Can you spend your whole life around Christianity and still miss Jesus? Yes… you can.

This past week, I had the blessing of speaking at chapel at Happy Hollow Christian Academy, and I centered the message on 1 Corinthians 13. Chapel is always a sweet time for us. We sing, open God’s Word, and remember together that Jesus is not just part of life. He is Lord over all of it.

I started with a simple question:
“Who likes the Georgia Bulldogs?”

That got the response I expected. Plenty of cheers. A few dissenters.

Then I asked:
"If you wear a Bulldogs jersey, does that make you part of the team?"
No.

"If you go to every game, does that make you part of the team?"
No.

"If you talk about the Bulldogs every day, read about them, watch them on TV, come from a long line of UGA fans, and play football in the backyard wearing a Georgia jersey, does any of that make you part of the team?"

Every time, the answer was the same.
No!

And that was the point.

There are a lot of things you can do around something...without actually belonging to it.

That’s what makes 1 Corinthians 13 so piercing. Paul says you can speak impressively, know deep things, give sacrificially, and even do outwardly costly things, but without love, it amounts to nothing. Not less than it could have been. Nothing.

The gym grew quiet, and rightly so.

This is not just a danger for students. It’s a danger for all of us. We can learn the language, keep the routines, follow the expectations, and still be missing the very thing that marks the life of Jesus in us.

Love.

Not sentimental love.
Not mere politeness.
Not tolerance dressed up as virtue.

The kind of love that is patient when you are interrupted.
The kind of love that is kind when someone has made your day harder.
The kind of love that does not have to win, does not keep score, does not parade itself, and does not treat people as obstacles.

That kind of love isn’t produced by rule-keeping. It’s the fruit of being loved by Jesus and changed by the Spirit.

That’s where this passage pushes us beyond behavior and down into the heart.

Because the answer isn’t, “Try harder to be nicer.”

The answer is being shaped by Jesus.

Jesus didn’t merely tell us to love. He loved us first…perfectly, patiently, and at great cost. At the cross, He bore our lovelessness, our pride, our coldness, and our selfishness. In His resurrection, He didn’t simply give us a better example. He gave us new life.

That means Christian love isn’t a performance we put on to prove we belong.

It’s fruit that grows because we do.

That was what I wanted our students to hear, but it was also what my own heart needed again.

You can attend chapel.
You can know the verses.
You can follow the rules.
You can grow up around Christianity.
And still miss Jesus.

So here's the question I left with our students, and the one I'm still asking myself:

Am I merely around the things of Jesus, or is the love of Jesus actually reshaping the way I treat people?

Where has my Christianity become routine, but not tender?

Who in front of me right now needs the kind of love Jesus has shown me?

Because the real evidence of His work in us isn’t merely right beliefs and outward rule-keeping, but inward transformation by His Spirit…seen in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

And that is good news for tired people like us. Jesus is not asking us to manufacture what only He can produce. He is calling us to abide in the One who loved us first. Because Jesus rescued and redeemed, the Father is not done with you.

Christian, you already know how we’re called to live.

Love people well. Open your home. Stay faithful. Stop gripping money so tight. Be the kind of person who shows up, who doesn't close off, who keeps going even when it costs something, and the list goes on.

You know it, but if we’re honest…some days, knowing is the exhausting part.

Real life doesn't slow down to let you be generous. The people you love most are sometimes the hardest to love. Your marriage needs more than you have left at the end of the day. Your bank account can create a constant low-grade anxiety. And the version of yourself you want to be can start to feel unrealistic.

I’m talking about myself here, too.

Our elders meet every Monday night, and we’ve been working through Paul Tripp's book, Dangerous Calling, together. Parts of it feel like getting your teeth kicked in. It exposes where I’m falling short, where my heart is divided, where I’m more exhausted than I want to admit. But then it points me back to Jesus. Which is exactly what a good book about shepherds should do.

In our last conversation, we asked each other some hard questions. How do we worship in the regular rhythms of life when we're overwhelmed? How do we shepherd others when we're still dealing with our own sin, our own wounds, our own weariness? Tripp's observation seems obvious. You can't effectively shepherd others unless your own heart is being shepherded. It's not our strength that points people to Jesus. It's from our own intimate walk with him.

That conversation walked us right into this past week’s sermon in Hebrews 13. In six verses, the author asks his readers to continue to love sacrificially, to welcome strangers, to honor marriage, to hold money loosely, and to live without fear. Read it without context, it sounds like an impossible to-do list. Read slowly, attempt to apply it…and it might even crush you.

But Jesus…

"I will never leave you nor forsake you. So we can confidently say, 'The Lord is my helper; I will not fear; what can man do to me?'" (Hebrews 13:5–6)

That word so…that’s where our hope comes from. You see, the commands aren't the starting point. The promise is.

The life described in the first few verses of that chapter is a picture of transformation. Notice what causes the transformation. Rehearsing the Gospel. Not, try harder or do better.

Keep love alive… in a church family, a marriage, a friendship… it requires a security that doesn't depend on how people respond to you. You can only keep opening your heart to people who might disappoint you if something deeper than their approval is holding you. The promise — He won't leave — is what makes that kind of love possible. Not easy. Possible.

Hospitality…welcoming people who can't repay you, making room for the inconvenient and the overlooked… that requires believing your resources aren't yours to hoard. You only stop guarding what you have when you trust the One who provides it.

Honor marriage…when the culture treats it as disposable, or when you've already failed and wonder if it's too late…that requires the Gospel too. Not the version that says "only the unbroken are welcome," but the real version: come to the One who makes all things new. Jesus doesn't rehearse your failures back at you. He paid for them and walks forward with you.

Contentment…real contentment, not just gritting your teeth and settling. That requires believing what you have right now is enough because who you have right now is enough. The reason money promises so much and delivers so little is that it’s trying to fill a role only God can fill.

Safety.
Peace.
Enough.

He already offers all of it… not as a feeling, but as a present, faithful person. The Lord is my helper…not resources.

This life…it doesn't make sense from the outside. Loving without guarantee of return. Welcoming without expecting repayment. Staying faithful when no one would fault you for leaving. Holding money loosely in a world that rewards grasping. People who don't know Jesus will look at your life and think you’re foolish.

Honestly? Sometimes WE think we’re foolish, too.

But that's the beauty of it. This is not a life you create. It's a life you receive…from a Savior who was forsaken so you would never have to be, who rose so the promise would hold forever, who is with you right now not as a judge waiting for you to get it together, but as a Helper.

Being tired doesn't disqualify you. Being overwhelmed doesn't mean you've lost it. Being aware of your own shortcomings isn't a sign that God is finished with you…it’s usually the first sign that He's at work in you.

You don't start with the work and hope your way to the promise. You start with the promise. You preach it to yourself, you rehearse it, you let it speak louder than the narrative of failure that haunts your mind…and the doing follows. Not perfectly. But genuinely. And that's worth celebrating.

"I will never leave you nor forsake you."

That's the promise. That’s the current and future hope. That’s what allows you to live an unexplainable life.

"I will never leave you nor forsake you."

Where have you been trying to love, give, stay faithful, or hold on? What would it look like to actually rest in His promise?

"I will never leave you nor forsake you."

“Not now, God.”

I don’t say it out loud. But I say it every time I feel that nudge. Send the text, make the call, ask forgiveness, offer forgiveness, stop scrolling, open the Bible…and my reflex is, “Not now, God.”

And the scary part is how responsible it can sound.

