Think for a second about a thing you’ve put down.

Not lost. Not broken. Put down. The training wheels you outgrew. The car seat you finally lugged out of the back. The booster chair that ate up half the kitchen until one day it didn’t anymore. Most of us don’t grieve those things. We don’t even file them under “below me now.” They’re not anywhere. They belong to a person we used to be and aren’t going to be again.

I think that’s the picture Paul is reaching for in 1 Corinthians 13:11. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish things.

We usually read that line as a developmental observation. As if Paul’s saying: grown-ups outgrow childish things; quit being a kid. That reading isn’t wrong. But it’s only half the verse.

Paul isn’t only saying these things are below us. He’s saying they’re behind us.

The Age in the Wings

Look where 13:11 sits. Three verses earlier, Paul writes that prophecies will pass, tongues will cease, and even knowledge will fade (13:8). The flashy gifts the Corinthians were ranking each other by? They’ve got a sell-by date.

Then verse 10. When the perfect comes, the partial passes.

A quick word here, because most of us in our circles have heard 13:8–10 taught one way. The perfect is the completed New Testament. The partial gifts — tongues, prophecy, supernatural knowledge — pass when the canon closes. That’s the reading a lot of us grew up on, and the verse holds real weight there.

But it’s not the only weight the verse is carrying. Paul isn’t only marking when the miraculous gifts stopped. He’s also painting a picture — and the picture is the one he makes plain in verse 11.

That word perfect1 means to be complete. Whole. Brought to its end. Like a fruit that’s ripened. Like a person who’s grown all the way up.

And then verse 11. The kid. The training wheels. Paul puts them side by side: the partial age passing, and the child becoming an adult.

He’s making a point most of us miss when we only read this chapter at weddings or read 13:8–10 only as a clock on when the miraculous gifts stopped. The childish things he’s talking about aren’t simply immature. They belong to the age that’s ending.

We tend to think of growing up as climbing a ladder. I used to be down there, now I’m up here, hopefully someday I’ll be up higher. That’s the below picture. Paul isn’t drawing a ladder. He’s drawing a timeline. The gifts the Corinthians prized are the equipment of the in-between age. The age that’s already passing. They won't be needed where all this is headed. Love is.

So when Paul says he put them away, he’s not just bragging about emotional maturity. He’s saying: I read the calendar. I traded the toys for the tools that’ll still work on the other side.

A Word Paul Won’t Let Us Miss

Here’s a thread some readers don’t catch. Paul uses one of his favorite Greek words twice in this passage, and both uses serve the same function.

In 13:10, he says when the complete comes.

A chapter later, in 14:20, Paul writes one of the most direct verses in the letter: Brothers, don’t be childish in your thinking. But be infants in regard to evil and adult in your thinking.” The same word family. The “complete” of 13:10. The “mature” of 14:20.

Paul is splicing the two ideas together on purpose. Personal maturity now is of the same fabric as our spiritual completion later. Growing up today is rehearsing the age to come. Putting away the childish things isn’t just self-improvement. It’s living forward into who we already are in Christ — and who all of us together are about to become.

That’s a different kind of motivation than “come on, grow up.” It’s “come on, catch up to where this is all going.”

Stop Stockpiling the Toys

This is what the Corinthians missed. They were collecting baby toys and calling it spiritual treasure. Showy gifts, loud worship, spiritual one-upmanship. They thought stockpiling those things proved they were the advanced ones in the room.

Paul looks at the pile and says: those don’t go with you. They’re tools for now. The train they’re on is pulling into the station, and you can’t take them on the next leg.

You know what does go with you? Faith, hope, love. And the greatest of these is love (13:13). Carry-on items for the age that’s coming. So every act of love right now isn’t just a moral win. It’s a piece of luggage you’ve already packed for where this is headed.

The Question for the Week

So, we must ask: what am I still treating as essential equipment that the age won’t need?

What pile of stuff am I building up that, when the age to come arrives, I’m going to look at and think: I spent how much of my life on that?

Some of it’s obvious. The grudge. The score-keeping. The snippy word. The corner of my mind that keeps a file open on what people owe me.

Some of it’s more flattering, and that’s the harder pile to see. Some of the gifts and competencies we feel best about may, in the end, turn out to be tongues under a different name. Real for now. Not coming with us.

This Sunday I’m preaching from 1 Corinthians 13:11 — week four of our Maturity in the Body series. When I was a child, I spoke like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish things. We’ll dig into what Paul’s actually asking us to put down, and why.

This is the question I want you sitting with as we head into the weekend.

The childish things aren’t just below us. They’re behind us. The age they belong to is winding down.

Are we?

We’re wrapping up a five-part walk-through of phroneō —the Greek word for “think” that Paul uses ten times in Philippians. Same word, five different angles. Today’s the last one — and it’s the warning piece.

Here’s something I’ve missed for years while reading Philippians 3.

When Paul gets to the warning section, the part where he describes people whose minds are pointed in the wrong direction, he doesn’t write it the way you’d expect. There’s no anger in it. No condescension. No fire-and-brimstone thunder.

He writes it with tears.

For I have often told you, and now say again with tears, that many live as enemies of the cross of Christ. Their end is destruction; their god is their stomach; their glory is in their shame; and they are focused on earthly things.

— Philippians 3:18–19

With tears.

Read that line again, because it changes how you hear everything that follows. Paul isn’t standing across the room shaking his finger. He’s standing in the middle of the room weeping. These aren’t enemies he’s eager to call out; they’re people he loves who have set their minds on the wrong things, and his heart is breaking over what it’s going to cost them.

If we’re going to talk about the warning piece of phroneō, we have to talk about it the way Paul did. With grief, not glee. With tears, not triumph.

Same Word — Opposite Direction

Look at that last phrase in verse 19 again: they are focused on earthly things.

There’s our word.

In the Greek, focused on is phronountes — a form of phroneō. The exact same word we’ve been tracing through this whole letter.

This is why I wanted to end the series here.

For five articles now, we’ve watched Paul use phroneō to call God’s people to a certain kind of thinking — affectionate, unified, Christ-shaped, grown-up thinking. He keeps coming back to the word because he knows: what you set your mind on shapes where you end up.

And now, here at the end of chapter 3, he uses that same word one more time — but he turns it the opposite direction.

Same word. Opposite trajectory.

Some minds are pointed up: toward the upward call of Christ. Others are pointed down: toward whatever the world is currently selling. Same Greek word in both cases. The verb doesn’t care which direction you aim it. But the direction makes all the difference in the world.

Where your mind is set determines where you end up.

What “Earthly Things” Look Like Now

Now, usually, when we read Philippians 3:19, we picture the obvious stuff. Pagan idolatry. Drunken parties. The kind of behavior the Roman world was famous for.

But the warning is broader than that. The word for “earthly things” is translated the things of this ground. The visible. The temporary. The things you can hold in your hand right now but won’t carry into eternity.

So, what earthly things are pulling on your mind right now?

For a lot of us, it isn’t sin in the dramatic sense. It’s the slow drift of attention. The thousand small things that quietly take up the space where Christ used to live.

It’s the screen we reach for the moment we wake up. It’s the bank account we keep checking even when nothing has changed. It’s the career that has slowly become the center of identity. It’s the home we keep renovating in our minds, never quite satisfied. It’s the way our thoughts circle around what someone said to us instead of what God said to us. It’s the entertainment we consume so much of that we can quote our shows easier than we can quote Scripture.

None of those things are sinful in themselves. A phone isn’t evil. A bank account isn’t wicked. A career isn’t a sin. But when those things start running our phroneō — when they’re the things our minds keep coming back to — Paul says we’ve drifted into dangerous territory.

The most dangerous earthly things are usually the ones that don’t look dangerous at all.

Your Mind Is a Compass — What Is It Pointing At?

Think of how a compass needle is always being pulled. It can’t help it. It’s drawn to whatever the strongest magnetic field around it happens to be. Set it next to a steel beam, and it’ll point at the beam instead of north. The needle isn’t broken. It’s just answering to what’s pulling on it.

Your mind works the same way.

Your phroneō is being pulled all day long. Every advertisement, every notification, every voice in the room, every offer of comfort, every threat to your security — they’re all reaching for the needle of your attention. And whatever you let pull on it the most, that’s what it’s going to point at.

The question isn’t whether your mind is being influenced. It is. Always.

The question is — what are you letting be the strongest force in the room?

Citizenship Up There

But Paul doesn’t leave us in the warning. Watch what he says next, right after the tears —

Our citizenship is in heaven, and we eagerly wait for a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ.

— Philippians 3:20

There’s the answer to the warning.

We belong somewhere else. We’re citizens of another country. The pull on our compass isn’t supposed to be earthly — it’s supposed to be heavenward. We’re citizens of a kingdom that isn’t built out of the stuff Paul just warned about, and we’re waiting for the King to come bring us home.

When you keep that in front of you, the earthly things start to lose their grip. Not because they disappear. Not because life on this side of glory stops being real. But because you remember what you actually belong to. You remember where the needle is supposed to be pointing.

Set Your Mind

So over the last few days, we’ve gone through five articles together. One little Greek word. Ten uses in one short letter.

Let me put the whole picture in front of you one more time.

The mind that loves remembers. The mind that’s united moves forward. The mind of Christ bends low. The grown-up mind keeps reaching. The mind set on earthly things wrecks.

Same word. Five directions. One choice every single day of your life.

Where is your mind set today?

Look at where the needle is pointing. Notice what’s pulling on it. And if it’s drifted toward earthly things — if your attention is being eaten alive by what won’t last — you don’t have to stay there.

You belong somewhere else.

Set your mind there.

We’re walking through phroneō in Philippians — the word translated “think” that Paul uses ten times in this short letter. Today, he uses it twice in a single verse and aims it at what spiritual maturity actually looks like.

