Agitprop, short for agitation propaganda, is not a modern invention, nor a harmless media trend. It was systematized by Lenin and perfected under Mao as a tool to emotionally mobilize populations, fracture societies, and replace truth with narrative loyalty. Its method is simple and ruthless, reduce reality to moral binaries, inflame grievance, personalize victims, demonize opponents, and keep people in a constant state of agitation so they no longer think, discern, or rest. What began as a political weapon has proven to be an extraordinarily effective spiritual one, because a soul kept in outrage is a soul distracted, divided, and cut off from peace, clarity, and communion with God.
For the Christian, this is not merely a cultural concern but a spiritual one. Agitprop trains the heart to live in reaction rather than reflection, to respond more quickly to headlines than to Scripture, and to feel moral urgency without seeking divine wisdom. It slowly displaces prayer with outrage and discernment with slogans. The result is not deeper faith, but constant inner noise, and where there is no stillness, the voice of God is easily drowned out.
Its fruit is division. Agitprop fractures families, friendships, and even churches by collapsing complex realities into a false righteousness, they are evil, we are good. Once this lens is adopted, love becomes conditional and unity becomes impossible. This is not accidental. Division has always been the enemy’s strategy, because a divided people lose their peace, their clarity, and ultimately their witness. The call for believers is not withdrawal, but vigilance, guarding the heart, resisting agitation, and remaining anchored in the peace and truth of Christ.
“For God is not the author of confusion, but of peace, as in all churches of the saints.” 1 Corinthians 14:33
“See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition and the elemental spiritual forces of this world rather than on Christ.” Colossians 2:8
“You will keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on You, because he trusts in You.” Isaiah 26:3
I want to respond to some objections raised against my initial piece on Yancey, though in truth it was never really about Yancey at all. It was about grace, what it is, how Scripture defines it, and why it matters. If the Body of Christ is ever to walk in true holiness and righteousness, so that a dying world can genuinely contrast us with itself, then grace must be taught and held in its proper biblical place. We have not been called to soothe the conscience of the saint, nor to dull the edge of God’s holiness, but to bear faithful witness to a God who is righteous, holy, and not to be treated lightly.
Philip Yancey presents a grace-first theology in which God’s mercy precedes human response, repentance is real but functions relationally rather than judicially, and the fear of God is redefined primarily as reverence and relational grief rather than warning or dread.
In this framework, repentance restores fellowship but does not place salvation genuinely at risk, and passages that warn of falling away are treated pastorally rather than with the full weight that tge words carry.. Yet Scripture speaks of those who were “once enlightened,” who “shared in the Holy Spirit,” and still “fell away,” and of judgment that is described as “a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.” Jesus Himself warned that not everyone who says “Lord, Lord” will enter the kingdom, and that “the one who endures to the end will be saved.” The tension lies in whether these words are allowed to carry their full weight.
“Those once enlightened… who shared in the Holy Spirit… and then fell away.”
Hebrews and the warnings of Jesus present a gospel in which grace and holy fear coexist without contradiction.
Grace initiates salvation, yet believers are repeatedly urged to “hold fast,” to “take care lest there be an evil, unbelieving heart,” and to remember that “our God is a consuming fire.” This fear is not terror for the weak or the repentant, but sober awareness that holiness is real, covenant is serious, and perseverance matters. Scripture never pits love against Godly fear, but assumes they walk together in a proper union.
“Take care… lest there be an evil, unbelieving heart… for our God is a consuming fire.”
This tension is made unmistakable in the account of Ananias and Sapphira.
They were not outsiders but members of the church, and God judged deliberate hypocrisy in such a way that “great fear came upon the whole church.” The text offers no apology and no softening. The early believers learned, in a single moment, that the God who pours out grace also disciplines His people, and that His presence is not merely comforting but holy.
“Great fear came upon the whole church and upon all who heard these things.”
Throughout Scripture, promises are consistently attached to endurance and overcoming.
Life is promised to “the one who overcomes,” rest to those who “do not draw back,” and reigning with Christ to those who “remain faithful.” The other side of that promise is never hidden: hardening the heart, refusing to repent, or presuming upon grace carries consequence. These warnings are not written to frighten the faithful, but to awaken the complacent.
“To the one who overcomes… do not draw back… hold fast.”