Later feels mature. 
Thoughtful. 
Wise.

But sometimes “later” isn’t wisdom.
It’s refusal…with good manners.

But Hebrews 12:25 confronted me this week.

"See that you do not refuse Him who is speaking." Those 10 words are loaded. Not who spoke. Not who will speak. But who IS speaking.

That shifts everything when we understand it.

For me, refusal isn't dramatic. It's not overt rebellion. It's just the quiet delay. A nudge while I'm driving. A conviction that surfaces during my reading. A clear next step that shows up in prayer. And my gut response is, "Yes, Lord. Soon."

The lie underneath is sneaky. I'll obey when I'm less tired. When I have more margin. When I feel ready. When I’m convinced. And what that really assumes is that God works on my timeline.

Refusing God doesn't always look like outright defiance. Sometimes it looks like nodding while you stall. It's not hostility — it's postponement. You heard Him. You just weren't ready to deal with it yet.

And if I'm being honest, most of my "laters" come down to the same thing…I'm trying to stay in control.

If I respond now, I might have to apologize today instead of next week. I might have to forgive before the wound has had time to scar over. I might have to say yes before I can figure out where it leads. So I delay. I "pray" about it. And I call it wisdom. But usually it's just fear dressed up nicely. More concerned with optics than repentance.

Here's what the gospel does to that pattern.

God doesn't speak to you like a boss who's losing patience. He speaks like a Father who has already moved toward you — fully, at enormous cost — in Jesus. When He wanted to deal with the deepest brokenness in us, He didn't send a warning. He sent His Son.

Jesus didn't delay obedience. He didn't wait for a better moment. He moved toward us while we were still a mess, absorbed our guilt and judgment, and came out the other side of death to give us an entirely new standing before God.

So when God speaks to His people now, He's not threatening to revoke your place at the table. He's forming you because you already have a seat. His correction has commitment underneath it. It's a Father who loves His kids too much to let them keep walking toward something that will hurt them.

That changes how I want to respond to His voice. I don't have to earn anything — Jesus already settled the account. I can obey without terror because I'm responding from a place of security, not trying to manufacture it. Conviction stops feeling like punishment and starts feeling like care. Repentance stops feeling like failure and starts feeling like freedom.

That said, not every internal nudge is God. But when Scripture is clear, and the next step is obvious, "later" is rarely a neutral choice. Delay has a direction. It tends to harden things. It builds a habit of listening selectively — taking the parts of God's voice we like and filing the rest away for another day.

So I've been asking myself some honest questions lately.

Where have I been saying "later" because obedience would mean losing some control? What am I postponing because it would require real humility — or honesty that costs something? If I genuinely believed God was for me in Christ, what would I stop putting off?

And a simple one worth answering out loud: What's one thing you know God has been pressing on you that you keep sliding to "later"?

The point of all this isn't "try harder so God won't be frustrated with you." It's simpler than that.

Listen…
because He loves you enough to keep speaking.

He's not trying to take something from you. He's trying to give you something you can't get on your own.

And when you do respond — imperfectly, nervously, half-ready, unsure — you're not paying Him back. You're just walking into the life He's been offering you all along.

So don't refuse Him who is speaking. Not to prove you're worthy. But because Jesus already proved He's committed to you.

He's not finished with me yet.
And He’s not finished with you.
That's actually the whole point.

Social media is great for a lot of things. It keeps us connected to family and friends. I love the fact that I can watch kids grow into adults in Spokane, and then watch their kids grow. I really enjoy challenging and encouraging quotes. I like the odd meme or two. I like prank videos and pets doing funny things. I love to see sunsets, sunrises, and the beauty of God’s creation in mountain ranges and the beach. Yeah, social media is great for a lot of things.

It also does a good job reminding me that the world is broken. Social media is a remarkably effective way to remind yourself of how little hope the world has to offer.

A tragedy.
A crisis.
A diagnosis.
A war.
A family unraveling.
Another argument in an echo chamber.
Another “breaking” update…

And even when I’m not trying to, my heart starts absorbing it all like I’m directly responsible. Like a moth to a flame, I can feel like I need to speak to every cultural moment, every tragic event. And social media is filled with people who will shame you into picking a side.

You are either extreme right or extreme left.
You are either right or wrong.
You are either with me or against me.

There is no middle ground.
There is no room to converse, to ask questions, to be patient for the truth.

Here’s the thing. Our minds and hearts were not built to handle this much grief and heartache on repeat.

The subtle lie underneath it sounds responsible: If I look away, I’m ignoring reality. Or, If I unplug, I’m being selfish. But there’s a difference between being informed and being emotionally flooded. There’s a difference between compassion and constant exposure.

Scripture gives you permission to be human. “Cast all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you” (1 Peter 5:7). Not collect them. Not cope with them. Cast them. Hand them to Someone stronger.

And Jesus is not just strong, He walks with you.

He stepped into our brokenness, carried what we could never carry, and took our sin and sorrow to the cross.

He rose again.
He reigns.
He intercedes.

Which means your peace is not tied to staying updated. Your faithfulness is not measured by how quickly you post or how loudly you declare where you stand. Your hope is not fragile. And your rest is not irresponsible. It’s faith.

So if you need permission to give your heart a break, here you go...

Take the weekend off.

Close the apps.
Put the phone down.
Go be with family and friends.
Take a walk.
Read a Psalm.

Sit with Jesus long enough to remember what’s true when the world feels out of control…and to hear Him more clearly than the guilt trip. You see, we live in a world that treats immediate commentary like it’s a moral duty.

If you don’t post, you don’t care.
If you don’t weigh in, you’re complicit.
If you don’t respond fast, you must be afraid.

But that’s not always true.

Sometimes silence is how you refuse to let outrage disciple you. Sometimes silence is how you keep your soul from being dragged into a thousand arguments you can’t actually carry. Sometimes silence is how you protect tenderness, because your heart is already bruised and you know one more scroll will push you over the edge.

Scripture doesn’t shame that kind of restraint. It dignifies it.

“Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger” (James 1:19). Not because truth doesn’t matter, but because our words carry weight, and a hurried heart is rarely a wise heart. There are moments when the most faithful thing you can do is listen, pray, and wait before you speak. There are moments when speaking is easy, but speaking well is costly.

So maybe this weekend your silence is not avoidance. Maybe it’s worship. Maybe it’s you choosing presence over performance, prayer over posturing, and family and friends over the endless feed. Unplug. Enjoy your weekend.

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.

• 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?
  
  

Christian, remember this. God loves you, and He is not done with you. It is in the valleys that we draw closest to our good Father and we see the most fruit produced.

So…rest in His joy, even when you’re weary.

When I got home yesterday, Jennifer wanted to sit and catch up.
“Give me 15 minutes. I need to send two emails and answer some texts. I’ll rest after everyone goes to bed.”

Somehow, I’d convinced myself that Jennifer could wait until I checked everything off. Rest could wait too. Again.

Here’s the lie I believed: Rest is the reward I earn after I’ve handled everything.

It sounds responsible. It even feels righteous. And it’s completely backward.

God didn’t give Israel the Sabbath command as a productivity hack. “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy… Six days you shall labor… but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the LORD your God” (Exodus 20:8–10). Notice what He didn’t say: “Rest when you’re caught up.” The command assumes the work will keep coming.

The revolutionary part? Stop anyway.

