Unity in Christ

The Call to Lordship and Unity

I spent some time this morning talking with Jesus about what it truly means to be born again—not just accepting Him as my Savior, but submitting to Him as my Lord. When I looked at the areas where my relationship with Him has suffered, I realized I could offer a million excuses, but the truth is simpler: it was a matter of my heart.

In that moment of repentance, He reminded me that every person in His Body has a unique role to play in bringing His Kingdom the glory it deserves. We are told in Scripture that we "know in part," and perhaps that is a divine mercy. If we saw the whole picture, our pride might lead us to claim the glory for ourselves. By only giving us a piece of the puzzle, God ensures that we must work together to see the full image of His grace.

The Two-Part Vision: Offense vs. Intercession

For those who struggle to approach God because of the hypocrisy they see in the Church, the Lord gave me a two-part vision. It began with a moment that made me laugh at the absurdity of our human nature, followed by a deep, convicting weight.

Part 1: The Elder Brother’s Offense

I saw an image of the "Elder Brothers" in the Church—those who have been faithful for years. As they watched "Prodigals" come to Christ, be baptized, and immediately begin operating in the power of the Spirit, the Elder Brothers were deeply offended. They couldn't understand why God would use "people like that" to do such great things. It is a strange, sobering thing to realize that those of us who love Jesus can sometimes find "joy" in our own exclusivity rather than in a brother’s restoration.

Part 2: The Prodigal’s Intercession

Then the image shifted. I saw those same "Prodigals"—the ones filled with the Spirit and walking intimately with His voice—fall on their faces. They weren't boasting in their new gifts; they were interceding for the Elder Brothers.

The very people who had known the depths of sin were now heartbroken for the church members trapped in self-righteousness. They sought the Lord’s forgiveness for those who were too offended by grace to enjoy their own inheritance.

One Body, One Standard of Grace

The Lord reminded me clearly: Comparison is a tool of the enemy. We are one body. The faithful, lifelong servant is a treasure to the Kingdom, yet the sin of judging another’s worthiness is just as grievous as the hedonism of the world. In the eyes of the Cross, pride and rebellion both require the same blood. Unity is found when we realize that Christ didn't come to judge the world, but to save it—and He calls us to stand together as a display of mercy to a world that deserves none.

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Moving Forward in Discernment

While we must use godly discernment regarding our inner circles—knowing that "a little leaven leavens the whole lump"—we cannot allow the fear of "the other" to paralyze us.

• Do not be so focused on avoiding the schemes of the enemy that you miss the purposes of God.

• Do not let the "Elder Brother" in you reject the "Prodigal" God wants to use.

Our families, our nations, and our world are waiting for a Church that is no longer divided by its own sense of worthiness, but united by its common need for a Savior.

"That they may all be one, just as you, Father, are in me, and I in you, that they also may be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me." — John 17:21

He Loves Me

When I was young, I used to pick flowers and think about my crush, pulling petals one by one: “He loves me. He loves me not.” Back and forth until the last petal decided everything.

That memory came back to me recently while I was sitting quietly, reflecting on my life and what I want, what I believe, and who I’m becoming. It struck me how often I’ve approached love—especially divine love—as if it fluctuates like that childhood game. As if it’s something that can be “on” or “off” depending on circumstances.

When things started falling apart for me, love was the first thing I questioned.

If God is love, then why didn’t He protect my child?
If love is real, why hasn’t my child been healed?
If I’m cared for, why have people I trusted hurt me so deeply?

You can probably fill in your own versions of those questions.

I tend to process things by writing, so I went back and found something I wrote during one of my lowest points: "The Lord loves us so, that He repeatedly injures Himself to love us, and it's worth the cost to Him."  Someone once pushed back on that idea, saying that if God’s love was fully expressed in the past (like in the story of the cross), then it’s not something that continues to “cost” Him now. I understand that perspective. But emotionally, experientially, it still feels true to me that love—real love—always involves some kind of vulnerability, some kind of willingness to stay even when it hurts.