This is why a softened, purely pastoral presentation of grace is ultimately dangerous. Grace was never meant to remove fear altogether, but to place it rightly. When grace is framed mainly to comfort, it risks producing peace without perseverance and assurance without obedience. There has always been a market for teachers who tell people what they want to hear, but Scripture was not written to soothe the unwatchful — it was written to form a people who endure, overcome, and remain faithful to the end.
“They will not endure sound teaching… turning aside to what they want to hear.”
I am less interested in his fall than I am in the response. Many who have read anything I have written over the years will note, much of it has been on grace, and of course, Phillip had much to write on that subject. This is my response to much of what I hear, and much of what I hear plays into “cheap grace,” and it’s multiple shades.
Grace That Saves vs. Grace That Reigns: A Cautionary Reflection
The issue before us is not whether sin is real, nor whether grace is necessary. Scripture is clear on both. The question is what kind of grace we are talking about, and what kind of Christianity it ultimately produces.
In recent years, public moral failures among respected Christian figures have often been framed almost exclusively as inevitable expressions of “shared human brokenness.” While this language sounds humble, it subtly shifts sin from a moral failing into some kind of inevitable human failing. In doing so, it does not merely acknowledge weakness, it lowers the expectation of transformation for the redeemed.
Scripture never denies that believers can sin. But it emphatically denies that sin remains our identity, our default, or our governing power. “How shall we who died to sin still live in it?” (Romans 6:2)
When Christian theology repeatedly insists that believers are always on the brink of collapse, always fundamentally the same as before conversion, it may sound realistic, but it is not apostolic. It is Romans 7 isolated from Romans 6, and Romans 7 elevated over Romans 8. It treats ongoing struggle as the final word, rather than the cross, the resurrection, and the indwelling Spirit.
The familiar phrase “we are just sinners saved by grace” is often offered as a summary of humility, yet it is theologically inncorrect. Scripture does not primarily identify believers as sinners with an added provision. It calls them saints, new creations, those freed from sin, those led by the Spirit, those no longer under condemnation.
Grace in the New Testament is not merely pardon after failure. It is power for obedience. It is the power to overcome. “For the grace of God has appeared… training us to renounce ungodliness and worldly passions.” (Titus 2:11–12)
When long-term, concealed patterns of sin emerge in the lives of Christian leaders, the appropriate response is not surprise, but neither is resignation. Scripture does not reduce such failures into “this is simply what humans do.” It speaks instead of accountability, sobriety, discipline, and, in some cases, disqualification. “Be not many teachers, for you will incur a stricter judgment.” (James 3:1)
An extended pattern of deception is not merely a momentary lapse. It reflects a sustained resistance to conscience and to the sanctifying work of the Spirit. To explain such outcomes primarily in terms of “low anthropology” is to misdiagnose the problem. The issue is not that we expected too much of human nature, but that we expected too little of regeneration.
Grace does not erase distinctions between light and darkness, faithfulness and betrayal, maturity and self-indulgence. Nor does it dissolve moral responsibility under the banner of shared frailty.
The New Testament does not warn believers against being shocked so much as it warns them to be sober. It is not unspiritual to be sobered by contradiction between confession and conduct. It is a recognition that truth was professed while obedience was withheld.
Grace does not merely arrive after the wreckage. Grace, when obeyed, prevents the wreckage. “The law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from the law of sin and death.” (Romans 8:2)
To insist on this is not moralism, nor denial of weakness. It is fidelity to the gospel’s claim that sin no longer reigns, that believers are not trapped in inevitability, and that holiness is not exceptional but normative Christian life.
Grace that only forgives after the fall but never empowers before it is not amazing grace. It is cheap grace.
In Corinth, Paul lifts the veil and speaks of glory.
In Corinth, Paul lifts the veil and speaks of glory. Even the law, etched upon tablets of stone, a ministry of death, bore a splendor from God. Yet if such a ministry shone, how much more shall the ministry of the Spirit blaze. If condemnation itself arrived clothed in glory, then righteousness must surely outshine it all. Praise be to God. (2 cor 3:7,9)
Now see the glorious transition Paul teaches in Romans.
For when we enter Romans 7, the apostle stands exposed, a man laid bare beneath the weight of his own inability.
“O wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me from this body of death?”