Paul says something in Philippians 3 that ought to give every long-time Christian pause.

He’s writing from prison. He’s likely in his sixties. He’s been preaching Christ for thirty years. He’s planted churches across the empire. He’s the man God used to write a third of the New Testament.

And he says this —

Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal...

— Philippians 3:12

Paul. Not arrived yet.

The admission is staggering. The apostle who saw the risen Christ. The apostle who was caught up to the third heaven. The apostle who could rattle off his spiritual credentials and silence any room. He’s saying — I haven’t arrived yet. I’m still pressing on.

And then, a few verses later, he turns it all into instruction —

Therefore, let all of us who are mature think this way. And if you think differently about anything, God will reveal this also to you.

— Philippians 3:15

That’s our word again. Phroneō. Twice in one verse this time.

Let the mature think this way.

Paul is saying — this stance, this disposition, this orientation of the mind I just described — that’s what grown-up thinking looks like.

The First Mark of Maturity: You Know You’re Not Done

This catches a lot of folks off guard.

We tend to think spiritual maturity means we’ve finally got it figured out. We’ve put in our years. We’ve read the books. We’ve taught the classes. We’ve been around the block enough to know the lay of the land. Surely by now we’ve arrived.

Paul says: no.

The mark of a grown-up mind isn’t that you’ve arrived. The mark of a grown-up mind is that you know you haven’t.

Mature thinking has a forward lean to it. It strains. It reaches. It keeps pressing toward Christ, knowing there’s always more of him to know, more of his image to take on, more of his character to absorb.

If you’re like me, you’ve watched a lot of Christians over the years grow old in the faith two different ways.

Some grow into the runner Paul describes — still leaning forward, still hungry, still asking God to show them what they don’t yet see. You can be eighty years old and still be moving toward Christ. That’s beautiful to watch.

But some stop. Somewhere along the way, they decide they’ve covered the territory. The Bible study slows. The prayer life thins. The hunger fades. And what’s left is a person who was faithful, but isn’t pressing forward anymore. The forward lean is gone.

The grown-up mind keeps leaning. Always.

The Second Mark: You Trust God With Other People’s Minds

Now look at what Paul says next, because this is where it gets really interesting —

And if you think differently about anything, God will reveal this also to you.

Paul has just laid out his convictions. He’s confident in what he believes. He’s not waffling.

But notice what he doesn’t do.

He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t threaten. He doesn’t demand that everyone in the room sign off on his exact wording before they can leave. He doesn’t say, “And if you think differently, you’re not really Christians.”

He says: God will show you.

That’s a profoundly mature footing. Confidence without rigidity. Conviction without grasping. The faith to believe that the same God who is shaping me is shaping you — and if either of us is off on something, the Lord can be trusted to bring us into the light at the right time.

This is what some of us still need to learn. We confuse maturity with control. We think being grown up in the faith means we’re now responsible for making sure everyone else thinks correctly. So we push. We argue. We pressure. We try to make people see things our way, right now, on our timetable.

Paul refuses to do that.

This is not because he doesn’t care. He cares deeply. It is not because truth doesn’t matter. It matters more than anything. But because he trusts God with the timing of revelation.

You can hold convictions firmly and hold people gently. Mature minds learn how.

The Rearview Mirror Problem

Here’s another piece of this passage I don’t want you to miss.

In verse 13, just before he tells us this is grown-up thinking, Paul says:

...forgetting what is behind and reaching forward to what is ahead...

— Philippians 3:13

The Greek word for “forgetting” doesn’t mean amnesia. It means refusing to let the past have ongoing power over you. Paul never forgot his past — he wrote about it constantly. What he refused to do was let it hold him hostage.

I sometimes think of it like driving. Your car has a rearview mirror for a reason. You glance at it. You’re aware of what’s back there. But if you drive looking only in the rearview mirror, things will not turn out well. You weren’t built to keep your eyes back there.

A lot of saints spend their middle and later years either rehearsing the wins or relitigating the losses. The mature mind acknowledges both, then turns its eyes forward. There’s still ground to cover. There’s still more of Christ to know. There’s still a prize to be pursued.

Grown-up thinking refuses to live in the rearview.

Where Do You Need to Grow Up?

Where in your thinking do you need to grow up?

Have you stopped pressing forward because somewhere along the way, you decided you’d arrived? Has the hunger thinned? Have you stopped asking God to show you what he hasn’t shown you yet?

Or — the other side of this — are you exhausted from trying to control everyone else’s mind? Worn out from making sure your spouse, your kids, your brothers and sisters in Christ all think exactly like you do, on your schedule?

Paul gives us a different way.

Press on toward Christ. Hold your convictions with confidence. And trust God with the rest.

The mind that loves remembers. The mind that’s united moves forward. The mind of Christ bends low. The grown-up mind keeps reaching.

Set your mind there.

Humans are wired to climb.

Watch any room of people for long enough, and you’ll see it. Who gets the better seat at the table. Who speaks first. Who’s the smartest in the conversation. Who gets credit when something goes right. Who gets blamed when something goes wrong.

It’s not that we’re all walking around scheming for status… most of the time we’re not. But the gravity of the human heart pulls upward. We want to be seen. We want to be respected. We want to come out of the room a little higher than we walked in.

And then comes Paul, in the middle of his letter to a church struggling with unity, and he says something that turns all of it upside down.

Adopt the same attitude as that of Christ Jesus.
— Philippians 2:5 (CSB)

There it is. The word again. Phroneō.

Have this mind. Set your mind this way. Think like he thought.

And the moment he says it, he doesn’t give us a principle. He gives us a Person.

Not a Principle — a Person

Pay close attention to where this verse is placed.

Just two verses earlier, Paul has pleaded with the Philippians to be of one mind. To think the same thing. To agree in the Lord (we walked through that yesterday).

And now they might be wondering — okay, Paul, how? How do we actually do that?

Most preachers would have given them a five-point plan. Here are the principles. Here’s the technique. Here are the steps to congregational unity.

Paul doesn’t do that.

Paul says: Have this mind in you which was also in Christ Jesus.

You want to know how to think together? Look at how Christ thought. Catch his disposition. Absorb his orientation. Take on the inner direction of his life — and the unity question takes care of itself.

That’s why this verse sits at the center of the whole series. Phroneō isn’t a technique. It isn’t a self-help project. It’s a Person. It’s the mind of Christ becoming our own.

Christ’s Direction Was Down

What follows, from verses 6 through 11, is one of the most beautiful passages in all of Scripture. Paul, possibly quoting an early Christian hymn, paints the picture of how Jesus actually thought.

Read it slowly —

Who, existing in the form of God, did not consider equality with God as something to be exploited. Instead he emptied himself by assuming the form of a servant, taking on the likeness of humanity. And when he had come as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death — even to death on a cross.
— Philippians 2:6–8 (CSB)

Look at the direction.

He existed in the form of God. He had every right to grasp at that — to hold onto status, to demand recognition, to insist on his rightful place.

He didn’t.

He emptied himself. The Greek word is kenoō — he poured himself out. He didn’t stop being God. But he refused to clutch at what was rightfully his. He took the form of a servant. He came in our likeness. He humbled himself. He became obedient.

All the way down. All the way to death. All the way to a cross.

That’s the mind of Christ.

And that mind moves the opposite direction of every instinct in our heart. We climb. He descended. We grasp. He let go. We protect our standing. He laid his down.

The Way Up Is Down

After Paul shows us how far down Christ went, he shows us what happened next:

For this reason God highly exalted him...
— Philippians 2:9 (CSB)

For this reason.

Because he went down, God lifted him up.

The exaltation didn’t come in spite of the descent. It came because of it. The path to glory ran straight through the cross. The way up was down. And there’s something in that pattern that ought to reshape how every Christian thinks about ambition, status, recognition, and place.

You want to know how Christ’s mind worked? He trusted his Father enough to let go of every advantage and serve. And the Father — at exactly the right moment — lifted him to the highest place.

That’s not a sermon illustration. That’s the gospel.

Where Are You Climbing?

So here’s the question.

Where in your life are you climbing when Christ would have you descending?

Where are you grasping at recognition you don’t need to clutch? Where are you protecting your reputation instead of laying it down? Where are you scoring points in an argument when serving the other person would honor Christ more?

Maybe it’s at work, where the promotion has become more important than the people. Maybe it’s in your marriage, where you’ve been keeping score for so long you don’t remember when it started. Maybe it’s in the church, where you’ve quietly been making sure people know what you contribute, what you sacrifice, what you bring.

The mind of Christ goes the other way. Quietly. Without announcement. Down toward the towel and the basin. Down toward the person who hasn’t earned it. Down toward the seat nobody else wants.

And here’s the promise: the One who descended is now the One who lifts. When you put on the mind of Christ, you don’t lose. You follow the same path he walked. And there’s nowhere it leads but home.

The mind that loves remembers. The mind that’s united moves forward. The mind of Christ bends low.

Set your mind there.

Adopt the same attitude as that of Christ Jesus. — Philippians 2:5 (CSB)

Imagine your name in the Bible.

Not because you were part of a perilous mission trip. Not because you wrote a psalm. Not because you did something heroic for the kingdom.

Imagine your name in the Bible because you and another Christian couldn’t get along.

That’s exactly what happened to two women in Philippi.

I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to agree in the Lord.

— Philippians 4:2

Just like that. Right there in the letter. Read aloud in the assembly. Forever.

We don’t know what the disagreement was about. Paul doesn’t tell us. What we do know is this: these were not bad women. In the very next verse, Paul calls them “co-workers” who “labored side by side with me in the gospel.” They were faithful. They had history. They had served Christ together.

But somewhere along the way, something between them had drifted. And Paul, sitting in a Roman prison, was concerned enough to put their names in writing.

Same Word, Different Direction

Here’s what you might miss when you read that verse.

