When Your Faith Feels Like One More Thing You’re Failing At
Have you ever crawled into bed exhausted, reached for your phone “just for a minute,” and that minute turns into an hour?
Last night it was 10:30 p.m. for me. I’d been scrolling Instagram after a long week, and my “restful” weekend got swallowed up by the pile of things that needed to be done. Again.
And honestly, I didn’t want to think.
So I scrolled.
I tell our church often that I’m preaching to my own heart before I’m preaching to yours. I’m not writing as someone who’s arrived. I’m writing as a fellow pilgrim trying to follow Jesus with kids, responsibilities, and a tired brain.
When I realized it, I set my phone down, closed my eyes, and started to pray.
But my motivation wasn’t worship.
It was guilt.
I was doing exactly what I had encouraged our people not to do that very morning. Carrying weight. Social media is good for weighing you down with our broken world. So like you, I need reminders.
As I prayed, the accusations came. Isn’t that ironic. Even when I’m talking to God, my heart is working to rehearse a lie.
I’m failing again. I need to please God for Him to love me.
The lies run deep in my internal narrative—the story I rehearse instead of the gospel.
If I were a good Christian, I wouldn’t be this tired.
If I were a good pastor, I’d have this together by now.
If I were a good son, I would be worthy of love.
And if you’re anything like me, you know how quickly spiritual life can start feeling like a performance review.
Am I meeting everyone’s needs?
Am I meeting everyone’s expectations?
Am I leading well—preaching, counseling, praying, shepherding—without dropping the ball?
Ultimately, exhaustion sets in…
because I’m carrying a weight that Jesus didn’t ask me to carry alone.
And then, internally, exhaustion becomes evidence that I’m not measuring up.
So instead of sitting in His presence, I work harder. I push through. I ignore the limp.
But Hebrews 12 says something that challenged and encouraged me last week.
“Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees” (Heb. 12:12).
Don’t read that verse in a vacuum. It comes right after the reminder that God is a Father who disciplines His children—not to shame them, but to form them. Discipline is painful in the moment, yes, but it yields fruit later.
And then, like a good Father, He looks at weary runners and says…
I see the droop.
I see the tremble.
I see the limp.
I see you.
Notice what the text doesn’t say. It doesn’t mercilessly command, “Stop being weak.” It doesn’t scold you for fatigue. It acknowledges reality and provides direction on what to do with it.
Which tells me something I so often forget. Weariness in the race is often part of sanctification, not proof of disqualification.
Here’s the lie I drift into. God is pleased with me when I’m spiritually productive.
But Hebrews won’t let me stay there. The problem isn’t that I don’t love Jesus. The problem is that I—and maybe you—carry weight Jesus never asked us to carry, at least not alone.
Hebrews has already told us to lay aside weights and sin that cling so closely. And a few verses later it tells us to watch over one another so that no one “fails to obtain the grace of God” (Heb. 12:15).
In other words, the Christian life was never meant to be a solo sprint where you pretend you’re fine.
Then Jesus comes in with His own invitation, and it’s almost shocking in how non-performative it is. It’s hard to believe it’s real…that it’s for me.
“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28).
Not: “Work harder and then come.”
Not: “Get your spiritual act together and then come.”
Not: “Prove you’re serious and then come.”
Come now.
Come tired.
Come distracted.
Come with drooping hands and weak knees.
And here’s the truth I have to rehearse: I do not belong to Christ because I kept my spiritual routines intact. I belong to Christ because He kept the law I couldn’t keep, carried the burden I couldn’t carry, and bore the condemnation I deserve.
On your worst day…when prayer feels like sand in your mouth, when your mind won’t settle, when you can’t muster a sentence longer than “help me”…Christ’s finished work still stands.
He is not watching you with a clipboard.
He is interceding for you with nail-scarred hands.
Psalm 103 says God remembers that we are dust (Ps. 103:14). He’s not shocked by your limits. He’s not surprised by your exhaustion.
And that’s why rest matters more than we think. Psychologist Thema Bryant notes that rest isn’t only physical, it’s resistance against the lie that our worth is measured by productivity.
Some of us don’t just resist rest with our calendars. We resist it with our spirituality. We can treat Bible reading, prayer, and church attendance like merit badges…proof that we’re acceptable.
But spiritual disciplines were never meant to be a payment plan.
They’re not how you earn the Father’s smile.
They’re how you enjoy it.
So if your faith feels like one more thing you’re failing at, hear this. In Hebrews 12, the Father strengthens weak knees…He doesn’t snap them. And Jesus doesn’t turn away the weary; He gathers them. He gathers me. He gathers you.
Don't stay stuck…here are a few questions to do something about it.
So…rest in His joy, even when you’re weary.