No pause, no philosophy, no remedy of self. Only the one solution.
“I thank God, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
This is like dawn breaking upon a battlefield, the cry of despair yields to the trumpet of triumph.
“There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit.”
What wonder is this. What glory unimagined.
The ministry of condemnation dissolves into the proclamation of no condemnation at all. The Old Covenant had passed, and the new one was born in Christ Jesus, and Him crucified and resurrected!
Let none suppose that Moses trafficked in darkness. Far from it. The Law was holy, its purpose sure, its season appointed. It revealed the blazing holiness of God, gave sin a name and a measure, set boundaries against the flood of evil, and pointed every soul toward Christ.
The fault lay not in the Law, for the Law was perfect. The fault lay in us. Flesh, frail, rebellious, unyielding.
So Christ came in flesh, and that flesh was lifted upon the cross. There it was nailed, restrained, undone. The cross was no swift end. It was a long and gasping death. The flesh struggled. It fought for breath. Yet dying it was, all the same.
We wrestle still, not with flesh and blood, but with principalities and powers. And yes, the flesh wars against the Spirit. But the war is already decided.
The sentence has been overturned. The gavel has fallen. The court stands adjourned.
There is therefore now no condemnation. Saints, this is what victory looks like. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus “HAS,” set me free from the law of sin and death. (Rom 8:2)
It is offered for those who are weary, confused, or quietly faithful under a weight that has not been lifted. It is for saints who have prayed, waited, endured, and still do not see why the path has taken the shape it has. What follows is not meant to explain away pain, nor to minimize it, nor to offer quick comfort. It is meant to affirm that suffering in the life of the believer is not meaningless, not forgotten, and not without purpose, even when that purpose remains hidden. If you are walking through trials whose cause you cannot name and whose end you cannot see, He sees. You are not overlooked. You are being worked upon by a faithful hand, and He will finish what He has begun.
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Suffering in the life of the saint is not incidental, nor is it merely something to be endured until relief comes. It is the means by which the soul is shaped. Every trial, every pressure, every season of pain works upon us with intention, even when that intention remains hidden. What appears unsightly in the present, what feels uneven, broken, or unfinished, is not evidence of failure but of formation. The pain is real, and the cost is real, yet so is the work being done. Something beautiful is being brought forth under the hand of the Master, even when the process itself obscures the outcome.
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God does not abandon what He begins. He finishes His work. The shaping that takes place here is not undone later, nor replaced by some new process in eternity. What is formed in time is what is revealed there. Though the saint may never understand the purpose of a particular sorrow while living through it, it does indeed have both cause and design. The soul is being prepared for a purpose beyond this life, and what is produced here will not be wasted there. Eternity will not correct what earth has shaped in faith. It will receive it, complete it, and set it into its rightful place.
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Scripture speaks of us as living stones, built into a spiritual house. Life in Christ does not remove us from the process of shaping. It commits us to it. Stones are not ornaments; they are substance. They are not shaped after the structure is complete, but beforehand. They are tested, cut, measured, and fitted in advance. No wise builder waits until the walls are rising to discover whether the stones are ready.
God Himself both shapes us and sets us. The work is not divided between different hands, but between different seasons. The shaping belongs to this side of eternity, where the soul is worked upon through time, suffering, and endurance. The setting belongs to the age to come, where what has been formed is placed into its appointed purpose. The same God who allows the blows now is the God who will establish the result then.
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The shaping often occurs out of sight, through repeated pressures whose purpose may not be apparent at the time. Each trial removes what cannot remain if the soul is to be fitted for what God has prepared. So it is with suffering. Every trial, every persecution, every test presses upon the soul with intention. Not one thing the saint suffers is wasted. Not one moment of pain is without design.
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This is why resistance only deepens the fracture. To resist the blow is not to escape the shaping, but to contend against it. Surrender does not soften the strike, nor does it hasten relief; it submits to the work being done. Too often the saint is preoccupied with reducing the pain, seeking relief from the very means God is using to form the soul. In resisting the hammer, one may unknowingly resist the hand that wields it. We must learn to kiss the hand that wounds us. The purpose is not immediate comfort, but transformation. The shaping must be allowed to run its course.
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The shaping is precise. It is personal. It is governed not by chance, but by Christ Himself. God does not adjust His purpose to fit the soul as it is. He forms the soul until it is fitted for what He has prepared.