The word translated agree? It’s our friend phroneō. The same word Paul has been using since chapter 1.

On Friday, we saw it pointed at love — I think about you with affection. Today we see it pointed at unity: think the same thing.

Same Greek word. Different shade of meaning.

And it goes all the way back to chapter 2, where Paul made the same plea on a bigger scale —

Make my joy complete by thinking the same way, having the same love, sharing the same feelings, focusing on one goal.

— Philippians 2:2

He uses phroneō twice in that one verse. Twice. Like he can’t say it enough.

Be of one mind. Set your minds together.

Paul isn’t asking for everybody to think the same thing about every issue. He’s not demanding identical opinions on what color to paint the interior of the building. He’s asking for something deeper — a shared inner orientation. Same love. Same purpose. Same Lord at the center.

That’s what unity is. Not sameness. Direction.

Two Oxen and One Yoke

Moses gave Israel a strange-sounding command in Deuteronomy 22:10: “Do not plow with an ox and a donkey together." It wasn't about animal cruelty. It was a picture. Two animals built differently, pulling at different speeds, with different temperaments. The work won't get done. The yoke punishes both of them. And the principle isn't just about livestock. It's about anyone trying to pull together when they're not actually thinking together.

That’s what disunity does in the body of Christ.

It doesn’t matter how strong each ox is on its own. It doesn’t matter how much they each love the farmer. If they’re not thinking together — if they’re not pulling the same direction — the work stalls.

If you’re like me, you’ve seen churches over the years where this is exactly the picture. Good people. Faithful people. People who individually love the Lord deeply. But somewhere along the way, somebody started pulling one way and somebody else started pulling the other, and now the whole field sits unworked while the oxen wear themselves out fighting the yoke.

Paul knew that picture. He’d seen it. And he wanted no part of it for the church he loved in Philippi.

“In the Lord” Is the Hinge

Now here’s the part I don’t want you to miss.

When Paul tells Euodia and Syntyche to agree, he adds two words that change everything —

In the Lord.

He doesn’t tell them to agree about whatever the argument was. He doesn’t pick sides. He doesn’t say, “Euodia, you were right. Syntyche, apologize.” He doesn’t even tell us what the issue was.

He says: come back to common ground in Christ.

Because that’s where unity actually lives. Not in winning. Not in being proven right. Not in everybody finally seeing it your way.

In the Lord.

When two Christians get stuck — when something has drifted between them — there’s only one place to go to fix it. Not deeper into the argument. Not into the politics of who’s right. You both go back to Christ. You stand in front of him together. And you let his mind become your mind.

That’s the only way unity actually holds.

Where Have You Stopped Thinking Together?

So here’s the question I want think about.

Is there a relationship in your life right now where you’ve stopped thinking together?

A marriage? A friendship? A brother or sister in Christ?

You don’t have to agree on everything. You never will. But have you stopped phroneō-ing together? Have you stopped sharing an inner orientation toward Christ and toward each other?

If so, Paul’s word to you today is the same word he had for Euodia and Syntyche.

Agree in the Lord.

Go back to Christ together. Stand in front of him. Stop trying to win and start trying to think with the other person, not against them.

Because the body of Christ doesn’t get its work done when the oxen are pulling in different directions.

The mind that loves remembers. The mind that’s united moves forward.

Set your mind there.

I want to ask you something honest, and I want you to answer it honest.

When did your faith start feeling so heavy?

Not the kind of heavy that comes from carrying a real cross — Jesus said to expect that one. I mean the other heavy. The heavy that shows up in your shoulders on Sunday afternoon. The heavy that wakes you up at 3am with the news cycle still ringing in your head. The heavy that makes you feel like if you don’t argue louder, vote harder, post sharper, or fight one more round at the kitchen table, the whole thing might just collapse.

A lot of us have been carrying that for a decade now. And somewhere along the way we started to believe a lie that the Bible never told us.

We started to believe the kingdom of God needed us to hold it up.

Listen to what the writer of Hebrews tells a church that was watching their world come apart:

Stop and feel the weight of that. The shaking is His voice. Not Washington’s. Not the algorithm’s. Not the universities’. Not whatever bad news is going to break this afternoon. The shaking we’ve been watching — at the deepest level — is the voice of the God who has been holding the world together since before the world started.

And the purpose of His shaking is not to destroy you.

The purpose is to strip away everything that was never going to last so that what actually lasts can finally be seen.

Then verse 28 lands the punchline:

Look at that verb. Receiving. Present tense. Right now, today, this morning, the kingdom is being handed to you. You’re not building it. You’re not earning it. You’re not defending it. You’re not holding it up. You’re receiving it. With open hands.

That’s what worship is. Worship is what you do when you have empty hands and a kingdom is being put in them.

And here’s where I think a lot of us have gotten lost.

We’ve been trying to do something with our faith in this cultural moment that God never asked us to do. We’ve been trying to hold the kingdom up. Like if we lost the argument at Thanksgiving, the kingdom would tip over. Like if the election went the wrong way, the kingdom would fall. Like if the next generation didn’t see it, the kingdom would die out.

Today, I'm telling you what the Hebrew writer told the shaking church. The kingdom you belong to cannot be shaken. It does not need you to hold it up. It is holding you up.

Read that twice if you need to. Because some of you have been carrying weight that was never on your shoulders to begin with, and your hands have been so full of trying to keep heaven steady that you forgot heaven is the thing keeping you steady.

Paul says the same thing a different way:

He picks that word citizenship on purpose. Philippi was a Roman colony. Most of those Christians had Roman citizenship or knew somebody who did. They knew exactly what it meant. Citizenship wasn’t where you happened to live. It was who you belonged to. The law that covered you. The kingdom that claimed you, no matter what province you were standing in.

Paul says the kingdom that claims you is not the one with the flag over the courthouse. The kingdom that claims you is the one in Hebrews 12. The mountain. The assembly. The blood. The city no empire can touch.

Here’s a test. You can do it without leaving your chair.

Watch what makes you angriest. Watch what you can’t stop talking about. Watch what wakes you up at three in the morning. Watch what you’d defend before you’d defend the gospel.

Whatever passes that test in your life — that’s the kingdom that’s actually got you.

For some of us, our citizenship is technically in heaven and functionally somewhere else. We sing about Zion on Sunday and live in Babylon on Tuesday. We confess Jesus is Lord and let some other lord set our calendar, our temper, our anxieties, our conversations.

The fix is not to try harder. The fix is to put the weight down.

You don’t have to hold the kingdom up. You never did. You picked it up somewhere along the way and you’ve been carrying it ever since, and your shoulders are aching, and your prayer life has thinned, and your patience with your family is shot, and the joy has quietly drained out of your faith — and the whole time, the kingdom was holding you, and you didn’t know it.

The most defiant thing a Christian can do in a shaking world is worship. Not louder politics. Not sharper arguments. Not bigger platforms. Worship. Because worship is the thing you do when you finally let go of pretending the kingdom needs you to keep it up.

And then the writer of Hebrews adds one more line:

That’s not a threat. That’s a comfort. Everything shakeable in our lives, in our culture, in our hearts — eventually meets that fire. And the fire burns up what cannot last. What’s left, when the fire has done its work, is the kingdom that could never burn.

You don’t have to be afraid of the shaking.

You belong to the One doing it.

So this week, when the news breaks and your phone lights up and somebody says something at the dinner table that would normally have you reaching for your sharpest line — try something different.

Put the weight down.

Worship instead. Sing on the way to work. Pray for the grandkid you’ve been carrying alone. Be patient with your spouse. Love your neighbor with your hands instead of arguing with strangers with your thumbs. Refuse to be ruled by the algorithm. Live like a citizen of an unshakeable kingdom living in a shakeable world.

And when everything else shakes — and it will — stand.

You’re not holding it up.

It’s holding you.

Most of us have a list.

We don’t call it that. We’d never say it out loud. But if you’re honest with yourself for ninety seconds, you can name them. The grandkid who’s deconstructing. The brother who said the thing at Thanksgiving three years ago. The friend who walked away from the church and hasn’t looked back. The cousin whose Facebook posts you stopped reading because you couldn’t stomach them anymore.

You used to bring those names to God. You used to lie awake thinking about them. You used to pray real prayers — not throwaway bless them, Lord prayers, but the kind where you actually wept on their behalf.

Then somewhere along the way, you stopped.

Maybe it was too painful. Maybe you decided they were too far gone. Maybe praying for them required you to feel something you didn’t want to feel anymore. Whatever the reason, the prayer quieted, and in the silence something else moved in. A verdict. You didn’t announce it. But it got rendered all the same. That one’s done. That one’s not coming back. That one made their choice.

And here’s what I’ve learned, both as a preacher and as somebody who’s done this in his own life. Once that verdict is filed, you can’t weep with that person anymore. You may still talk to them. You may still send the birthday text. You may still sit across from them at Christmas. But the tears are gone, because you decided the case before God did.

And here’s the trouble. God didn’t.

Listen to what He says through Ezekiel:

Read that twice. The God of heaven, who has every right to file every verdict on every wandering soul who ever lived, says He takes no pleasure in it. None. He’d rather they turn and live. If that’s God’s desire for the people we’ve written off, what in the world are we doing with the case files we’ve been keeping in our heads?

Look at John 11.

Jesus stands outside the tomb of His friend. The sisters are wrecked. Mary falls at His feet and says the same thing Martha already said: Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. That sentence has some accusation buried in it. Where were you? You knew. You could have come. You didn’t.

Now here’s the part that should stop us. Jesus knew what was coming. He knew Lazarus was about to walk out of that tomb in roughly ninety seconds. He had the answer in His mouth before He ever stepped back into Bethany.

And He wept anyway.