That’s the kind of love I’ve wrestled with.

I’ve wrestled with the idea that maybe I can’t “disappoint” God in the way we disappoint each other—if He already knows everything about me. And yet, at the same time, I still feel the weight of my choices. I still feel the distance when I move away from what I know is right.

But what I keep coming back to is this: the sense that I’m not abandoned in that.

That even in the middle of my doubt, anger, and questions, I’m not discarded.

And that’s hard to explain in a world where love is often conditional.

If God’s love worked the way ours often does—shifting, fragile, easily withdrawn—I don’t think I would still be here holding onto faith.

He took all of the weight of our struggles (aka sin), while we hated Him, and called us the joy set before Him as He gave His life for ours (paraphrase of Hebrews 12:2).  I don't have the words to expound more on that to bring home how only a love that is superhuman can do that. 

Even if you don’t share my beliefs, I think the deeper question still matters:

What does it mean to be loved in a way that doesn’t disappear when life gets hard?

What does it look like to be known fully—and not rejected?

I don’t have perfectly packaged answers. But I do know this: the kind of love that doesn’t fluctuate, that doesn’t play “he loves me, he loves me not,” is the kind of love I think we’re all searching for in some way.

And maybe the first step—whatever your beliefs—is not just knowing about that kind of love, but being open to the possibility that it could be real.

He Has No Claim On Me

“He has no claim on me, but I do what the Father has commanded me, so that the world may know that I love the Father.” — John 14:30c–31

One of the deepest callings of the Christian life is to know God so intimately—and to follow Him so wholeheartedly—that the enemy finds no foothold in us. That may sound like an impossible standard. In many ways, it is. Becoming exactly like Jesus is beyond us. But allowing His love to shape our hearts—so that less and less within us resists Him—that is something we can pursue every day.

In a world that celebrates ambition, success, and visible achievement, it’s easy to measure a life by accomplishments. We admire goals that showcase intelligence, discipline, and financial gain. There’s nothing inherently wrong with those pursuits. But it becomes a problem when we begin to look down on those whose lives don’t reflect the same ambitions.

I say this as someone who once held those judgments. I used to believe that women who chose to stay home were wasting their lives. Over time, that perspective was challenged—deeply and personally.

I had a friend I thought would be in my life forever. We were very different, yet we shared an ability to speak honestly with one another. Life, however, dealt her more pain than anyone should have to endure. Somewhere along the way, she began to see herself as less than.

In response, she tried to prove her worth in every way she could. She earned certifications, volunteered tirelessly, led her children’s activities, worked full-time, and carried the full weight of being a single mother—with little support and even less rest. She became the person everyone depended on. And yet, when she needed support, it was rarely there.

Her story reflects something many of us feel but rarely say out loud: the quiet belief that our worth must be earned. That we must prove our value through constant doing, achieving, and giving. But the truth is far simpler—and far more freeing. Our lives have value because God chose for us to be here. Nothing we accomplish adds to that, and nothing we fail at takes it away.

Life is hard. No one escapes it without wounds. And in the end, every one of us will leave this world with empty hands. The things we’ve accumulated, the recognition we’ve received—none of it comes with us. Even the desire to be remembered fades under the reality that most of us won’t be, at least not in any lasting, historical sense.

So what does matter?

The condition of our hearts.

More specifically, whether we allowed the love of God to truly take root in us.

For much of my life, I rejected religion entirely—and in many ways, I still do. But Jesus Christ is not confined to religion. He is not an institution or a system. He is something far greater, far more personal, and far more transformative.

There was a time when I was openly hostile toward Him. Blasphemous, even. No argument about sin or judgment could have persuaded me otherwise. That’s not what changed me.

What changed me was love.

I encountered a kind of love I had never known before—one that didn’t shame, didn’t manipulate, and didn’t demand performance. It simply invited. It revealed. It stayed. And even now, I find myself asking for more of it, because nothing else compares.