Walter Brueggemann, an Old Testament scholar, calls Sabbath “an act of resistance”...not laziness, but defiance against the tyranny of productivity. That’s exactly what it feels like. We live in a culture that whispers (or shouts) that our worth is measured by output; that stopping means falling behind; that rest is for the weak. And if I’m honest, that same thinking has invaded the church… and it’s invaded my own heart.

Jesus offers something better.

“There remains a Sabbath rest for the people of God, for whoever has entered God’s rest has also rested from his works as God did from his” (Hebrews 4:9–10). Our work isn’t about earning righteousness. It isn’t about earning a break. It’s about entering a rest Jesus has already secured.

He finished the work that actually matters—reconciling us to God—so we could stop trying to justify our existence with our to-do lists.

When Jesus said, “It is finished,” He was declaring the saving work was complete. And that means your acceptance before God doesn’t depend on completing everything. You are loved before you’re productive. You belong to Him whether your inbox is empty or overflowing.

Rest isn’t irresponsible when it’s obedience. That’s the truth I’m wrestling with: rest is obedience.

The dishes can wait. The emails will still be there tomorrow. And taking a Sabbath pause doesn’t mean you don’t care…it means you’re remembering whose you are. God’s rest isn’t a luxury for people who’ve earned it. It’s a gift for people who never will.

Here’s my challenge: Pick one “non-essential” task and deliberately drop it for the next 24 hours. No checking it. No circling it in your mind. Practice trusting that God holds your world together even when you stop.

I did this recently with social media. I deleted the apps off my phone for two days. The first day was surprisingly hard. The second day… I could breathe.

Here’s what I’ve been asking myself: What does my restlessness say I’m trusting more than God? So far, I haven't liked the answers.

I looked up at the end of last week and realized I hadn't just worked hard, I'd slowly run my soul dry. I took Friday off to just…be.

That rhythm isn’t new to me. I get into a groove where I run hard and get things done. I'm productive, dependable, answering texts, solving problems, carrying weight. But when I finally come up for air, I'm hollow, empty…because I've been giving without receiving.

I pack my schedule so full that I don't have time to sit with Jesus. I worry about little things that have become big things...only in my mind, instead of just being with Him and letting Him remind me of who I am…and who He is.

Pulled between the Air Force, church, school, fatherhood, marriage, and friendship…I can slip into "put out the fires" mode. I focus on the next urgent thing instead of walking in peace.

The lies of the tyranny of the urgent are insidious: “If I don't keep moving, everything will fall apart.” And right behind it, “Peace is something I earn after I handle everything.” So I only run harder and soon...run on empty.

I read Psalm 1 this morning, and it confronted my lies. It doesn't open with a command to work harder. It opens with a picture of the blessed person…Steady. Fruitful. Not collapsing under pressure. At peace.

I wanted that…I needed it. I let out a deep breath, and my shoulders loosened.

I noticed that it wasn’t simply an easier schedule that made him blessed…it's that his soul has an eternal supply.

"He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither."

Heavy sigh. I know this, but I forget.

A tree doesn't survive because it tries harder, or life is easier, or it works harder than any other tree around it. It survives because it's planted near a stream.

The blessed person isn't someone who never gets pulled in a dozen directions. In fact, I’d argue that someone who is running hard with Jesus will actually face many difficulties in this life. So it’s not someone who has an easy life, it’s someone who has learned where to be rooted. He isn't living on spiritual adrenaline. He’s not being dominated by the tyranny of the urgent. He's receiving life from a source deeper than his circumstances.

And the psalm is honest, the fruit comes "in its season." Not constantly. Not on demand. Not at the pace of everyone else's expectations. There are seasons for visible fruit, and seasons for hidden strengthening.

My first question to myself needs to change from, "Why am I not producing more?"
To, "What stream am I actually drinking from right now?"

Because we all have streams.

Sometimes I'm drinking from approval. Sometimes from control. Sometimes from the comfort of never slowing down. Sometimes from distraction…scrolling, entertainment, endless input…anything that keeps me from being alone with my thoughts and alone with God.

Those streams can keep me busy…without ever making me alive.

Psalm 1 says the blessed person "delights" in the law of the Lord and "meditates" on it day and night. That's not someone trying to impress God with spiritual intensity. It's a child, returning to the same life-giving voice again and again until it becomes their steadiness.

But when I read Psalm 1, I feel two temptations.

One is to fake it until I make it—to turn "delight" into a performance. The other is to despair…to read "blessed" and think, woe is me.

And that's where Jesus matters more than my discipline ever will. Psalm 1 ultimately points to the truly blessed Man…the One who never walked in the counsel of the wicked, never drifted, never lived off the wrong stream for even a moment. Jesus delighted perfectly in His Father. Jesus obeyed perfectly. Jesus stayed rooted perfectly.

And then He went to the cross for people like me…people who run dry, who live frantic, who drink from broken cisterns and call it normal.

He didn't die to motivate me into better habits.
He died to bring me back to God.
He rose to prove the stream isn't closed.

And right now, He intercedes for me, not as a disappointed supervisor, but as a faithful Savior who knows exactly how thin and tired I can get.

That means receiving isn't a reward for people who finally get their schedules under control. Receiving is part of what it means to belong to Jesus.

So what does it look like to receive when I'm in "put out the fires" mode? Honestly, it’s hard to break that rhythm once I’m engaged in it. My head is down, my shoulders are slumped, my hands are busy and I don’t look up. That’s a terrible way to live. I’m learning that in the middle of all of it…I need to tell myself a hard truth…”Stop it!”

I open Psalm 1. Read it slowly. Don't rush past the tree. Ask the Lord, "Where am I drinking from?"

And then, and this matters, I try not to turn that moment into another task I either succeed or fail at.

I'm learning to make it a stream I come back to. To rest. To receive.

A few minutes in the morning.
A pause in the car before I walk into the next responsibility.
A quiet re-centering before I answer the next email.

Not to earn peace…but to receive the Prince of Peace.

I'm asking myself: What's been fueling me lately—Jesus, or urgency? What do I reach for when I feel stressed: prayer or control? If someone looked at my life this week, what would they assume my "stream" is?

If you're tired today, Psalm 1 isn't dangling a spiritual trophy in front of you. It's inviting you to a different kind of life…rooted, supplied, steady. To a different mental space…peace, joy, contentment.

And the best news is the stream isn't your willpower. The stream is Jesus Himself…crucified, risen, present, and committed to finishing what He started in you.

Because Jesus is finished, God is not done with me, and I can rest.

My life often seems ruled by the tyranny of the urgent and the demands of the monotonous. It’s a cyclic trap we usually don’t realize we’re in, because it feels like “normal,” and normal rarely sets off alarms.

For me, that cycle gets broken every month.

I have Air Force duty. And when I’m in that environment, most of my usual rhythms get suspended. My normal responsibilities quiet, and my focus shifts to a different set of demands, a different pace, a different mindset. It’s not that one life is easier than the other…it’s just different.

But the part that always surprises me is coming home.

After only a couple of days, I walk back into a world that didn’t stop while I was gone: family needs, bills, jobs, emails, responsibilities, conversations I need to have, things that need to be fixed, people I need to follow up with. And for a brief moment in that transition, the cycle of normality is exposed for what it is. It’s mentally jarring, like stepping from one moving treadmill onto another that’s going a different speed.

And in that moment, in that disorientation, I’m forced to prioritize.

What do I do first? What’s most important? If “Airman” is no longer at the forefront, what is? What, or who, immediately gets my time, my direction, and my affections?