The shortest verse in the Bible. Jesus wept. (John 11:35) Two words we’ve quoted a thousand times and drained of all their weight. He didn’t fast-forward past the grief because He had the resolution coming. He didn’t tell Mary to pull herself together. He didn’t lecture the crowd on the doctrine of resurrection. He stood there, tears running down His face, for a man He was about to call out of the grave.

That’s the Jesus we follow.

He held the truth — I am the resurrection and the life — and the tears in the same body, on the same day, in the same conversation. He didn’t pick. The conviction didn’t dry up His compassion. The compassion didn’t soften His conviction. Both, at full strength, in the same human face.

The Christian who has the truth but not the tears is not following the Jesus of John 11. He’s following somebody else. Maybe a Jesus he made up. Maybe a Jesus the news cycle made up for him. But not this one. Not the one outside the tomb.

And here’s the thing about tears. You cannot manufacture them. You cannot work them up. They come from somewhere down underneath, and they only come when you’ve actually let yourself feel the weight of who that person is and what’s at stake for them. Tears are evidence that you have not yet filed the verdict. They are evidence that the case is still open in your heart.

Which is why a lot of us don’t have any.

Paul puts the question to us this way:

Stop and let that one land. The thing that brings people home — including you and me — is God’s kindness. Not His verdict. His patience. His restraint. The slow, faithful refusal to write somebody off when every reasonable accountant in heaven would have closed the books years ago. That’s the kindness that got you here. Despise that kindness, Paul says, and you forget how you got in the door.

James drives the same nail one swing harder:

That’s a verse to read with the lights on. The case file you’ve been keeping on somebody else cuts both ways. The mercy you withhold is the mercy you’re forfeiting. The verdict you file gets filed back. James is not threatening — he’s warning. The verdict-filer is not in a safer place than the person on the receiving end. He’s in a worse one.

Eight hundred years before Jesus walked through Galilee, Micah said it like this:

Most of us read that as a checklist. Three boxes. Check, check, check. But it isn’t a list. It’s an equation. The third verb — walk humbly — is what holds the first two from falling apart. Without humility, justice turns into contempt. Without humility, kindness turns into cowardice. The third verb keeps the other two from becoming what the world has already seen too much of from people wearing the name of Christ.

Filing a verdict on somebody is what justice looks like when humility is gone. It still uses the language of conviction. It still feels righteous in the moment. But there are no tears in it anymore, because there is no humility in it anymore. You stopped seeing yourself as somebody who got loved off a list, and you started seeing yourself as somebody who gets to keep one.

Let me give you two questions to take into today.

First — whose face do you need to see when you think about that issue you’ve been so sure about? Not the issue. The face. The name. Because the moment that issue has a face attached to it, your conviction has to learn how to walk with your tears. And if it can’t — if the face changes nothing about how you carry the conviction — something has gone wrong somewhere upstream.

Second — whose name have you stopped praying because you’ve already decided how the conversation goes?

You know who.

There’s a person you used to carry to God on your knees, and somewhere along the way you stopped. The verdict got filed. The case got closed. The tears dried up. And now when their name comes up, you feel something that isn’t grief and isn’t love. It’s just the cold quiet of a decision you made when nobody was watching.

Pick that name back up this week.

Bring them back to God. Don’t argue with them in your head. Don’t rehearse what you’re going to say next time. Just bring them. Sit with them in prayer long enough that something in you breaks again, the way it used to break, before you decided you were done.

Cry first. Then go have the conversation.

You can’t weep with someone you’ve already filed a verdict on. So go un-file it. Then weep.

Then you’ll be ready to talk.

________________________________

Ask most of us what’s hurting our faith right now, and we’ll point straight out the window.

The Supreme Court. Hollywood. The school board. Cable news. Whatever party we’ve been told to be mad at this month. We’ve spent the last decade convinced the enemy is out there somewhere, holding a microphone or a gavel, and if we could just push hard enough, our faith would finally get to breathe again.

Then you open Peter’s letter to a slandered, hurting church, and the very first instruction he gives them is not what you’d expect. Look at 1 Peter 2:11. He calls them “strangers and exiles.” Beloved ones living in soil that doesn’t claim them. And right there, in the next breath, comes his first command:

Abstain from sinful desires that wage war against the soul.

Notice what’s missing. Notice how he doesn’t say abstain from the Romans. He doesn’t say abstain from the slander, the gossip, the pressure at work. Peter turns the exile inward before he ever turns it outward. The first battle is in here.

And that’s the one most of us are losing.

The Greek behind “wage war” is strateuomai. It’s the language of an army on campaign. Boots on the ground. Siege works going up. Something is camped outside the city of your soul, and it didn’t come from Washington. It came from somewhere a lot closer.

You know, the Supreme Court has never reached into my life and made me a worse husband. It has never made me a lazier father. It has never weakened my prayer life by a single minute. My phone has done all three. My appetites have done all three. My own laziness has done all three. The Supreme Court? Not once.

Most of us are not losing to the culture out there. We’re losing to Netflix.

For some, the war is being fought over cable news. You wake up angry at people you’ll never meet. Your blood pressure is in the hands of strangers who don’t know your name. They get your first hour of the day. God gets the leftovers, if anything.

For some, it’s the phone. The endless scroll. You can’t sit still for ninety seconds without reaching for it. You used to pray in those gaps. Now you check.

For some, it’s food. Or drink. Or one more episode at midnight when you should’ve been asleep two hours ago.

For some, and this one’s quieter, it’s grievance. You’ve been nursing the same resentment for fifteen years. You feed it. You walk it. You rehearse the wound to anyone who’ll listen. It’s become a pet. And it’s eating you.

For some, it’s respectability. The need to look right, sound right, be admired. You’ve built a tidy little kingdom out of being seen the way you want to be seen, and Jesus barely fits in it anymore.

Whatever yours is (and you have one, we all do), Peter says it is at war with your soul. Something is laying siege to the part of you that matters most. And it isn’t, I promise you, who’s on the Supreme Court.

How does this fit into the bigger picture?

Jesus said it in Matthew 5:13. You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt should lose its taste, how can it be made salty? You can’t season a culture you’re being quietly conformed to. You can’t call a world to Christ while you’re being chewed up by the same things chewing that world up.

This is one of the quieter failures of many Christians right now. We’ve got folks loud about the culture war out there and losing the culture war inside. Christians who can recite every outrage on the news but couldn’t tell you what they read in their Bibles this morning. Households where the adults argue politics over dinner and haven’t prayed together in a year. Men who’ll fight strangers online about biblical manhood while their own wives have felt invisible for a decade.

I’m not scolding anyone. I’ve been some version of every one of those people. So have you.

So Peter says: because you are beloved, because your real citizenship is somewhere else, abstain. The Greek word is apechomai. It doesn’t mean balance. It doesn’t mean moderate. It means hands off. Walk away. Quit feeding the thing that’s trying to kill you.

Paul says it the same way in Romans 12:2. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind. You will not bear witness to a world you have not first refused to be conformed to. Period.

Beloved exiles travel light. You can’t carry the weight of those appetites and carry the gospel at the same time. One of them has to fall. Peter is telling you which one.

So here’s the question to sit with this week. Forget the headlines. Forget the news cycle. Forget whoever you’ve been told to be mad at. What’s actually waging war on your soul right now? It’s probably in your pocket. Or on your screen. Or in your grudge. Or in your pride.

Name it. Then put it down.

The world doesn’t need another Christian with a strong opinion. It needs salt that hasn’t lost its saltiness. And that work doesn’t start at the courthouse. It starts in your kitchen. Your phone. Your morning. Your heart.

Today.

As Israel found itself in the Desert of Sin, we watch them do something painfully familiar. God rained bread from the sky, gave simple instructions: gather what you need for today, don’t store it, and some of them still couldn’t do it. They hoarded anyway and woke up to rotting manna.

That response was a deeply human instinct. When life feels uncertain, we do three things almost automatically. We accumulate, gathering more than we need because abundance feels safer than dependence. We control, managing outcomes ourselves rather than trusting someone else, even God, to handle them. And we secure, working to establish safety on our own terms, independent of any promise we can’t physically hold in our hands.

Jesus told a story about a man who mastered all three. In Luke 12, a wealthy farmer has a record harvest and faces a choice. His response? Tear down the old barns, build bigger ones, store everything, and settle in for a long, comfortable life. Accumulate. Control. Secure. He had it figured out, except God called him a fool that very night. Not because planning is wrong, but because the man’s entire foundation was himself. God wasn’t in the equation at all.

We do this constantly. We stockpile. We strategize. We build backup plans for our backup plans. And underneath all of it is the same quiet fear that drove Israel to stuff their tents with rotting manna: What if God doesn’t show up tomorrow?

Jesus addressed this in Matthew 6. “Don’t worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink.” Not because our needs aren’t real, they are. But because the Father already knows what you need and is already moving toward you.

Paul pushes this even further in Romans 8:32: “He who did not spare his own Son, how will he not also give us all things?” That’s the argument that should stop us cold. If God gave the hardest thing, the most costly thing, why would He withhold the smaller things? The cross makes accumulating, controlling, and securing look not just unnecessary but a little absurd.

The manna came every morning. Every single morning. Israel just had trouble believing it would keep coming.

That’s still the invitation. Not a one-time decision to trust God, but a repeated, morning-by-morning choice to believe He’ll provide again today. When accumulating, controlling, and securing become the foundation we stand on, we’ve quietly moved God out of the center and replaced Him with ourselves.

The bread came yesterday. It’ll come again tomorrow.

Sometimes decline does not happen loudly. It happens gradually.

That was the case in Judah before Hezekiah became king. His father, Ahaz, had shut the doors of the Lord’s temple. Worship had been neglected. The altar was cold. The lamps had gone out. What once was central had been pushed aside.