Last night it was 10:30 p.m. for me. I’d been scrolling Instagram after a long week, and my “restful” weekend got swallowed up by the pile of things that needed to be done. Again.
And honestly, I didn’t want to think.
So I scrolled.
I tell our church often that I’m preaching to my own heart before I’m preaching to yours. I’m not writing as someone who’s arrived. I’m writing as a fellow pilgrim trying to follow Jesus with kids, responsibilities, and a tired brain.
When I realized it, I set my phone down, closed my eyes, and started to pray.
But my motivation wasn’t worship.
It was guilt.
I was doing exactly what I had encouraged our people not to do that very morning. Carrying weight. Social media is good for weighing you down with our broken world. So like you, I need reminders.
As I prayed, the accusations came. Isn’t that ironic. Even when I’m talking to God, my heart is working to rehearse a lie.
I’m failing again. I need to please God for Him to love me.
The lies run deep in my internal narrative—the story I rehearse instead of the gospel.
If I were a good Christian, I wouldn’t be this tired.
If I were a good pastor, I’d have this together by now.
If I were a good son, I would be worthy of love.
And if you’re anything like me, you know how quickly spiritual life can start feeling like a performance review.
Am I meeting everyone’s needs?
Am I meeting everyone’s expectations?
Am I leading well—preaching, counseling, praying, shepherding—without dropping the ball?
Ultimately, exhaustion sets in…
because I’m carrying a weight that Jesus didn’t ask me to carry alone.
And then, internally, exhaustion becomes evidence that I’m not measuring up.
So instead of sitting in His presence, I work harder. I push through. I ignore the limp.
But Hebrews 12 says something that challenged and encouraged me last week.
“Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees” (Heb. 12:12).
Don’t read that verse in a vacuum. It comes right after the reminder that God is a Father who disciplines His children—not to shame them, but to form them. Discipline is painful in the moment, yes, but it yields fruit later.
And then, like a good Father, He looks at weary runners and says…
I see the droop.
I see the tremble.
I see the limp.
I see you.
Notice what the text doesn’t say. It doesn’t mercilessly command, “Stop being weak.” It doesn’t scold you for fatigue. It acknowledges reality and provides direction on what to do with it.
Which tells me something I so often forget. Weariness in the race is often part of sanctification, not proof of disqualification.
Here’s the lie I drift into. God is pleased with me when I’m spiritually productive.
But Hebrews won’t let me stay there. The problem isn’t that I don’t love Jesus. The problem is that I—and maybe you—carry weight Jesus never asked us to carry, at least not alone.
Hebrews has already told us to lay aside weights and sin that cling so closely. And a few verses later it tells us to watch over one another so that no one “fails to obtain the grace of God” (Heb. 12:15).
In other words, the Christian life was never meant to be a solo sprint where you pretend you’re fine.
Then Jesus comes in with His own invitation, and it’s almost shocking in how non-performative it is. It’s hard to believe it’s real…that it’s for me.
“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28).
Not: “Work harder and then come.”
Not: “Get your spiritual act together and then come.”
Not: “Prove you’re serious and then come.”
Come now.
Come tired.
Come distracted.
Come with drooping hands and weak knees.
And here’s the truth I have to rehearse: I do not belong to Christ because I kept my spiritual routines intact. I belong to Christ because He kept the law I couldn’t keep, carried the burden I couldn’t carry, and bore the condemnation I deserve.
On your worst day…when prayer feels like sand in your mouth, when your mind won’t settle, when you can’t muster a sentence longer than “help me”…Christ’s finished work still stands.
He is not watching you with a clipboard.
He is interceding for you with nail-scarred hands.
Psalm 103 says God remembers that we are dust (Ps. 103:14). He’s not shocked by your limits. He’s not surprised by your exhaustion.
And that’s why rest matters more than we think. Psychologist Thema Bryant notes that rest isn’t only physical, it’s resistance against the lie that our worth is measured by productivity.
Some of us don’t just resist rest with our calendars. We resist it with our spirituality. We can treat Bible reading, prayer, and church attendance like merit badges…proof that we’re acceptable.
But spiritual disciplines were never meant to be a payment plan.
They’re not how you earn the Father’s smile.
They’re how you enjoy it.
So if your faith feels like one more thing you’re failing at, hear this. In Hebrews 12, the Father strengthens weak knees…He doesn’t snap them. And Jesus doesn’t turn away the weary; He gathers them. He gathers me. He gathers you.
Don't stay stuck…here are a few questions to do something about it.
- Where have you started treating spiritual habits like proof that you’re acceptable?
- What’s your go-to accusation when you’re tired?
- Who could you let “watch over you” this week instead of pretending you’re fine?
So…rest in His joy, even when you’re weary.
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