This first morning back, I watched the sun rise. Steady light burning across the sky. And it was an immediate reminder of who I am, why I’m here, and who deserves my primary affections.

The sunrise, as it burned across the sky, made me smile.

It’s ordinary enough to ignore, but glorious enough to capture you…if you pause long enough.

Oranges, and pinks that feather into blues. There’s soft fire at the edges, clouds catching light that no camera could capture. And the more you actually look, the more it exposes how dulled your attention has become. You realize how often you live like the world is gray…not because it is, but because your heart is running on autopilot.

Psalm 19 says, “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork” (19:1). That means the sky isn’t just there. It’s proclaiming. Preaching. Declaring. Not with words, but with presence. It’s a daily announcement that God is not careless. God is not boring. God doesn’t do “good enough.”

And if that’s what God does with a morning sky, it tells me something about how He’s working in the parts of my life that feel repetitive.

Monotony is dangerous because it quietly steals your sense of purpose. You can do all the right things…provide, lead, serve, show up…and still feel like life is just maintenance. Joy is dulled.

The calendar fills up, the inbox refills, the same conversations cycle through, and somewhere along the way you begin to live as if the urgent is the priority. Joy comes from productivity and productivity is tenuous.

But the sunrise doesn’t honor our categories. It refuses to be rushed. It doesn’t ask permission from our schedule. It just…arrives. It’s steady. It reminds you that the world is held together by Someone stronger than you.

Lamentations says, “The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases… they are new every morning” (3:22–23). New mercies…every morning. Which means God’s faithfulness isn’t reserved for just big moments. It’s embedded in the small ones.

New mercy for the same responsibilities.
New mercy for the same routines. 
New mercy for the same ordinary life.

And maybe that’s the real battle…not escaping routine, but learning to see God in it.

Because the point of the sunrise isn’t merely that it’s beautiful. It’s that it’s consistent.

You didn’t arrange it.
You didn’t hold it in place overnight. 
You don’t have to manage it.

It rises because God sustains what He made. It’s a wordless sermon.

God is steady when you are scattered.
God is faithful when you are distracted.
God is glorious when your world feels bland.

But the sunrise also presses a deeper question. What gets…you?

Coming home from duty confronts that in me. When the cycle is broken, you discover what your heart is oriented toward. What you instinctively run to. What you treat as ultimate. What you believe will give you stability.

And that’s where the sunrise doesn’t just point to creation…it points me to Jesus.

Because, as beautiful as it is, the clearest proof that God is committed to His purposes isn’t in the morning sky. It’s in the empty tomb.

Jesus rose, not as a poetic symbol of “new beginnings,” but as the reigning King who has secured the end of the story. The resurrection means your life is not a loop of meaningless days. It’s part of a Kingdom that cannot be shaken. Christ is not reacting to your schedule. He is ruling over your life with wise authority and real love.

So when the cycle of “urgent and monotonous” starts closing in again, and it will, here are a few practical ways I’ve been pushing back.

• Start your day outside. Even thirty seconds. A window. A porch. A breath. Let creation reintroduce you to reality.
  
  
• Declare your primary allegiance out loud. “Jesus, You’re not an add-on to my life. You are my life.” That simple sentence can expose how divided your loves have become.
  
  
• Choose one “first” act of worship. Before emails, before news, before tasks: a short prayer, a psalm, a quiet moment of gratitude. Not to earn anything, just to re-aim your affections.
  
  
• Ask one clarifying question: Who gets my best attention today? If the answer is always the urgent, the lists, the responsibilities…your heart will slowly starve.
  
  

The sunrise that first morning back didn’t remove responsibilities. It didn’t erase the weight of normal life. It did something better, it reminded me that my life is not defined by what demands me…it’s defined by who holds me.

And that’s the reset I need again and again.

Jesus is still on His throne. Which means my routines have purpose, my priorities can be re-ordered, and my affections can be gathered back to the One they were made for.

There’s a particular kind of hurt that isn’t just discouraging; it invades your internal dialogue. It hurts so much that it shakes up your identity. It whispers conclusions while you’re still gasping for breath.

God has abandoned you.
God is disappointed in you.
God is done with you.

I’ve been there more times than I’d like to admit. Sitting in the wreckage of disappointment, nursing a grief that felt anything but loving, wondering if God had forgotten me, or worse…He just stopped caring.

That’s why the language of discipline in Hebrews 12 used to feel like salt in the wound. “Endure hardship as discipline” (12:7).

There have been seasons in the past, and I’m coming out of one now, where I wanted to close the Bible and shove it away, because I didn’t need a theology lesson…I needed relief. I needed encouragement. I needed God to give me what I wanted…what I felt I worked for.

But here’s what I’m learning, probably slower than I should. God’s discipline isn’t His rejection. It’s His refusal to let me stay stuck in my personal kingdom building…of which I’m all too prone.

Hebrews doesn’t describe a distant judge looking for reasons to condemn. It describes a Father training His children. “The Lord disciplines the one he loves, and chastises every son whom he receives” (12:6). The point isn’t that God is finally paying me back. The point is that God has already called me son.

And that position in my Father’s household matters, because not all pain is the same.

Some suffering is simply life in a broken world.
Some pain is the consequence of foolish choices.
Some affliction is spiritual opposition.

But Hebrews is telling us that none of it is wasted in the hands of a loving Father. Even when I can’t figure out the source, I can still trust my Father’s heart.

Still, I’ll be honest…I’ve resented that love. I often want what I want...not what He wants for me.

When doors closed that I desperately wanted open…
When relationships ended that I thought were God’s will…
When my carefully constructed plans crumbled in my hands…

I didn’t feel “trained.” I felt abandoned. I didn't feel loved. I felt rejected.

And Hebrews doesn’t ask us to pretend otherwise. “For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant” (12:11). Honestly, that might be the understatement of the century lol. Discipline hurts because it confronts what I cling to. It exposes the places I’ve tried to build a life without needing God too much. It reveals what I'm trying to create...regardless of God's desires for me.

But Hebrews doesn’t start with discipline. It starts with Jesus.

Before the passage ever tells us to endure, it tells us where to look: “looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith… who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross” (12:2). And then it adds, “Consider him… so that you may not grow weary or fainthearted” (12:3).

That’s the moment of hope for me. It’s my ‘fix your face’ moment. This weekend was a 'fix your face' weekend.

If Jesus endured the cross for me, then my suffering (discouragement, exhaustion, disappointment, frustration) is not God’s payment plan for my sin. The punishment I deserved has already fallen on Christ. God’s discipline is not wrath; it’s fatherly training. Not condemnation, but formation. Not “You’re out,” but “You’re mine.”

I'm in the middle of facing hardship (disappointment, discouragement, frustration, anger) this weekend, and something very startling happened. The question began to shift for me.

Not: Is God against me?
But: What is He doing in me?

Hebrews says that “later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it” (12:11). Not immediately. Not during. Later.

And that timing is part of the mercy, because it means God is more committed to what you’re becoming than to your demand for immediate desires and quick explanations.

Looking back, I can trace some of that “later” in my own life. And honestly, it’s helping me process things in my life today...literally today...Saturday, 1/31/26.

Closed doors have exposed how much I trusted my timeline, my work…more than God’s wisdom.

Trusted but failed relationships revealed that I was seeking security in people rather than in Christ.

Failed plans showed me I was more attached to my vision of the good life than to the Author of life Himself.