2 Chronicles 29 says, They abandoned him and turned their faces away from the Lord’s dwelling place (v. 6).

Spiritual drift rarely announces itself. It just slowly shifts priorities. Then Hezekiah took the throne.

He started with what had been closed

In the first year of his reign, in the first month, Hezekiah reopened the doors of the temple and repaired them (2 Chronicles 29:3). See that he didn’t start with military reform or forming political alliances. He started with worship.

He called the priests and Levites together and said, Consecrate yourselves now and consecrate the temple of the Lord (v. 5). Before anything else, the house of God had to be cleansed.

Restoration begins with honesty

Hezekiah did not pretend things were fine. He acknowledged what had happened: Our fathers were unfaithful and did what was evil in the sight of the Lord (v. 6). Restoration never begins with denial. It begins with confession.

The priests went inside and carried out the impurities. The text says it took sixteen days to complete the cleansing (v. 17). It was not instant. It was deliberate work. Spiritual renewal often requires patient removal of what has quietly accumulated.

When worship returns, joy follows

Once the temple was restored, the sacrifices resumed. Songs were sung again. The instruments played. And something beautiful happened. Then Hezekiah and all the people rejoiced over how God had prepared the people, for the event took place suddenly (2 Chronicles 29:36).

Notice that phrase: God prepared the people.

Hezekiah reopened the doors. The priests cleansed the temple. But God prepared hearts. Real renewal is never manufactured. It is a work of God among people willing to return.

Why This Matters Now

Last night I watched parts of the State of the Union address. The division in our nation was not subtle, it was glaring. At one point, a young woman was recognized who had been pulled into the confusion of transgender ideology, exploited, trafficked, and deeply wounded. She has since been rescued, returned home, and is rebuilding her life, turning her focus back to the Lord.

That should not be controversial. A young woman rescued from exploitation should unite a room. Restoration should move us. Deliverance should draw gratitude.

And yet, the response revealed just how fractured we have become.

When a culture cannot clearly condemn exploitation, cannot clearly celebrate rescue, and cannot rejoice in a life being restored, we are not merely politically divided, we are spiritually disoriented. This is what moral confusion looks like. It blurs compassion. It distorts truth. It clouds what should be obvious.

And that confusion does not stay on a national stage. It filters down into homes. It shapes classrooms. It pressures churches. It weighs on parents. It leaves young people uncertain and vulnerable.

The noise is constant. The messaging is relentless. And the spiritual consequences are real. Isaiah warned that there are times when people “call evil good and good evil” (Isaiah 5:20). When that happens, clarity fades and hearts grow tired. This is not simply a political problem. It is a spiritual one.

And spiritual problems require spiritual renewal. That is why Hezekiah’s story is so imporant. The answer was not louder rhetoric. It was not despair. It was not retreat. It was reopening the temple. Renewal began when what had been closed to God was opened again. And that is still where renewal begins.

A word for today

You may not control the culture. You may not control every circumstance. But you can open the doors of your own heart again.

• Consecrate yourself.

• Remove what does not belong.

• Return to worship.

Psalm 51:12 says, Restore the joy of your salvation to me.

God delights to answer that prayer. When the temple doors reopen, whether in a nation, a church, or a single heart, God meets His people there.

And what has grown cold can burn again.

This past weekend, I sat in a room with over 13,000 Christians.

Thirteen thousand. Christians from all over the country packed into the LeConte Center in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, for the Challenge Youth Conference, which many consider the largest single gathering of Christians in one location on the planet at any given time. Our congregation has made this trip for five years running now, and every single time, I leave different than I arrived.

This year’s theme was ChatCYC: Hearing God in a Digital Age. I think it is one of the best and most relevant themes they’ve done to date. It is so needed, not only for teens, but for all of us who are addicted to our phones. Sunday’s worship service was powerful as Dr. David Shannon preached one of the best lessons I’ve ever heard on guarding your heart.

The Machine That Learned to Think

Shannon opened with a history lesson. A brief one. But it took me down memory lane.

He took us back to 1995. That’s the year a computer beat the world’s best chess player for the first time. Most people shrugged it off. It’s just a game, right? Then came the Jeopardy episode — you probably remember it — where IBM’s Watson sat across from Ken Jennings and Brad Rutter, the two greatest contestants in the show’s history. Jennings held the longest winning streak ever — 74 consecutive wins. Rutter was the highest earner the show had ever produced. Between the two of them, they were the best human minds to ever sit behind that podium. But by the end of that episode, Watson didn’t just win. It wasn’t even close.

Something shifted in those moments. Machines started learning. And they haven’t stopped.

Fast forward to today. Every single minute of your life, something is watching. Your phone knows your sleep patterns. Your apps know your health habits. The ads that pop up on your screen? They’re not random. Somewhere, a machine has been quietly studying you — how long you pause on a post, what music you reach for when you’re sad, which shows you binge at 11 o’clock at night when nobody’s looking.

The algorithm knows you.

We Are Not Victims

Dr. Shannon said something that stuck in my mind the rest of the day. He said the algorithm isn’t something that happens to us. We’re not victims of it.

The algorithm is a reflection of us.

Think about that. The machine isn’t creating your appetites — it’s feeding them. It’s serving up exactly what your heart has been quietly asking for, one click at a time. Every choice you make online is a data point. And over time, all those data points paint a picture. A pretty accurate one.

Solomon said it this way: Guard your heart above all else, for everything you do flows from it (Proverbs 4:23). He wrote that three thousand years before the internet existed. But he already understood something we’re still struggling to accept — that what’s inside us eventually shows up on the outside. Your digital life isn’t separate from your spiritual life. It is your spiritual life, just with a screen on it.

And Proverbs 3:5 cuts even deeper: Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. Here’s what I’ve been chewing on over the last 18 hours or so — many of us say we trust God, but our online behavior tells a different story. What we consume in secret reveals what we actually believe. Not what we say we believe. What we actually believe.

The Secret That Isn’t

I’ve counseled enough people over the years to know this: we almost always think our private choices stay private. The late-night scroll. The content we’d never want our spouse to see. The rabbit holes we go down when the house gets quiet.

But secrets have a way of surfacing. What starts as a private habit rarely stays contained. It spills into our marriages, our parenting, our friendships — sometimes in ways we never see coming. I’ve watched it happen more times than I can count. A man loses his family not because of one dramatic moment, but because of a thousand small compromises that nobody saw. Until everybody did.

God sees it all, of course. He always has. But increasingly, so does the machine.

A Challenge and a Hope

So here’s where I am this morning.

I’m not writing this to shame anybody. I know we’re all navigating this together. None of us grew up with a roadmap for the digital age, and the rules keep changing faster than we can keep up. But I do think it’s time for a gut-check.

Spend some time this week asking yourself an honest question: If someone could see everything I’ve looked at online this past month — every search, every video, every post I lingered on — would it reflect the heart of someone who trusts God?

That question isn’t meant to bury you. It’s meant to free you.

Because here’s the good news. The same God who sees every secret moment also offers fresh starts. He’s not waiting to catch you — He’s waiting to restore you. His mercies really are new every morning (Lamentations 3:23).

And Paul gives us the roadmap in Ephesians 4:22-24. He says to put off your old self, which belongs to your former manner of life and is corrupt through deceitful desires, and to be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and to put on the new self, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness.

I love that phrase — renewed in the spirit of your minds. That’s not a one-time moment. That’s a daily decision. Every morning you wake up, you get to choose what you feed your mind. You get to choose what you let in. The algorithm will keep doing what it does — watching, learning, serving up more of the same. But you don’t have to keep ordering off that menu.

The old self clicks without thinking. The new self pauses and asks — does this belong in the life I’m trying to live?

That’s the work. It’s not glamorous. But it’s the most important work any of us will do this week.

The algorithm reflects your heart. But the gospel can change your heart.

And that changes everything.

A lot has been pulling us apart lately — it seems in almost every aspect of life.

Opinions feel heavier than they used to. Disagreements feel sharper. Even small things seem to divide us into camps. Division should not surprise us, but it should still concern us. It can leave us wondering whether anything remains that truly holds us together.

There is.

Our unity has never rested on agreement about every issue. It rests on what God has already given us. There is one body and one Spirit… one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all (Ephesians 4:4–6). That foundation has not shifted, even when everything else feels unstable.

What unites us is not politics, preferences, personalities, or opinions about culture or current events. What unites us is Christ. Scripture says Christ is all and in all (Colossians 3:11). He is not a supporting piece of our identity. He is the center of it. When Christ is pushed to the edges, other loyalties rush in to take His place, and unity begins to fracture.

The early church understood this. They lived under pressure, suspicion, and political tension, yet they were reminded, Our citizenship is in heaven (Philippians 3:20). That truth kept them grounded. It must do the same for us. We belong to a kingdom that is not shaken by every cultural moment.

This does not mean we all think the same. God has never demanded that. It means we remember how we treat one another. Accept one another, just as Christ accepted you, to the glory of God (Romans 15:7). Acceptance is not agreement. It is a shared life in Christ.

We are also reminded where our focus belongs. Let us run with endurance the race that lies before us, keeping our eyes on Jesus (Hebrews 12:1–2). When our eyes drift to lesser things, unity weakens. When our eyes return to Christ, perspective is restored.

The world will continue to divide. That is its nature. But the church is called to hold together. Above all, put on love, which is the perfect bond of unity (Colossians 3:14). Love does not erase differences. It keeps them from destroying fellowship. What still unites us has not been taken away. It has not been voted out. It has not been drowned out. Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Hebrews 13:8). Christ still reigns. Christ still calls us His own.

And that is more than enough to hold us together.

I am worn down by the division in our country.

This week, it is a halftime show.

Not a war. Not a crisis. A halftime show.

This morning, my feed is filled with virtue signaling, accusations, and arguments over which show people watched. Charges of hypocrisy are flying around. One show is being praised over the other. Judgments are being made.