That love doesn’t condemn us into change. It leads us there.

If you’re a Christian, I encourage you to do something both simple and difficult: ask God to search your heart. Give Him permission to reveal anything in you that grieves Him. It’s not an easy process. It can be painful to see ourselves clearly. But it is never condemning. God’s goal is not to shame us into better behavior—it’s to love us into transformation.

And if you’re not a Christian—if you’re skeptical, questioning, or firmly opposed—I understand more than you might think. I would simply offer you this challenge: be honest. If there’s even the smallest openness in you, try saying, “Jesus, if You are real, I want to know You.”

Even that can feel like too much. I get it. It would have been for me, too.

But consider this: Jesus didn’t give His life for people who loved Him. He was tortured and crucified by those who rejected Him. And in the midst of unimaginable suffering, He cried out, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”

That kind of love defies logic. It reaches beyond belief systems and personal histories. And it’s still available.

At the end of everything, long after accomplishments fade and recognition disappears, this is what remains: whether we allowed that love to change us.

That is a life that truly matters.

Don't Give Up...

There’s a powerful moment portrayed in The Chosen where Mary Magdalene seems to lose her grip on the identity Jesus gave her and drifts back toward the darkness He had freed her from. So many people resonate with that scene. I do too. We know what it feels like to fall back into old pits, old patterns, old shame.

But there’s something about that portrayal that stirs a question in me.

If Mary Magdalene had truly returned to her former life after being delivered, wouldn’t Scripture have told us? The Bible does not hide the failures of its heroes. Peter’s denial is recorded in painful detail. Paul’s persecution of Christians is laid bare. Their worst moments are preserved for all of history to read.

But Mary? After Jesus frees her, we never see her falter.

Instead, we see a woman so transformed, so convinced, so set ablaze with love for her Savior that she is the first to the tomb. The first to see the risen Christ. The first entrusted with the greatest news in human history. And when she tells the others, they don’t even believe her.

In a culture where a woman’s testimony carried little weight, Mary stood firm. She knew what she had seen. She knew Who she had encountered. And she did not waver.

Yet strangely, many of us consider Mary an exception to the rule. We don’t like to believe that God uses the ones who were caught in sins we consider beneath us. We want to believe He chooses the people we think should be chosen. But when we look at Peter and Paul, we see a very different picture. Peter walked in Jesus’ inner circle and still denied Him out of fear. Paul was educated, respected, and convinced he understood God so well that he persecuted His people. Their stories force us to confront what I mean.

We don’t want to believe that life’s betrayals and disappointments could ever tempt us to return to places that feel familiar. I want to believe that Mary had an advantage we don’t—that she knew Jesus in the flesh and in the Spirit, and that’s why she never strayed. But if I’m honest, that line of thinking can quickly become an attempt to justify and rationalize my own struggles.

Peter wasn't just one of the twelve disciples. He was one of the three who were most privy to Jesus' heart. He saw the miracles up close. He heard every teaching. And still, in a moment of fear, he denied the One he loved. Three times. Not because he hated Jesus, but because he feared man more than God.

Paul is similar. Brilliant. Educated. Certain he understood God perfectly. So certain, in fact, that he believed persecuting Christians honored Him. It took being struck blind on the road to Damascus for Paul to finally see clearly.

And yet, when we think of Mary Magdalene, we often reduce her to her past. We remember her sins before Jesus more than her faithfulness after Him.

But what if she wasn’t the exception?

What if Paul was?

It is often easier for God to reveal His love to someone who knows they are broken than to someone who is convinced they already understand Him. Pride is far harder to uproot than shame. Knowledge can be a thicker veil than sin.

Jesus washed Mary clean just as completely as He washed Peter of his denial and Paul of his violence. None of their sins were “too much.” Not sexual sin. Not betrayal. Not persecution. Not pride.

And once Mary was free, she lived like someone who believed she was truly free.

That’s the part we miss.