None of that has felt loving in the moment. But the fruit has been real, and it's been immediate. It’s producing a steadier faith, a quieter ego, a deeper peace that doesn’t collapse when I don’t get my way.

Then comes the gentle, bracing encouragement: “Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet” (12:12–13). God doesn’t merely explain my weakness; He meets me in it. He calls me to take the next right step. Those steps are often small but obedient. They are rooted in rehearsing that He is rebuilding what discouragement has made tremble.

If you’re in the middle of this right now, here’s what I want you to hear. You are not being punished. You are being loved. Deeply, deeply loved. That helps me smile through the pain and disappointment. Rehearsing Jesus today has made me smile and laugh, even in the frustration.

Listen to me. Your pain is not proof that God has turned away from you. If you are in Christ, He has already drawn near…so near that He took your sin, your shame, and your sentence upon Himself. The Father who did not spare His own Son will not abandon you in the training.

Believer…redeemed one, the valley isn’t your destination. If you enter a valley, it is merely your training ground. When you realize that you've stepped into a valley, ask yourself, What is He doing in me?

Remember, the same Shepherd who leads you into hard places is the Shepherd who walks with you there. Remember, even when you don't feel it...it's for your good and His glory.

So don’t “trust the process” like it's a nice slogan. Trust the Father. Fix your eyes on the Son. Keep taking the next step.

The harvest is not a myth. It’s a promise. And in Jesus, the One who began this work will carry you, tenderly and faithfully, until peace and righteousness are more than words on a page, but living fruit in your life.

Have you ever had a week where nothing “bad” happened… and yet you still felt spiritually drained?

Bilbo Baggins described it better than I can: “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.” That’s where I’ve been lately as I study Hebrews 12 in preparation to preach.

There’s a particular kind of pressure that comes with preaching. It’s not the pressure of public speaking, and not even the pressure of getting the details right. It’s the pressure of living in a passage long enough that it starts living in you.

And if I’m honest, I often feel like a hypocrite on Sunday mornings.

It’s one thing to preach a truth.
It’s another thing to submit to it.

Most weeks it feels like God is pressing these truths into my own heart… and they haven’t taken their full effect before I need to proclaim them to others. I’ve found myself praying, “Lord, I just need more time with this.” But Sunday comes whether I’m ready or not.

So I’m preaching as a fellow sojourner, not an expert. I’m sharing the road I’m on, not pretending I’ve already arrived. I’m going to tell you something true, and I’m still learning how to live it.

“Let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us…” (Hebrews 12:1)

That verse is very uncomfortable. It asks questions I’d rather avoid.

What am I carrying that God never told me to carry?
What am I excusing because it isn’t technically sin?
What am I calling “rest” that is actually escape?

That word “weight” has been sticking with me. I’ve been turning it over and over in my mind.

Sometimes what trips me up isn’t what’s forbidden. It’s what’s allowed, but no longer helpful. It’s the extra layer I keep wearing into a race.

Personally, rest is one of those good things that can become a weight for me.

I run hard in life. My mind rarely stops. Between family responsibilities, pastoral ministry, school leadership, and Air Force duties, there’s always something urgent, something unfinished, something that needs attention.

So I look for a breather.

Sometimes it’s a book.
Sometimes it’s a game.
Sometimes it’s a few minutes scrolling.
Sometimes it’s a quiet corner where I don’t have to carry anyone else’s needs.

And sometimes that really is rest…a simple kindness from God. Just to stop for a moment.

But if I’m honest, there are other moments when it’s not rest. It’s escape.

The difference is subtle, but real.

Rest sends me back to my people with more patience.
Escape makes me resent being needed.

Rest loosens my grip on control.
Escape tightens it.

Rest is a pause that restores love.
Escape becomes a place I hide.

That’s why Hebrews’ language is so wise. A weight isn’t usually obvious. Often, it’s a good thing that has quietly grown too heavy for the calling in front of me.

And Hebrews pictures the Christian life as a race marked out by God…“the race that is set before us.” Which means this isn’t one-size-fits-all.

What slows me down might not slow you down.
What refreshes you might numb me.
What someone else can enjoy freely might be the very thing that is stealing my attentiveness, presence, prayer, and joy.

That reality can push us into two ditches.
Legalism wants a universal list: “These things are weights for everyone.”
But another kind of freedom shrugs and says, “Nothing is a weight as long as I’m enjoying it.”

Both miss what Hebrews is doing.

Hebrews doesn’t give a list of do’s and don’ts. It calls to me. Lay aside every weight, so you can run with endurance.

And I’ve watched this play out in my own life. A hobby I picked up to decompress turns into something I’m thinking about during family dinner. A show I used to watch to “turn my brain off” becomes the reason I’m up too late again. A good thing starts slowly taking more than it gives.

And then I realize…I’m building my own kingdom again.

Jesus patiently calls me back.

“Looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith…”

That line is so freeing. So kind.

Jesus is not simply the coach yelling from the sidelines, disappointed when I slow down. He is the Savior who ran the race I could not run.

He endured the cross.
He despised the shame.
And then He sat down.

Finished work.
Completed salvation.
Final victory.

So when I’m weighed down, the first invitation isn’t, “Try harder.”

It’s, “Look again.”

Look to the Savior who doesn’t love you because you’re fast, but because He is faithful. Look to the One who carried the weight of your sin and mine, so you don’t have to carry the weight of proving yourself.

And from that safety, Hebrews helps me ask better questions.

Not just, “Is this a sin?” but, “Is this slowing me down?”
Not, “Can I get away with this?” but, “Is this helping me love God and love people with a whole heart?”
Not, “Do I enjoy this?” but, “Is this rest that restores me or escape that replaces Jesus?”

Here’s the question I’ve been pondering (and maybe one worth answering in the comments): What good thing has quietly started to cost you obedience, presence, or joy in Christ?

The grace of Hebrews 12 is that laying down a weight is not losing life. It’s recovering it. You’re not earning God’s smile by dropping what slows you down. You’re responding to a smile that is already yours in Christ.

So, join me in asking the questions, looking for the weight, and being free of it.

Then run…not to become loved, but because you already are.

Last night, I lay in bed with my mind doing what it does best when the lights go out…rehearsing.

Rehearsing all the failures, all the insufficiencies, all the what ifs, and I should ofs. Failure as a father. Failure as a husband. Failure as a friend. Failure as a son. Failure as a brother. Failure as a pastor…failure, as a human.

And honestly? What makes nights like last night so exhausting isn't only what I'm thinking about. It's the feeling that I can't see anything else. Like my mind is full of open browser tabs, and as soon as I’ve been beaten down by one…more await my attention.

There have been many, many nights like that over the years, so I’m not without a way to fight it. I know I have to speak the truths of the Gospel into those waking nightmares. I can’t go back and fix what I did wrong.

One of those truths is found in Hebrews 12:1–2. It has helped me; perhaps it will help you.

"Let us run… fixing our eyes on Jesus."

That verse is filled with so much mercy. Desperately needed mercy. It doesn't say, "Fix your life." It doesn't say, "Fix your record." It doesn't say, "Fix what you've broken and then come to God when your thoughts calm down." It just says, "Fix your eyes on Jesus."

Which means the Christian life isn't only about doing the right things. Sometimes it's about looking in the right direction when everything inside you wants to condemn self.

I have found that anxiety has a gravitational pull. It keeps folding your attention inward. It makes you replay conversations you can't redo. Rehearse worst-case scenarios you can't prevent. Keep mental score of ways you've failed people who probably aren't even thinking about you.