Really?

I have my own thoughts about the halftime show. But they don’t matter. They are opinions. Now we know in part (1 Corinthians 13:9). People I love are coming down on different sides. I still love them. That should not be complicated.

I didn’t watch either halftime show. It has never been a big deal for me. And they always push the limits of decency and almost always sanction ungodly lifestyles and practices. So, I usually turn it off anyway.

What troubles me is not the show. It’s what we are becoming.

We now feel the need to plant our flag of identity over everything. Entertainment. News clips. Political posts. Cultural moments. Every opinion becomes a test. Every silence becomes suspicious. Every disagreement becomes personal.

Can we hear ourselves?

The same pattern showed up with a video the President posted on Friday. I have an opinion about it. But I also know this: posting it would not change a single mind. A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise person holds it in check (Proverbs 29:11). If I revealed my opinion, it would only make some people angry, and others applaud. And depending on who reads it and what media they consume, they would immediately decide who I am - even though they don’t know who I am.

We need to remember that most online arguments don’t persuade. They polarize. Avoid foolish and ignorant disputes, knowing that they breed quarrels (2 Timothy 2:23). They don’t clarify. They categorize. And in the church, this is especially dangerous.

What is this doing to us?

We are learning to speak like the world speaks. We are reacting instead of reflecting. We are assuming the worst instead of bearing with one another. Yet James says, Let every person be quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to anger (James 1:19).

We are confusing conviction with combativeness. But the Lord’s servant must not quarrel, but must be gentle to everyone (2 Timothy 2:24).

God calls us to something better.

• Bear with one another and forgive one another… above all, put on love (Colossians 3:13–14).

• If possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone (Romans 12:18).

• Maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace (Ephesians 4:3).

We also need to acknowledge reality. There are forces much larger than us, with unlimited resources, shaping fear and outrage through every imaginable form of media. Scripture reminds us that our struggle is not against flesh and blood (Ephesians 6:12). Not every post is neutral. Not every outrage is organic. Not everything that demands a reaction deserves one.

And there are things we simply cannot change. “You do not know what tomorrow will bring (James 4:14). But we can choose how we respond.

So where do we go from here?

• We stop attaching our identity to politics and cultural battles. Our citizenship is in heaven (Philippians 3:20).

• We refuse to make every issue a loyalty test. Accept one another, just as Christ accepted you (Romans 15:7).

• We remember that silence can be wisdom, not weakness. Even a fool is considered wise when he keeps silent (Proverbs 17:28).

• And we choose faith over fear. God has not given us a spirit of fear, but one of power, love, and sound judgment (2 Timothy 1:7).

The church does not need to be louder right now. It needs to be steadier. Let your graciousness be known to everyone. The Lord is near (Philippians 4:5).

That’s how we move forward.

Ask someone how they’re doing, and the answer often comes quickly.

“I’m fine.”

Sometimes that’s true. But often, it’s a signal that something has gone quiet inside. “I’m fine” can mean:

• I’ve learned how to cope.

• I don’t want to talk about it.

• I’m tired of wrestling with this.

• I’ve accepted things the way they are.

Spiritually, that kind of answer can be dangerous. Not because it’s hostile to God, but because it can reflect settled resignation. A slow adjustment to conditions that are not healthy, not holy, and not what God desires.

Jeremiah confronted this kind of shallow reassurance head-on:

“They have treated my people’s brokenness superficially, claiming, ‘Peace, peace,’ when there is no peace.”

(Jeremiah 6:14, CSB)

Calling something “fine” does not make it whole.

Comfort Can Hide Decay

The Bible repeatedly warns that comfort can mask serious spiritual problems. People don’t usually drift because they reject God outright. They drift because nothing feels urgent anymore. We must not forget what Jesus said to the church in Laodicea:

“Because you say, ‘I’m rich; I have become wealthy and need nothing,’ and you don’t know that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind, and naked.”

(Revelation 3:17, CSB)

These Christians weren’t hostile. They weren’t persecuted or panicked. They were comfortable. And that comfort blinded them. Feeling fine is not the same as being faithful.

When Sensitivity Fades

One of the clearest signs of spiritual trouble is not open rebellion, but dullness. Our conviction becomes quieter. Our prayers may become routine. Our bible reading informs the mind but no longer confronts the heart. A seared conscience doesn’t ache anymore. It feels… fine.

The psalmist describes a way of life lived without God in view:

“In all his thoughts, there is no room for God.”

(Psalm 10:4, CSB)

Not because God is denied, but because He is no longer consulted.

God Does Not Ask for Polite Answers

God never asks His people to manage appearances. The Psalms are filled with prayers that are raw, unsettled, and honest. Fear is admitted. Confusion is spoken. Weariness is not hidden.

David prayed,

“Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my concerns. See if there is any offensive way in me; lead me in the everlasting way.”

(Psalm 139:23–24, CSB)

That prayer leaves no room for “I’m fine.” We see the same encouragement in the New Testament. Here’s what the writer of Hebrews said:

“Encourage each other daily, while it is still called today, so that none of you is hardened by sin’s deception.”

(Hebrews 3:13, CSB)

Deception does not always feel dangerous. Often, it feels settled.

A Better Measure

Instead of asking whether we feel fine, Scripture pushes us to ask better questions:

• Am I still tender toward God’s word? (Psalm 119:36)

• Am I quick to repent when convicted? (2 Corinthians 7:10)

• Am I attentive to God’s presence, or merely religious in habit? (Isaiah 29:13)

“I’m fine” may preserve comfort. But honesty invites renewal. And God works powerfully with hearts that are open, even when they are tired, uncertain, or exposed. Especially then.

Hard seasons have a way of changing people.

Pressure exposes what’s underneath. Disappointment sharpens edges. Repeated conflict can make even faithful Christians guarded and suspicious. Over time, it becomes easier to grow defensive than gentle, cynical rather than hopeful.

God’s word warns us about this danger, not because our Father is harsh, but because He knows how easily the heart can harden.

Through Ezekiel, God promised, I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will remove your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh (Ezekiel 36:26). A heart of flesh is tender, responsive, and alive. A heart of stone may feel protected, but it is also numb.

Hard seasons tempt us to choose stone.

The season we’re living in

We are living in a hard season for several reasons.

Political division has seeped into nearly every part of life. Right now, the country is tearing itself apart over illegal immigration, government spending, and the economy. Elections no longer just divide opinions; they fracture relationships. Fear, anger, and suspicion are constant companions, and many Christians feel pressured to choose sides rather than pursue Christlike wisdom and restraint.

Culture wars have added another layer of strain, not only because society is changing so quickly, but also because of how many of us are responding to those changes. Instead of patient conviction, we often see cynicism. Instead of thoughtful engagement, we see angry posts and sarcastic memes. Social media has become a place where many flame those they disagree with, mock rather than persuade, and score points rather than show Christ. Much of this is driven by fear—fear of losing influence, fear of being misunderstood, fear of being pushed aside. But these reactions rarely draw people toward the gospel. More often, they harden hearts on both sides and leave the church looking combative rather than compassionate.

Strife and conflict within the church have only added to the weight many are carrying. Ongoing public disagreements leave many discouraged. Scripture warns us that human anger does not produce the righteousness God desires (James 1:20). And there is always collateral damage. A war of words rarely stays contained. It wounds people who were never part of the dispute and discourages those who are simply trying to remain faithful. We must not forget what Paul wrote, If you bite and devour one another, watch out, or you will be consumed by one another (Galatians 5:15).

Layered on top of all this are personal struggles that haven’t paused: illness, grief, financial stress, mental health battles, and family strain. Many are carrying these burdens with fewer emotional and spiritual reserves than before.

All of this creates a climate where it is easy to grow guarded, cynical, or spiritually numb. The temptation is to harden the heart just to survive.

Why hardness feels safer

Hardness feels like self-protection. If we don’t care as much, we won’t hurt as much. If we keep people at arm’s length, they can’t disappoint us. If we stop hoping, we won’t feel let down.

But hardness should not be identified as a spiritual strength. Instead, the Bible presents it as a danger: Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts (Hebrews 3:15). A hardened heart doesn’t usually form overnight. It develops slowly through unaddressed hurt, unresolved anger, and fatigue that goes unattended.

Christ calls us to something different

Jesus does not call us to toughness. He calls us to Christlikeness.

The Holy Spirit urges each of us, therefore, as God’s chosen ones, holy and dearly loved, put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience (Colossians 3:12). These qualities are difficult to practice when life is hardest. Gentleness is tested under pressure. Patience is refined through frustration. Compassion grows when wounds are real.

Staying soft does not mean being naïve. It means refusing to let pain determine who we become.

A soft heart requires God’s help

Left to ourselves, we harden. Staying tender requires God’s work in us.

David prayed, Create a clean heart for me, God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me (Psalm 51:10). A soft heart must be continually renewed. We do not maintain tenderness through willpower, but through daily dependence on God.

Jesus Himself was gentle and humble in heart (Matthew 11:29), even in suffering. His softness did not make Him weak. It made Him faithful.

A word for us

Hard seasons will come. The Word never promises otherwise. But hardness need not follow. Remember:

• God can keep your heart tender (Ezekiel 36:26).

• He can preserve compassion, even when mercy feels costly (Colossians 3:12).

• And He can grow gentleness where pain once lived, producing fruit that reflects Christ Himself (Galatians 5:22–23).

When He does, your life becomes a quiet witness that fear did not win … faith did.

As I write, 35 states are preparing for the winter storm of the decade, or, depending on who you listen to, the winter storm of the century. On my way into the office this morning, the local news was abuzz with details, potential road closures, school closures, and warming centers for the homeless. I’ve become pretty famous for loving the snow. And so, as you can imagine, the little kid in me is very excited for the possibility of a foot of snow this weekend. I enjoy it because it brightens what is usually a gray, dark, and dreary Ohio landscape this time of year.

