger, and your browser history to the list too. Follow those long enough, and the shrine usually comes into view.

And yet… there is no breath in an idol.

Think about how crazy that is: We take something God made, shape it into something we can manage, then ask it to save us. We form the idol, then let the idol form us.

And God looks at the whole ridiculous scene and asks, “Can this teach?”

Can this save you? Forgive you? Raise the dead? Give peace to your soul? Stand with you when everything collapses? Speak life when death comes knocking?

No. There is no breath in it. Then comes verse 20:

“But the LORD is in his holy temple;
let all the earth keep silence before him.”
(Habakkuk 2:20)

Do you feel the contrast?

The idol has no breath, but the Lord is in His holy temple.
The idol can’t speak, but the whole earth must be silent before God.
The idol is carried by human hands, but the Lord reigns from His throne.
The idol is covered in gold and silver to look glorious. The Lord is holy whether anyone acknowledges Him or not.

That is the final answer to Babylon—not a better idol, not a louder argument, not another empire with better PR. The Lord is in His holy temple. So let the earth stop talking.

And that silence is not only for Babylon. It is for Habakkuk too. The prophet who came ready with a complaint now stands before the God who gets the final word. That doesn’t mean Habakkuk’s questions were fake or sinful or pointless. God let him ask. God answered him. God met him in the struggle.

But there comes a moment when faith stops cross-examining God and starts bowing before Him.

This is not God’s absence. This is creation remembering its place. Humanity standing before the God of the universe with no excuses left. No spin. No defense. No “everybody does it” or “I had no choice.” No “it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

Just silence.

And although it sounds like judgment, that’s the mercy of this passage. God doesn’t leave us arguing with idols, managing excuses, or pretending shame is glory and dead things give life.

He brings us before Himself—the God who sees every hidden thing, exposes every borrowed glory, will not be mocked, and is not carved, carried, managed, manipulated, or impressed. That’s the course correction. The reorientation.

God stops the spin long enough for us to see what we’ve been worshiping.

And though it’s terrifying, for those of us who are in Christ, it’s also safe. In fact, the only safe place to be exposed before a holy God is in the mercy of the Savior who was shamed in our place. Which means the silence before God doesn’t have to be the silence of despair. With Christ, it can become the silence of surrender.

Jesus was stripped. Mocked. Exposed. Crucified. He took shame He did not deserve so sinners like us could receive mercy we could never earn.

So the invitation is not to explain more, defend more, post more, prove more, or promise more. Maybe the invitation is to get quiet before the God you cannot control. Quiet enough to stop calling idols harmless. Quiet enough to stop pretending the thing you made can save you.

The room is loud right now. Babylon is still talking. Idols are still preaching. Sin is still making promises it cannot keep.

But not forever.

The Lord is in His holy temple.

Let all the earth keep silence before Him.

PS — If this served you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to fund the book I’m working on and get extras (printables, verse cards, discussion guides, subscriber-only articles, and more). Thank you for fueling this work!

Want to Use This Article?

• You’re welcome to use my original ideas and material without attribution in sermons, teachings, or conversations—though sending more readers my way is always a blessing.

• When using this material in writing, just include a link to the original article.

• The main ideas, biblical interpretation, themes, illustrations, and overall flow are mine—whether developed fresh or drawn from my previous work. I use artificial intelligence as a time-saving, grammar-policing, typo-fixing, point-debating research ninja. It helps me sharpen the work and maximize my time, but the final judgment and responsibility are mine.