Hebrews doesn't pretend that's not real. It simply tells you what to do with your attention: re-aim it.

Here's the part I needed last night. Fixing your eyes on Jesus doesn't mean you suddenly become unbothered. It means you refuse to let your fears become your focal point.

The text calls Jesus "the founder and perfecter of our faith." He isn't just the example at the finish line, cheering you on. He's the One who started this faith in you, and He's the One who will complete it. That reality has the power to change the tone of the whole night. If Jesus is the perfecter of my faith, then my story isn't held together by my performance. It's held together by His grip.

And then Hebrews says something even more grounding. Jesus endured the cross "for the joy that was set before him." Meaning, when Jesus set His face toward suffering, it wasn't because He was unaware of pain. It's because He was anchored by a deeper certainty. And if you belong to Him, that's what He offers you…not an escape from weakness, but a steadiness inside weakness.

So what do I actually do when my mind won't stop accusing?

Almost always, for me, I whisper into the darkness. "Jesus, I'm not okay right now. But You are steady. Help me fix my eyes on You."

Sometimes, I have to get out of bed, even when I feel paralyzed. I mentally think through exactly what I’m going to do.

1. Patrick get up
2. Patrick, put clothes on
3. Patrick, go make a cup of tea
4. Patrick, open the Scriptures and read and pray and cry
5. Then go back to bed and rest in Jesus

That’s the hard part. But I’ve done it so many times that I know it will interrupt the cycle of accusation. Scripture doesn't just give information. It gives us a Person to look at.

And sometimes, in the chaos of thought, it looks like repentance. "Lord, I've been staring at myself. I've been living as if everything depends on me. Forgive me. Re-aim me."

Here's what I've learned. Fixing your eyes on Jesus is less like flipping a switch and more like returning…repeatedly. Again and again. To the same center. It's the slow, repeated movement of the heart away from self-obsession and accusation, and back to a Savior who already carried my sin, already knows my failures, and already secured my welcome.

And I have found, when you look at Jesus, you find Someone who isn't surprised by your weakness…and perhaps more importantly, who doesn't treat your failures as final. He has scars in His hands that prove He's already dealt with the deepest problem underneath your anxious spirals…your guilt before God.

If you are in Christ, your condemnation is gone. Your adoption is real. Your Father is not waiting to reject you. He has already welcomed you.

Tonight, if the accusations return, and they might, I don't have to win a mental battle to earn peace. I can come as I am, accusing thoughts and all, and fix my eyes on the One who finished the work for me. And even if my mind feels unsteady, He is not.

(If you made it this far, I’m not writing this seeking encouragement. I have it. I’m hoping that this might help you if you also lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, and listen to the accusations. If it's helpful, let me know in the comments or if you have a different strategy...I'd love to hear it.)

There are pains you don’t “get over.” You just learn how to carry them…sometimes poorly, sometimes by sheer grace.

In my 20’s, my daughter died. In my 50’s, my son did. And I can tell you with honesty…it doesn’t get any easier. Parents should not have to bury their children. Those were some of the hardest moments of my life, and there are still days when grief rises up like it happened yesterday.

I remember nights when I couldn’t stay inside. I’d step out into the dark, look up at the stars, and ask God questions that felt almost dangerous to say out loud. Through tears, in pain. Do you see me? Do you know how much I hurt? Do you even care?

I never stopped believing in God. But suffering has a way of shaking what you think you know about His kindness. We prayed for healing. It didn’t happen. And when the miracle doesn’t come, the questions don’t stay intellectual…they get very personal.

Was my faith not strong enough?
Was I being punished for my sin?
Was God rejecting me as His son?

Grief can make you interpret silence as absence. It can make you confuse unanswered prayer with unanswered love. And if you’re hurting right now, you may know that spiral. You’re still walking with Jesus, but it feels like your feet are heavy and your heart is full of “why.”

Hebrews 11:20–40 has become a real comfort to me…not because it answers every question, but because it helps me see what my pain can make me assume.

We call Hebrews 11 the “hall of faith,” and we often read it like a highlight reel. But the second half isn’t just wins. It’s people who kept going.

Some were rescued in amazing ways. Others suffered in ways that are hard to even read. And then the Bible says it plainly: “These all… did not receive what was promised” (vv. 39–40).

That doesn’t mean God let them down. It means their faith wasn’t built on what happened next.

This passage also challenged the kind of faith I was tempted to lean on in my grief…the kind that quietly thinks, If I do the right things, God will keep the worst things from happening. The kind of faith that treats prayer like a button you push and obedience like a guarantee.

But that’s not the faith Scripture praises.

Hebrews points to a different kind of faith: trusting God’s promises even when the story stays unfinished. A faith that keeps looking at God’s heart when life doesn’t feel kind. A faith that doesn’t measure God’s love by this chapter alone.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: faith isn’t proven by getting the miracle you asked for. Faith is proven by bringing your broken heart back to God again, and again, and again.

That’s where the “turn” happens for me, and maybe for you too.

Because the ultimate proof of God’s kindness is not that He spares us every sorrow. The ultimate proof is Jesus.

God did not stand far off from our suffering. He came near. He took on flesh. He wept at a graveside. He carried grief into His own chest. And then He went to the cross…not as a detached deity, but as a suffering Savior.

So when I’m tempted to ask, “Do You care?” I have to get my eyes off myself, and place them firmly on two wounded hands…hands that physically demonstrated how much He loves me.

He may not give you every explanation. But He has given you Himself.

And Hebrews 11 says God “provided something better” (vv. 39–40). That “better” isn’t a tidy life. It’s the promise that your suffering does not get the last word. It’s the assurance that death is not the end of the story for those who belong to Jesus.

If you’re hurting today, if you’re questioning your walk with Jesus…please hear me as someone who has also suffered and questioned. Your questions do not disqualify you. Your tears do not mean your faith is fake. And God is not measuring you by how strong you feel right now.

Sometimes faith looks like courage.
Sometimes it looks like worship.
And sometimes…
it looks like showing up again with a broken heart
and whispering,
“Lord, I’m still here. Help me.”

Here’s the question I’ve been forced to ponder.
What have I started to believe about God because of my pain,
and what does the cross say is true?

If you have suffered and wondered whether God sees you, I want to say it plainly…He does. Not with distant awareness, but with near compassion. And if you are in Christ, you are not being punished, rejected, or forgotten. You are held.

The story may feel unfinished in your hands. But it is not unfinished in His. In Jesus, the ending is secure—and even here, even in the ache, you can rest…God is still good, Christ is still yours, and nothing—not even death—can separate you from His love.

When Leaders Fall: What Do We Do With Their Works?

A friend pulled me aside at church last week, her face etched with confusion and hurt. A Christian leader she had admired for years…someone whose teaching had genuinely shaped her faith…had fallen into serious sin. She wasn’t just wrestling with the disappointment; she was wrestling with what to do now. “I still have all his books,” she said. “I can’t even recommend the work that so influenced me. Do I just… throw it all away? Was any of it real?” Her questions gave voice to what so many of us feel when this happens, but don’t quite know how to articulate.

The news breaks. A pastor, author, or worship leader we've respected has fallen into serious sin. Perhaps there's been an affair, financial misconduct, or abuse of power. Our hearts sink. We feel betrayed, confused, angry. And then comes the practical question that nags at us: What do I do with their books on my shelf? Their songs in my playlist? The sermons that once moved me to tears?