So, if the storm comes in like they’re saying, this weekend is the perfect time for us all to slow down. Rest. Spend time with family and those you love the most. We’ll have some quiet time. Use this as an opportunity to meet with God and His Word, pray, and get yourself reset. Why is this so important? Well, just look around.

Many people are exhausted. Not just physically tired, but worn down on the inside. Minds won’t slow down. Hearts stay heavy. Even good responsibilities begin to feel crushing. And often, rest feels out of reach.

When Scripture talks about rest, it is not talking about vacations or time off. Those things can help, but they don’t reach the soul. What many Christians need is something deeper: rest that settles the heart and steadies the spirit.

Jesus knows all about this kind of weariness.

“Come to me, all of you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
(Matthew 11:28)

That invitation is not vague. Jesus names the people He calls; those who are weary and weighed down. He does not tell them to fix themselves first. He does not tell them to work harder or push through. He simply says, “Come.”

Rest begins with coming to Jesus

Rest does not begin with escape. It begins with approach. Many people try to outrun their weariness. They distract themselves. They stay busy. They numb the pain. But Jesus invites us to bring our burdens to Him.

Coming to Jesus means trusting Him enough to stop carrying what we were never meant to carry alone. It means prayer that is honest. It means admitting weakness. It means believing that His presence is enough.

Jesus continues:

“Take my yoke upon you and learn from me.”
(Matthew 11:29)

A yoke sounds like work, not rest. But Jesus is making a point. You are already yoked to something—expectations, guilt, fear, pressure, or self-reliance. Those yokes crush the soul. Jesus offers a different one.

Rest is found in learning from Christ

Jesus says rest comes as we learn from Him. That takes time. It means reshaping how we think about life, responsibility, success, and faith. It means letting Jesus define what matters most.

He describes Himself this way:

“For I am lowly and humble in heart.”
(Matthew 11:29)

We do not come to a harsh master or an impatient judge. We come to a Savior who understands weakness. His humility makes rest possible. His gentleness allows the soul to breathe again.

And then comes the promise:

“And you will find rest for your souls.”
(Matthew 11:29)

Soul rest is not the absence of responsibility. It is the presence of Christ in the middle of responsibility.

Rest grows as burdens are reordered

Jesus finishes with these words:

“For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
(Matthew 11:30)

Jesus does not say there is no burden. He says His burden is light. Why? Because He carries it with us. When life is reordered around Christ, burdens no longer rest solely on our shoulders.

Paul wrote, Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God… will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:6–7).

Peace comes when we stop fighting for control and start trusting the One who is already in control.

A word for the weary

Learning to rest again is a process. It does not happen overnight. But it begins with one step: coming to Jesus.

Rest grows as we listen to His voice.
As we release burdens we were never meant to carry.
As we learn to walk at His pace instead of the world’s.

If you are tired today, hear this clearly: Jesus is not disappointed in your weariness. He is inviting you to rest.

Not escape.
Not avoidance.
But soul-deep rest that only He can give.

And when you learn to rest in Him, fear loosens its grip, and faith begins to breathe again.

Enjoy the snow this weekend, everyone!

Hatred does not announce itself all at once. It seeps in quietly.

It shows up in the words we choose. The tone we adopt. The way we talk about “them.” Over time, it becomes normal. Justified. Even celebrated. And before we realize it, anger feels like conviction and outrage feels like courage.

We are living in a moment where hatred is rewarded. It gets clicks. It builds platforms. It draws applause. But it is also hollowing us out. It is stealing our peace, distorting our witness, and hardening hearts that once knew tenderness.

Christians cannot pretend this is someone else’s problem.

Scripture never calls God’s people to mirror the age. It calls us to stand apart from it. Not with louder voices or sharper words, but with lives shaped by Christ. When hatred becomes the air we breathe, faithfulness requires intentional resistance.

We may not be able to change the culture overnight. But we can refuse to let it change us.

And Scripture shows us how.

Guard What You Allow to Shape Your Heart

Hatred is learned. It spreads through repetition and exposure. What we take in shapes what we carry.

“Guard your heart above all else, for it is the source of life” (Proverbs 4:23).

A steady diet of outrage trains the heart toward suspicion and anger. That does not mean Christians ignore the world. It means we refuse to let news cycles and social media become our primary teachers. Scripture and prayer must shape us more than headlines ever will (Psalm 1:1–2).

Slow Down Before You Speak

Hatred thrives on speed. Scripture calls for restraint.

“Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger, for human anger does not accomplish God’s righteousness” (James 1:19–20).

Christians should be the calmest voices in the room. Not because truth is fragile, but because God’s righteousness does not need to be defended with rage. Words spoken in haste often reveal what the heart has been feeding on (Proverbs 29:20).

Refuse to Dehumanize People

Hatred always turns people into categories, caricatures, and enemies. Scripture refuses that move.

“All people have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23).

That truth humbles us. Every person we disagree with is still made in God’s image (Genesis 1:27). When we forget that, hatred gains ground.

Practice Forgiveness Before It Feels Reasonable

Forgiveness is not natural. It is learned at the cross.

“Bearing with one another and forgiving one another… just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you are also to forgive” (Colossians 3:13).

Forgiveness does not excuse sin or deny justice. It releases the heart from carrying a burden it was never meant to bear. Bitterness, by contrast, poisons the one who holds it (Hebrews 12:15).

Love in Visible, Costly Ways

Love is not passive. It is active resistance to evil.

“Do not be conquered by evil, but conquer evil with good” (Romans 12:21).

This kind of love shows up in small, faithful choices. Kind speech. Measured responses. Prayer for those who oppose us (Matthew 5:44). These actions rarely trend, but they endure.

Keep Your Eyes on the King, Not the Chaos

Hatred grows when fear rules the heart. Scripture calls us to a different center.

“But in your hearts regard Christ the Lord as holy” (1 Peter 3:15).

When Christ reigns in the heart, anger loses its throne. We remember who we belong to. We remember where history is headed. And we remember that no cultural moment is more powerful than the Kingdom of God (Daniel 2:44).

Refuse to Become a Keyboard Warrior

There is something about a screen that lowers restraint. Behind a keyboard, people say things they would never say face to face. Courage feels cheaper. Words feel less costly. And hatred spreads faster.

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue” (Proverbs 18:21).

Words typed in anger still wound. They still divide. And they still matter (James 3:5–6).

“No foul language should come from your mouth, but only what is good for building up someone in need, so that it gives grace to those who hear” (Ephesians 4:29).

That command does not disappear when words are written instead of spoken.

“I tell you that on the day of judgment people will have to account for every careless word they speak” (Matthew 12:36).

If we were standing across the table from the person we disagree with, most of us would soften our tone. That instinct is worth honoring.

“Let your conversation be always gracious, seasoned with salt” (Colossians 4:6).

Not every thought needs to be posted. Not every disagreement needs to be broadcast. Silence can be wisdom (Proverbs 17:27).

A Final Word

Hatred is real. It is loud. And it is doing real damage.

But Christians were never meant to echo the worst instincts of the age. We were called to reflect Christ.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God” (Matthew 5:9).

Light still shines in the darkness (John 1:5). And it shines through people who choose restraint over rage, love over retaliation, and faith over fear.

That choice matters. Especially now.

I didn’t sleep well last night. And I know why.

I made the mistake of scrolling through my X feed before bed. It was filled with reactions to President Trump’s post about the murder of Rob Reiner and his wife. Most of the responses were swift and one-sided in condemnation. Others were more careful, attempting to explain or contextualize the President's writing. None of it brought peace.

My mind kept returning to what happened to the Reiners and the brutality of the crime itself. There is nothing abstract about being stabbed to death. It is violent. It is personal. And to imagine that the one holding the knife was their own son makes it even more horrifying. Those final moments must have been filled with terror and the deepest betrayal.

Then my thoughts turned to the President. I have voted for him three times. I have generally been pleased with his policies, especially during this term. But the man is deeply flawed. No honest observer can deny that. At the same time, it is also true that no modern president has endured the level of hostility he has faced. Years of relentless media attacks. Attempts to bankrupt him. Efforts to imprison him. False narratives that never seem to die. Two assassination attempts. That kind of pressure would crush most people. Somehow, he has remained standing.

And yet, something is clearly wrong.

The President identifies with Christianity, but he has openly acknowledged that hatred drives him. He has said so himself, even in places where such words should never be celebrated. Hatred is not something he hides. At times, it almost seems embraced. That should trouble every Christian, regardless of where they fall politically.

At the same time, Rob Reiner was no innocent bystander in the cultural war. His public record shows years of venomous rhetoric. He used his platform, influence, and resources to repeatedly attack and undermine the President. The hatred ran both directions.

And that is the larger problem.

We are living in a moment where hatred feels like the fuel of our world. Not disagreement. Not debate. Hatred. People are no longer content to differ. They want to divide, destroy, and erase. The news cycle is filled with rage. Mass shootings driven by ideology and grievance. Violence fueled by identity, religion, and political allegiance. As 2025 has unfolded, it is hard to even keep count.

Hatred is no longer hidden. It is celebrated. And it is killing us.

Scripture is not silent about this. In fact, the Bible treats hatred not as a personality flaw, but as a spiritual disease. Something corrosive. Something deadly. Something utterly incompatible with the life Christ calls us to live.

My heart hurts because of what I see happening to our nation, our leaders, and our neighbors. And more than anything, it hurts because I know what hatred does to the human soul.

The Bible has a lot to say about that.

What Scripture Teaches Us About Hatred

The Bible does not treat hatred as a minor flaw or a justified response to difficult people. It treats it as a serious spiritual danger.

John’s words are unsettling in their clarity:

“Everyone who hates his brother is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has eternal life residing in him” (1 John 3:15, CSB).