We assume that because we fall back into old struggles, that must be the normal Christian story. But Scripture shows us something else through Mary Magdalene: a heart so captivated by Jesus that the old life lost its grip.

Peter, in his shame, went back to fishing. Back to what he used to do. And Jesus came for him again on the shore and called him back out.

If you feel like Peter today—ashamed, discouraged, tempted to return to what’s familiar—Jesus will meet you there.

But if you feel like you should give up because you keep failing, remember Mary.

Remember that complete transformation is possible. Remember that freedom can be lasting. Remember that your past does not get to define your future with God.

The enemy wants you to believe that relapse is inevitable, that you’ll always go back, that your faith will always flicker.

Mary’s story whispers something different:

When love for Jesus becomes the defining fire in your heart, the old darkness loses its appeal. The spirit of familiarity has to bow before Jesus.

So don’t give up.

Don’t stop pursuing Him because you think you “should be better by now.” Don’t assume your struggle disqualifies you. Whether you are more like Peter, more like Paul, or longing to be like Mary, Jesus meets you in every place.

And He is still in the business of calling people out of graves, out of shame, out of pride, and into life.

Keep going.

Fan the flame.

The freedom He gives is real—and I’m still learning to walk in it too. It’s a lifelong journey. May we find people who are willing to walk it out alongside us, and may our lives quietly encourage even those who struggle to understand what God is doing, drawing all of us a little deeper into who He is.

Thoughts From an Immature Believer

I recently read an Instagram post about the parable of the wheat and the tares. The author framed it as two paths Christians must choose between in order to bring God glory. One path was described as boldly speaking God’s truth regardless of consequences. The other was characterized as silence—teaching that calling out sin is unloving and therefore should be avoided. The first path was labeled “the wheat,” the second “the tares.”

What troubled me wasn’t the call to faithfulness to God’s truth. It was the spirit behind how easily we seem to label one another.

It genuinely hurts my heart to see how quickly many of us slip into contempt for sinners—sometimes for those outside the faith, but often for those inside it. We convince ourselves that loudly opposing what God calls wrong is always righteousness, even when it’s done without love, humility, or self-examination.

For context, I’m writing this as someone who is currently in a season of loving discipline. Old pain I thought I had dealt with resurfaced, and I ran as far from Jesus as I possibly could. Yet He did what He always does—He left the ninety-nine and came after the one. Again.

Jesus is absolutely about correction. He is the Word of God, and His Word corrects us. I am deeply grateful for that correction, because I misunderstand and misapply Scripture more often than I care to admit. Jesus also teaches that those who follow Him will bear fruit, and that we are to exercise discernment—righteous judgment—by examining that fruit.

But I want to suggest, carefully, that we may often misunderstand what fruit actually looks like.

If we lived in Jesus’ time, many of us would likely have pointed to the Pharisees as examples of spiritual maturity. They were disciplined, knowledgeable, morally serious, and visibly devoted to God. By outward standards, their fruit looked impressive. Yet when we read the Gospels, we see that Jesus reserved His harshest rebukes for them.

Why?

Because beneath their religious performance was pride, contempt, and a lack of love.

As humans—especially religious humans—we have an unsettling ability to use our moral convictions to place ourselves above others. We begin to see their failures as proof of our superiority. Sometimes we even feel justified in calling them “tares,” confident that Jesus would never tolerate such hypocrisy in those who truly seek Him.

But is it possible we’re wrong?

Not just theoretically wrong—but deeply, dangerously wrong?

The fruits of the Spirit are love, joy, peace, patience (or forbearance), kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. These are not optional accessories to Christian faith; they are its evidence. When we follow Christ, these qualities should increasingly mark our lives.

The Pharisees, for all their zeal, did not display these fruits. That is how we know they were not aligned with God’s heart. Yet they were utterly convinced they were right. Even Jesus Himself confronted them directly, and they remained unreceptive.

That should give us pause.

When we correct our own lives, these fruits must be present. When we speak into the lives of others, they matter even more. If we find ourselves mocking, dismissing, or publicly shaming people who claim the name of Christ—especially when their failures are obvious—then we should first take a long, honest look at our own fruit.