It's a question the church has wrestled with for centuries, and Scripture itself offers surprising wisdom for navigating it.

The Uncomfortable Truth: God Uses Flawed Vessels

When we open our Bibles, we encounter a parade of deeply flawed individuals whom God used in extraordinary ways. Abraham, Jacob, Elijah, Jonah, Aaron, Gideon, Lot, all of the disciples…all demonstrating that God uses flawed people.

King David, described as a man after God's own heart, committed adultery and murder. Yet we still sing his psalms, quote his wisdom, and learn from his story. We don't rip Psalm 51 out of our Bibles, even though it's his prayer of repentance after that very failure.

Peter denied Christ three times in His darkest hour. Yet we treasure his epistles, quote his Pentecost sermon, and celebrate his eventual martyrdom for the faith. Paul persecuted Christians before his conversion and later had such a sharp disagreement with Barnabas that they parted ways. Yet his letters form the theological backbone of the New Testament.

Moses murdered an Egyptian and was barred from entering the Promised Land due to his disobedience. Solomon's wisdom gave us Proverbs and Ecclesiastes, yet his compromises with women and foreign gods led Israel toward ruin. Samson's story is one of repeated moral failure, yet Hebrews 11 lists him among the heroes of faith.

The pattern is clear: God has always used broken people to accomplish His purposes. Their failures didn't negate what He accomplished through them, even if it complicated their legacy.

The New Testament Principles

The New Testament gives us several principles to consider when thinking about fallen leaders and their works.

Truth remains true regardless of the messenger's failings. Paul acknowledged this explicitly when he wrote about those who preached Christ from impure motives: "But what does it matter? The important thing is that in every way, whether from false motives or true, Christ is preached. And because of this I rejoice" (Philippians 1:18). If even wrong motives don't invalidate the gospel message, then surely a faithful work created before someone's fall retains its truth value.

We must test everything and hold fast to what is good. First Thessalonians 5:21 calls us to discernment, not wholesale rejection. This applies to evaluating works on their own merit, asking whether their content is biblically sound, edifying, and honoring to God, independent of the author's later failures.

Repentance and restoration are central to the gospel. The New Testament is filled with stories of restoration. Peter was reinstated by Jesus after his denial—not just to fellowship, but to leadership ("Feed my sheep"). The Corinthian church was called to restore a repentant brother they had previously disciplined (2 Corinthians 2:5-11), with Paul warning that excessive sorrow could overwhelm him. If we believe in genuine repentance and restoration for the person, it seems inconsistent to permanently reject everything they've created. More importantly, we must resist the idea that someone is forever disqualified from ministry. While the path back to leadership may be long, requiring deep repentance, accountability, and the demonstration of restored character over time, the goal is always restoration—not permanent exile. The qualifications in 1 Timothy 3 and Titus 1 describe the character required for leadership, and character can be rebuilt through God's transforming grace.

We must be wise about influence and discernment. While truth remains truth, the New Testament also describes qualifications for those in leadership positions (1 Timothy 3:1-7, Titus 1:5-9). When someone falls, they may need to step back from public ministry for a season—sometimes a long season—of repentance, healing, and restoration. But this is meant to be a path toward restoration, not a permanent sentence. There's a difference between finding value in past works and actively promoting someone who is still in the midst of that restoration process. The question isn't whether they can ever minister again, but whether they're ready to minister now.

Practical Wisdom for the Road Ahead

So, how would I counsel my friend? What do we actually do with that worship album, that commentary, that sermon series?

Consider the nature of the failure and the response. Repentance matters deeply. Has there been genuine acknowledgment of sin, submission to godly counsel, acceptance of consequences, and evidence of changed life over time? Or has there been defensiveness, blame-shifting, and refusal to accept accountability? Scripture treats these situations differently, and so should we. But we must also remember that restoration is a process, not an event. Someone may be genuinely repentant but still in the early stages of rebuilding trust and character. The goal is always restoration to full fellowship and, when appropriate and after proven faithfulness, even restoration to ministry. We don't serve a God of permanent disqualification…we serve a God of redemption.

Evaluate the work on its own merit. Does the book teach sound doctrine? Does the song exalt Christ? Was the sermon biblically faithful? A work that was true and edifying when created doesn't become false simply because the author later fell. At the same time, we might find ourselves unable to engage with certain works without stumbling, and that's legitimate too. Romans 14 reminds us that our consciences matter.

Be thoughtful about financial support and platform. There's a difference between keeping a book you already own and buying new copies to give away. There's a difference between privately listening to old sermons for your own edification and recommending a disgraced leader to new believers. Wisdom asks us to consider whether our engagement promotes restoration or enables unrepentant sin.

Remember the community aspect. Your freedom to benefit from a fallen leader's work shouldn't cause weaker believers to stumble (1 Corinthians 8:9-13). If continuing to listen to a certain pastor's sermons would confuse or harm others in your sphere of influence, love might call you to set that freedom aside.

Recognize that feelings matter too. If you were personally hurt or betrayed by a leader's fall, you may need time and space before you can engage with their work again. That's not spiritual weakness; that's human wholeness. Give yourself permission to grieve and heal.

The Both/And Tension

Perhaps the most biblical answer is to hold multiple truths in tension: God can use flawed instruments to create genuinely valuable works, leaders who fall face real consequences that affect their influence and legacy, and restoration—even to ministry—is the goal we're aiming toward.

We don't have to choose between "burn it all" and "nothing changes." There's a third way that takes both holiness and hope seriously. We can acknowledge that a sermon blessed us while also recognizing the preacher needed to step back from ministry for a season. We can find comfort in a song while grieving the songwriter's fall and praying for their restoration. We can learn from biblical teaching while wisely waiting for character to be rebuilt before promoting someone's platform again.

The goal isn't to sanitize our heroes or excuse their failures. Neither is it to permanently exile them from the kingdom's work. It's to maintain the biblical tension between God's sovereignty in using broken vessels and human accountability for sin. It's to be people who believe in both truth and grace, both discernment and mercy, both wisdom and hope for redemption—including redemption back into meaningful ministry when God, time, and proven character make that possible.

After all, if we threw out every biblical work created by someone who later failed, we'd have a much thinner Bible. And if we completely erased the legacy of every Christian whose life included serious sin, church history would be remarkably sparse.
The better question might not be "Do we throw it all out?" but rather "How do we hold these complicated realities with the same wisdom, grace, and truth that Scripture itself models?"

That's a question worth wrestling with, because the answer shapes not only how we treat fallen leaders, but how we understand the gospel itself: a story of God using broken people to accomplish beautiful things, even when those same people stumble and fall. That answer shapes how we see the Gospel transforming our own hearts in the midst of brokenness.

In your pain, disappointment, grief, and perhaps righteous indignation…don’t become like the older brother and lose sight of the grace and mercy that you yourself have received.

There's a moment that happens almost every Sunday morning at New City that most people miss. It's when Jeniene refills the coffee urn before it's empty, when Gary notices someone standing alone and walks over, when Melanie slips a tissue to the young mom whose toddler just had a meltdown during the prayer. And there are a thousand little moments just like that that I’m sure make Jesus smile. These aren't the headline moments of worship. No one's taking notes. But this is where the Gospel gets hands and feet. This is where God is glorified.