Hatred does not begin with violence. It begins in the heart. Long before a hand is raised, a heart has already decided that another person no longer deserves dignity, mercy, or love. That is why Scripture speaks so strongly. Hatred dehumanizes. It justifies evil. And if left unchecked, it eventually spills out in destructive ways.

Paul addresses this directly in Ephesians. He does not tell Christians to manage their anger or learn how to channel it more responsibly. He says to remove it.

“Let all bitterness, anger and wrath, shouting and slander be removed from you, along with all malice” (Ephesians 4:31, CSB).

Notice the progression. Bitterness takes root. Anger flares. Wrath follows. Words become weapons. And underneath it all is malice, settled hatred. Paul says it all must go. Not some of it. Not most of it. All of it.

Why? Because hatred is inconsistent with the gospel.

“And be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving one another, just as God also forgave you in Christ” (Ephesians 4:32, CSB).

The standard is not how others treat us. The standard is how God treated us in Christ. Christians cannot cling to hatred while claiming to live under grace.

Earlier in Ephesians, Paul reminds us of what Christ accomplished.

“For Christ is our peace, who made both groups one and tore down the dividing wall of hostility” (Ephesians 2:14, CSB).

Hatred rebuilds walls that Jesus died to tear down. That alone should stop us in our tracks.

Colossians reinforces the same truth. Paul again names hatred and its companions as part of the old life.

“But now, put away all the following: anger, wrath, malice, slander, and filthy language from your mouth” (Colossians 3:8, CSB).

Malice is hatred that has settled in and made itself at home. Paul says it does not belong in the renewed life. Christians have changed.

“You have put off the old self with its practices and have put on the new self” (Colossians 3:9–10, CSB).

And the new life must be clothed with something better.

“Therefore, as God’s chosen ones, holy and dearly loved, put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience… Above all, put on love, which is the perfect bond of unity” (Colossians 3:12, 14, CSB).

Hatred is not just discouraged in Scripture. It is incompatible with life in Christ.

We are living in a time when hatred is loud, rewarded, and excused. But Christians were never called to mirror the age. We were called to expose it by living differently.

“Do not be conquered by evil, but conquer evil with good” (Romans 12:21, CSB).

That is not weakness. It is spiritual courage. Hatred is easy. Love costs more. And love requires trusting God’s justice rather than feeding our own anger.

If hatred is shaping our thoughts, our speech, or our rest, something is wrong. The answer is not disengagement from the world, but deeper allegiance to Christ.

Light still shines in the darkness. But it only shines through hearts that refuse to let hatred have the final word.

If you take a wide look at our world, you can see it: people are worn down. Many are anxious about the future. Even inside the church, you can feel the weight some are carrying. And if you’re honest, you probably feel some of it yourself.

So let me ask you a simple question:

How much pressure are you feeling right now?

Most of us would say the same thing. Stress comes at us from several sides at once. Family. Work. Health. The church. The constant tug of spiritual battles. Life can get heavy.

But here’s the good news: not all pressure is bad.

Some of it is actually a gift from God.

The Pressure That Helps You Grow

Scripture shows this kind of healthy pressure in Paul’s life. In 2 Corinthians 11:28-29, he speaks of his “daily pressure” on the churches. He felt the weight of their struggles. He cared when someone was drifting. He hurt when someone was weak. That kind of concern is not destructive. It comes from love.

There is also the pressure that helps us reflect and change. 2 Corinthians 13:5 calls us to examine ourselves. That kind of reflection can make you uncomfortable. But that discomfort can push you toward holiness. It can bring clarity. It can reveal where you need God’s help.

This is the kind of stress that strengthens you.

• It pushes you toward prayer.

• It keeps your heart soft.

• It stirs your desire to grow.

God Works Through Your Effort

Paul says in Philippians 2:12-13 that we “work out” our salvation while God works within us. That means your effort matters. Your choices matter. And the pressure you feel at times can be the very thing that keeps you moving forward.

So take a moment and think about your own life.

• Where do you sense God nudging you?

• What needs attention?

• What step is He calling you to take next?

Don’t be afraid of that feeling.

Let it move you toward Him.

Keep Growing

Peter closes his second letter with these words:

“But grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ” (2 Peter 3:18).

Growth is the goal. Not perfection. Not performance.

Growth.

And God gives you everything you need for it.

So if you’re feeling stretched today, take heart. Pressure can crush you, but it can also shape you. Let God use it to build your faith, deepen your commitment, and move you one step closer to the likeness of Christ.

You’re not walking through this alone. And the Lord who began His work in you will finish it.

Keep going.

_____________________________________

Jesus said, “For if you forgive others their offenses, your heavenly Father will forgive you as well. But if you don’t forgive others, your Father will not forgive your offenses.”

These words come right after the Lord’s Prayer. Jesus ties our relationship with the Father directly to our willingness to forgive. We cannot walk in the freedom of God’s grace while keeping others locked in our bitterness. Forgiveness may be one of the hardest commands in Scripture, but it is also one of the most freeing.

Unforgiveness Is a Prison

Bitterness tells us we’re in control. It whispers that if we hold on to the hurt, we’ll somehow regain power over what was lost. But unforgiveness doesn’t imprison the offender… it imprisons the offended. It keeps us tied to the pain of the past. Every time we replay the offense, the chain tightens a little more.

When we refuse to forgive, we close our hearts to the very mercy we need. We can’t ask God to pour out grace on us while we withhold it from others. Unforgiveness is like carrying a heavy stone everywhere you go. Forgiveness is the moment you finally set it down.

Can You Forgive Someone Who Hasn’t Asked for It?

Many people believe forgiveness can’t happen until the offender apologizes. “They haven’t asked, so I can’t forgive,” they say. But that view reduces forgiveness to a transaction: a deal between two parties.

Biblical forgiveness isn’t a transaction; it’s a transformation. It begins in the heart, not in the handshake. It’s not about waiting for someone to make the first move; it’s about living out the mercy God has already shown you.

Forgiveness Is First Vertical, Then Horizontal

Forgiveness begins with God, not the other person.

When Jesus taught us to pray, Forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors (Matthew 6:12), He made forgiveness part of our worship and relationship with the Father. You can forgive someone privately before God, even if they never acknowledge their wrong. That’s because forgiveness, at its core, is about releasing your heart from bitterness and entrusting justice to God.

Romans 12:19 says, Friends, do not avenge yourselves; instead, leave room for God’s wrath, because it is written: Vengeance belongs to me; I will repay, says the Lord. Forgiveness says, “I’m no longer the judge. I’m giving this to God.”

Jesus Forgave Before Anyone Asked

At the cross, Jesus prayed, Father, forgive them, because they do not know what they are doing (Luke 23:34). No one was apologizing at that moment. No one was repenting. Yet Jesus extended forgiveness freely.

This doesn’t mean every sinner was immediately reconciled to God, but it shows that forgiveness can be offered unconditionally, even before it’s received. Jesus released the offense, even while the offenders remained unrepentant. That’s our model. We can forgive from the heart, even if reconciliation never happens.

Forgiveness and Reconciliation Are Related, but Different

Forgiveness means letting go of the debt someone owes you. Reconciliation means restoring the relationship. Forgiveness depends on one person: you. Reconciliation depends on two people: both willing to rebuild trust.

You can forgive and still set boundaries. You can forgive without putting yourself back into a harmful situation. Forgiveness removes the poison from your heart; reconciliation, when possible, rebuilds the bond.

Forgiving Frees You

If you wait for an apology before forgiving, you give the other person control over your peace. But Jesus calls us to freedom. Forgiveness sets you free even when the other person remains unchanged.

Ephesians 4:31-32 says, Let all bitterness, anger, and wrath, shouting and slander be removed from you, along with all malice. And be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving one another, just as God also forgave you in Christ.

Notice that no condition is attached. We forgive as God forgave us: freely, fully, from the heart.

Forgiveness Keeps You in Fellowship With God

When you hold on to bitterness, it clouds your prayer life and hardens your spirit. When you forgive, even privately, before the offender asks, you reopen the channel of grace between you and God. Mark 11:25 says, And whenever you stand praying, if you have anything against anyone, forgive him, so that your Father in heaven will also forgive you your wrongdoing.

Forgiveness isn’t waiting for a request; it’s something you do as part of your walk with God.

Erika Kirk’s Example: Forgiving Without Being Asked

A month ago, Erika Kirk stood before tens of thousands just days after her husband, Charlie Kirk, was tragically shot and killed. Through tears, she said:

“I forgive him… because it’s what Christ did, and it’s what Charlie would do.”

“The answer to hate is not hate. The answer we know from the gospel is love — love for our enemies and love for those who persecute us.”

Erika forgave before her husband’s killer ever apologized, before there was repentance or reconciliation. She modeled the mercy of Jesus. Her forgiveness didn’t erase pain or remove consequences. It didn’t mean she wanted the man spared from justice or accountability. It simply meant she released vengeance to God.

That’s what true forgiveness does: it refuses to let hatred rule the heart while still acknowledging that sin carries real consequences. Forgiving in advance does not mean excusing wrongdoing or protecting someone from the results of their actions. It means trusting God to judge rightly while choosing to walk in peace yourself.

In Summary

• Forgiveness can be given even when it’s not requested.

• Forgiveness releases you; reconciliation restores both.

• Jesus forgave before being asked, and He calls us to follow His example.

• Forgiveness doesn’t cancel justice; it simply transfers judgment to God.

Closing Thought

Forgiveness isn’t about the other person earning it. It’s not a transaction. It’s about your heart being healed by grace. You forgive because you’ve been forgiven. You release vengeance because you trust God with justice. You choose mercy because Jesus chose it first. And when you do, you’ll find that the weight you’ve been carrying isn’t yours to bear anymore.