Are we actually reflecting Christ?

Because if not, we may find ourselves on the receiving end of His discipline—and it would be deserved.

Take gentleness, for example. Of all the fruits of the Spirit, it may be one of the least practiced and most misunderstood. Gentleness is not weakness. It is strength under control, modeled perfectly by Jesus Himself.

Scripture repeatedly emphasizes this:

• “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger” (Proverbs 15:1).

• “Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near” (Philippians 4:5).

• “Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience” (Colossians 3:12).

• “Be peaceable and considerate, and always be gentle toward everyone” (Titus 3:2).

• “I am gentle and humble in heart” (Matthew 11:29).

• “Give an answer for the hope you have, but do this with gentleness and respect” (1 Peter 3:15).

• “The Lord’s servant must not be quarrelsome but must be kind to everyone” (2 Timothy 2:24).

Yes, I’m fully aware that Jesus flipped tables and drove people out of the temple with a whip—one He intentionally took time to make. That moment mattered. He was confronting exploitation, corruption, and abuse happening in His Father’s house. His anger was protective, not performative. And praise God, He still confronts systems and leaders who harm His people.

But that moment should not be used as permission for everyday cruelty.

Right now, Scripture tells us we are still waiting for the full number of the Gentiles to come in. If that’s true—and I believe it is—then perhaps our time is better spent loving people into the Kingdom rather than trying to identify and uproot the “fakes.” God is fully capable of sorting wheat from tares without our hostility.

To be clear, this reflection is about followers of Christ speaking to one another—not about leaders in positions of power who abuse their authority. Scripture is clear that such leaders should be confronted publicly, and God will deal with their hearts.

What I long to see is a Church that looks like a family: a body committed to edification, sanctification, and loving discipline. A people who fight together—not against each other—so that every member feels supported in their calling. A Church that holds one another accountable in love, not pride, and that actively removes the stumbling blocks that tempt us away from Christ.

Truth matters. Holiness matters. But so does how we carry them.

And if our defense of righteousness costs us love, we may want to ask whether we are defending Christ—or merely ourselves.

An excellent blog post on the Fruits of the Spirit Stop Trying to Grow Fruit

A Fool, Nonetheless, Yet...

There are times in our lives—most of us, anyway—when we step outside of our true character. My prayer is that those moments are brief, and that regardless of how painful they may be, they become lessons that permanently alter the trajectory of our future choices.

I’ve been spending time reading about the prodigal son, his extravagantly loving father, and his elder brother. There is so much revealed about God’s mercy, grace, and heart in that story, but I’ll leave a deeper exploration of it to another blog linked here: Understanding the Heart of God.

The Bible says in Proverbs 26:11, “As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats their folly.” I’ve seen this verse play out in my own life more times than I care to admit, along with the pain that accompanies it. If I’m being transparent, I’m currently in the middle of trying to figure out how to stop walking in that cycle. No one wants to be a fool. I think that’s partly why we’re so quick to point out the errors of others—it reassures us that at least we aren’t failing in that particular way. Maybe that gives us comfort. Maybe it doesn’t. Just a thought.

For this blog entry, I want to focus on the fusion of two biblical passages: Luke 15:11–32 and Daniel 4. Both tell stories of the Lord graciously restoring clarity of mind after individuals made choices that took them outside of His will for their lives. Both men had serious issues, yet God blessed them. Not only did they lose nothing in the end, but they were blessed even more abundantly. I don’t believe either man was ever the same afterward. Their descent into destruction gave them a much-needed, permanently altered perspective on life.

One man, driven by entitlement, demanded his inheritance from his father and squandered it completely—only to come to his senses, return home with a plan of repentance, and be treated like royalty. The other, a king, lost his sanity and lived among animals, yet was later restored to his throne and became even greater than before. Neither story makes logical sense. Who holds themselves in such high esteem, is deeply humbled because of their own foolishness, and then ends up more blessed afterward?