We read in Acts 2 that the early church "devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer." Devoted themselves. Not just showed up, but longed for, paid attention, gave themselves to the rhythm of gathered life. A few verses later, we see what that looked like: they were together, sharing meals, meeting needs, worshiping with glad and sincere hearts. It was ordinary and extraordinary all at once.

Here's the honest truth. Sunday mornings are hard for a lot of us. We're tired from the week. We're distracted by what didn't get done. We're carrying burdens we aren’t bold enough to give to Jesus. We slip in hoping to receive something, and that's okay. That's part of why we gather. But somewhere in the mystery of corporate worship, we're also invited to give. To be the body of Christ for each other, even when, especially when, we don't feel particularly spiritual.

What does that actually look like?

It's choosing to speak to a visitor instead of the person you’ll see later this week. It's singing the song that isn’t your favorite, because the person next to you needs to hear they're not alone. It's arriving a little early, so you can love on those who fought with their spouse or wrestled with their kids on the way. It's staying an extra ten minutes instead of rushing to your car so you can pray, and cry, and laugh, and clean, and encourage someone after the Spirit shook them up during the service. It's receiving someone's offer to help as an act of worship, not choosing pride but humility.

It's praying for your pastor on Saturday night instead of critiquing the sermon during Sunday lunch. It's texting that friend who's been on your mind and saying, "I'd love for you to sit with me tomorrow." It's showing up even when you're the one who needs carrying, because your presence matters to the body.

Paul tells us in Romans 12 to "be devoted to one another in love" and to "honor one another above yourselves." That's not just poetic language. It's a call to small, concrete choices that say, "I see you. You matter. We're in this together."

Here’s what I’ve learned over the past 8 years at New City: we don't gather because we're already good at being the body of Christ. We gather to practice. To stumble through it together. To let the Gospel shape not just what we believe, but how we show up for each other in the everyday, unglamorous rhythms of life.

And somehow, in all of this…in the coffee poured and the seats saved and the prayers whispered and the songs sung that we don’t prefer…Jesus smiles. Not because we've performed it perfectly, but because we are becoming more and more like Jesus.

So here's the challenge to myself this week (and maybe to you).

What's one intentional thing I can do on Saturday to prepare my heart and invite someone into Sunday's gathering? And what's one small, practical way I can serve someone else when I show up…whether that's in our church or wherever you may worship?

If you would be so honest, share one way you can practice being the body together.

There’s something deeply uncomfortable about Abraham standing at the base of Mount Moriah with his son and a knife.

Not simply because God called him to sacrifice Isaac. That offends our modern sensibilities, but it wouldn’t have shocked Abraham’s world the way it shocks ours today.

What’s truly uncomfortable is this…
from a human perspective,
it looks like God is breaking His promise.

Isaac was the impossible child, born to a couple long past hope. Every promise God had made to Abraham was bound up in this boy. And now God was asking him to place that promise on an altar and raise the knife.

How do you hold “God promised Isaac would live” in one hand
and “God commanded me to sacrifice Isaac” in the other
without your faith splitting in two?

That’s where most believers live.
Not on a literal mountain with a literal knife,
but in the tension between what God has promised
and what He’s currently asking of us.

Maybe God has promised to work all things for good,
but obedience right now looks like forgiving someone who shattered you.

Maybe He’s promised to provide,
but following Him means releasing security you can see.

Maybe He’s promised that your prodigal won’t ultimately be lost,
but today you’re laying down expectations you can’t control.

The cost of obedience isn’t always measured by what we give up.
Sometimes it’s measured by what we’re asked to trust God with
when every instinct screams to hold on tighter.

What strikes me most about Abraham isn’t that the command made sense.
It’s that he kept walking anyway.

Honestly, I don’t know if my faith is that strong.
I know how quickly my confidence in God’s goodness would melt on that mountain.

Hebrews tells us Abraham reasoned that God could raise Isaac from the dead—not because he’d seen resurrection, but because he’d seen enough of God’s character to believe that faithfulness and impossibility aren’t contradictions in God’s hands.

That kind of faith doesn’t wait for the tension to resolve before it obeys.
It obeys into the tension, trusting God’s character more than its own clarity.

Bryan Chapell captures the heart of this when he says, “God does not intend for us to predict outcomes as much as He intends for us to trust Him in all circumstances.”

And here’s what I keep coming back to.

God stopped Abraham’s hand.
He provided a ram.

But centuries later, on that same mountain range,
when God brought His own Son,
there was no ram.

The knife wasn’t stayed.
Jesus bore what Abraham was spared.

So when God asks us to trust Him with something that feels unbearable,
He’s not asking us to do what He was unwilling to do Himself.

He’s asking us to believe
that the same love that didn’t spare His Son
will never withhold what we truly need.

The God who paid that price
can be trusted with whatever He’s asking you to lay on the altar today.

Father, some of us are standing at the base of a mountain today, carrying something we love deeply and don’t understand at all. Teach us to trust You…not because the path is clear, but because Your character is sure. Give us faith to walk forward when obedience feels costly, and grace to believe that You are always more faithful than we can see.

Martyn Lloyd-Jones once said, "To love to preach is one thing, to love those to whom we preach quite another."

Oof.

I saw that quote this morning, and it immediately struck my heart. It reminded me to be a shepherd, not a professional speaker.

I think it's easy to love to write…the study, the craft, the moment when the truth lands just right. It’s encouraging and affirming to hear how the sermon impacted real lives after the service. I have grown to love preaching, although I approach it with fear and trembling. If God decided to remove that weight from me today, I would cry tears of joy. It is a weighty love. I love the discovery in the text, the weight of standing before God's people with God's Word, the sacred privilege of opening Scripture and watching it do its work.

And that's not wrong. That love, when it's rightly ordered, is a gift from God.

But that love can become a trap.

Because it's possible to love the pulpit more than the people. To care more about the delivery than the receiver. To be more concerned with how the message lands than with how the people sitting in front of you are actually doing.

And here's the danger: you can fall in love with preaching and never love a single person you preach to, or only your ‘chosen’ favorites. You can craft brilliant sermons, exegete faithfully, and illustrate memorably… and still be a stranger to your congregation.

Because preaching from a pulpit is easy compared to sitting across from someone whose marriage is falling apart. Preparing a sermon is simpler than walking with someone through the slow collapse of a dream. It's easier to proclaim truth on Sunday than to embody it in the mess of someone's life on Monday. It’s more comfortable to rub shoulders with like-minded people than those you may disagree with theologically.

A true shepherd doesn't just deliver truth from a distance. He lives among the sheep. He knows their names. He knows their struggles, their fears, their joys. He mourns with those who are grieving. He celebrates with those who are rejoicing. He sits in hospital rooms, answers late-night texts, and carries burdens that never make it into a sermon illustration.

A shepherd doesn't just stand in front of the sheep. He walks among them. He leads. He serves. He weeps. He carries. He knows the sheep by name, and they know his voice.

Preaching is a sacred calling. But it's not the whole calling. If I love the act of preaching more than I love the act of loving, I've elevated a gift above a command.
I've become a performer…not a pastor.

Jesus didn't say, "Feed my sermon prep."
He said, "Feed my sheep."

He didn't love the act of teaching. He loved the people He was teaching. And He calls me to do the same.

So...here's what I'm learning: the sermon ends, but the shepherding doesn't. The pulpit is important, but the people are eternal. And in God’s economy, the greatest preachers aren't always the most gifted communicators. They're the ones who smell like sheep.

May I never love preaching more than I love the people my Father has entrusted to my care.