The foundation bears the weight. The stones form the substance. Each life is being prepared for its place within what God Himself supports. This life is the season of shaping, where the soul is made ready. Eternity is not the time of reshaping, but of fulfillment. What is prepared here is set there. What is formed in weakness is revealed in completion.
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When this life draws to a close, the shaping ceases, not because God’s work is unfinished, but because it is complete. What falls away is not what God has formed, but what could never last, corruption, frailty, and the limits of mortal flesh. What remains is the soul as it has been shaped.
So yes, the nature of our life here does determine the nature of our life in eternity, not by earning, not by merit, but by preparation. Heaven does not replace what earth has formed. It receives it. Glory does not undo the work of suffering. It reveals it.
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This life is not a meaningless delay. It is a deliberate preparation. So, my brothers and sisters. Rejoice. Be glad. In all things give thanks, for the Lord your God sees your afflictions. He knows your pain and He would never ask you to suffer that which He had not suffered Himself. Our great High Priest knows. He sees you. He alone is shaping you, for His will and for His pleasure.
As a builder, I know the most critical part of any structure is the foundation. Everything depends on it. It is hidden from view, slow to complete, costly, and difficult. It requires going deep, sometimes all the way to bedrock, contending with water, unstable soil, resistance, and delay. Yet whatever rises later stands or falls on what is laid first.
When Christ speaks of many mansions in His Father’s house, I do not hear a promise of size or luxury. I hear a description of lives shaped and capacities formed. The mansion is not constructed after death. What awaits us in eternity rests upon what has been forged here. Heaven does not replace the foundation. It fulfills it.
This is why Psalm 23 speaks so deeply to the human condition. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.”
I no longer read this as a passing season. This life itself is the valley. We walk through it from our first breath to our last. And yet, even here, God makes us lie down in green pastures. Even here, He leads us beside still waters.
Joy is not reserved for the mountaintop. The mountaintop comes down into the valley. We are not blessed by the absence of enemies, but in their presence. Not by the removal of hardship, but by the transformation of the heart that walks through it. We have been equipped for joy now, not later.
Paul and Silas understood this when they sang in the dungeon. Job understood it when devastation stripped him bare and he fell to his knees in worship. “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away.” Even, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” These were not men spared from suffering. They were men formed by it.
This life in Christ is the furnace. It is the fire. It is the forging.
Here, courage is shaped. Patience is learned. Humility is refined. Gratitude is born. Unshakable joy is formed, not in the absence of pain, but through faithful endurance within it. Heaven is not the place where these virtues are forged. Heaven is where they are revealed, filled, and brought to completion.
When the furnace is finished, the shaping is complete. When we take our final breath, what has been formed has been formed. What is lost in that transition is not the work God has done in us, but only the corruptible flesh, the weakness, decay, and limitation bound to mortality. Eternity does not re-forge the soul through suffering. It unveils and fulfills what time has already shaped.
We have gone down to the potter’s wheel. We have yielded to its turning. We have surrendered to the hands of God as circumstances pressed, shaped, and refined us.
This life is the valley. This life is the foundation. This life is the wheel.
And heaven is the home that rests upon what has been made.
There is a holy pattern woven through every life the Lord redeems: our brokenness, or the lack of it, always reveals how much of our nature we have allowed Him to transform. Wherever the self remains unyielded, untouched, unbroken, pain gathers there like a storm waiting to burst forth. For the measure of our troubles is so often the measure of the self we have held on to. We hold onto much of the the old nature, and the pieces of our old self becomes the sharp edges that wound us. The keeping of self becomes the birthplace of our sorrow, and the refusal to be broken becomes the soil where so much of our pain takes root.
There is a mystery here, one the Spirit teaches slowly: wherever the self is protected, trouble multiplies. Wherever the flesh remains alive, unmortified, unchallenged, it rises with its old strength and lays claim to the inner life. And from that unyielded ground springs turmoil, not random, not surprising, but the predictable fruit of a nature not yet surrendered. Look closely at the landscape of any life, and you will see it: the unbroken places are the breeding ground of unrest and much pain.