It would be completely understandable for onlookers to feel angry that these men were rewarded after turning away from what was right. Why would God do such a thing? Some might argue that in the first story, the father made a mistake—but I disagree. In the second, it is undeniably the Lord who restores and blesses. And for the record, I agree that neither man deserved to be blessed. But that is precisely where so many of us miss the heart of our Father when we observe the lives and failures of others.

May we allow God to search our hearts and reveal the hidden wickedness within us, rather than focusing on the wickedness around us. It’s healthier for us in every way. No one gets away with anything in His kingdom—whether or not we witness the correction ourselves.

The Word of God assures us that the pain we experience in this life is not wasted, but is ultimately for His glory—glory we are invited to share if we remain in agreement with Him. This is explored more deeply in another blog linked here: Pain Is Not Wasted. I am grateful for the opportunity to live the life He has designed for me, which consistently proves to be far better than anything I could have imagined. My prayer is that we all come to feel the same.

But They Don't Deserve It

But they don't deserve it, God...

Haven’t we all thought that at some point?

What’s worse—we’re often right.

We watch people we don’t believe deserve blessing get blessed, and something in us recoils. In our hearts, offense quietly takes root. We compare. We calculate. We wonder why obedience seems overlooked while recklessness appears rewarded.

Just for the record, I live on both sides of that tension.

I don’t deserve to hear the Lord’s voice or to be led by His love—yet here I am, walking with the Great I AM. At the same time, I struggle when people who intentionally cause deep emotional pain to others appear to thrive. Call me human—because we all are.

Over the last few years, the Lord has repeatedly drawn me to Luke 18, particularly the parable of the unrighteous judge and the persevering widow (Luke 18:1–8). It’s tempting to read that passage and conclude that God is moved only by persistence—that if we are loud enough, relentless enough, or irritating enough, He will finally respond. Maybe that’s where the phrase “the squeaky wheel gets the grease” comes from.

But Jesus isn’t presenting God as an unrighteous judge.

In fact, He is doing the opposite.

God is not distant, annoyed, or unwilling. He is not withholding until we wear Him down. He literally gave His own life so that we could come boldly before His throne. We don’t need to pester Him into compassion—He is compassion.

Immediately after that parable, Jesus tells another story that reveals how we are meant to approach God at all.

Luke 18:9–14 (ESV)
He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt…

Two men pray. One is a Pharisee—outwardly righteous, disciplined, obedient, and confident in his standing before God. The other is a tax collector—someone who wouldn’t even lift his eyes to heaven, but simply cried out, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

Jesus tells us that the tax collector went home justified.

I don’t think we fully grasp how repulsive a tax collector would have been in Jesus’ day. This wasn’t like working for the IRS (no offense to anyone who does). These men worked for the oppressors of God’s people. They partnered with the enemy. They enriched themselves by stealing from their own community.

And yet, Jesus says that man—the one painfully aware of his sin—was justified rather than the Pharisee who checked every visible box of obedience.

Why?

Because God looks at the heart. And God alone searches it.

This is not a license to walk in sin as though it doesn’t matter. That is not the heart of this message at all. What this is about is something far more subtle—and far more dangerous.

It’s about becoming greedy with the kingdom of God.

It’s about becoming the elder brother in Luke 15, angry that the prodigal is welcomed home with celebration. We say we want sinners to repent—but only if they end up with less than we have. Only if their restoration doesn’t make our obedience feel insignificant.

When we think that way, we reveal something sobering: that perhaps our walk with God was never about submission to His will, but about earning blessing for ourselves.

God’s heart toward sinners is not reluctant—it is eager.
Not resentful—it is redemptive.
Not transactional—it is overflowing with mercy.

And when we struggle with that, it doesn’t mean God is wrong.
It means He’s inviting us deeper—into humility, into surrender, and into His heart.

Because in the kingdom of God, grace has never been fair.
And thank God for that.