But where the Spirit is welcomed, where the self bends low, where the inner man yields to the hand of God, there the breaking becomes a kindness. In the surrendered places, the Lord breathes His life. What once was hard ground cracks open beneath His touch, and from those very fractures new life emerges. For the Spirit does not revive what is meant to die; He resurrects only what has been laid down.
And so the breaking is not destruction, it is invitation. It is the mercy of God pulling us away from the life we keep trying to preserve. In every part of us surrendered, transformation takes root. And the soul learns, slowly and deeply, that what we lose in yielding becomes the very ground where His life begins to grow.
True peace is found, not when temptations and trials cease, for surely He prepares a table before us in their presence? But when the heart is surrendered, hushed, and anchored in Christ. Temptations reveal our weaknesses and trials expose our need; and both become our teachers, if we will allow them.
The flesh is diminished when the spirit yields to God moment by moment, refusing to complain, trusting that Christ Himself is the victory. Suffering becomes the school of faith, because our flesh is never louder when it is seeking relief. Yet these trials are teaching us to rely wholly on God, and brings the heart into a deeper, quieter union with Him. Our life, in its entirety, is the valley. How then shall we walk through it? He has to make us lie down in green pastures. He causes us to sit beside the still waters.
And in these places we would never go by ourselves, He restores our soul.
When I was seventeen, my first child was born, Stephen. He lived for two days.
Two days—barely enough time to understand love,
but long enough to understand loss. “He is not going to make it.” “His lungs are not developed.” “It might be time to turn off the machine……but it’s your decision.”
Everything around me felt blurred, the world was suddenly condensed and it was pressing in on me, crushing my heart and spirit. “Do you want to hold him.” Inexplicably, and something that would torture me for many years……”No.” I did not want to hold my own dying heart, how utterly selfish.
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On the day of the funeral, I sat in the back of the hearse,
a small white coffin resting on my knees.
It felt too light. Too still. Maybe just an empty box….. like my heart.
I was there but I was distant in my mind, none of it seemed real.
He was to be laid in the place reserved for stillborn children,
though he hadn’t been stillborn.
He had lived. He had tried, he had tried hard.
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The driver took a corner faster than he meant to,
and the tiny body shifted inside the box.I could “feel,” him move.
That was the moment all the walls I had built
collapsed in a single breath.
I knew what was in the box.
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The truth I had been keeping at arm’s length
pressed itself into me with a weight I simply could not carry.
For a long time I carried anger for that driver—
that unnamed man who broke the silence for me
before I was ready.
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There are things we bury deep,
not because they are gone,
but because we cannot look at them, cannot handle the weight of it, but is still caries the same weight whether we look at it or not.
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Years passed.
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I came to the Lord.
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Life moved on in the way life does—
slowly, quietly, with its own kind of insistence.
And then one ordinary day,
standing under the warm water of the shower,
the deep finally broke open.
Grief rose from the hidden places
like something long trapped beneath ice—
cold, vast, unstoppable.
My legs buckled.
I held the walls with both hands.
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A lifetime was passing through me in moments, years
were flooding out of me, threatening to sweep me away.
My wife heard me and thought I was breaking apart.
Maybe I was.
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But when it was over, I could breathe again.
The bitter waters that had filled that sealed chamber
were gone, emptied out.
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In its place came something pure, living waters
from a pure crystal stream, unmistakably from Him.
The Lord leaves no room untouched.
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Every locked door is His.
Every deep place is His.
He moves like a glacier—nothing stands in its way
slow, sure, reshaping everything in His path
until what was buried
finally meets the light. No chamber left untouched.
If you are carrying within you something hidden—
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something buried away, unnamed, unknown to the world
know this brother, sister
it will not stay buried forever.
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He will touch it.
He will open it.
And when He does,
what comes will be healing.
Unmistakable.
Beautiful in its own way.
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Stephen, you are not forgotten…..but your father is forgiven.
The Latter Rain, Sinless Perfection, and the Crucified Flesh (part of our small home-group study)
The Latter Rain and Sinless Perfection The idea of a “latter rain” greater than Pentecost has no footing in Scripture. Joel’s prophecy was fulfilled at Pentecost — Peter said, “This is that which was spoken by the prophet Joel” (Acts 2:16).
There is no promise of another outpouring that will eclipse it. To claim the Spirit withdrew for 1900 years and will return only at the end denies Christ’s own words: “I will build My church, and the gates of Hades shall not prevail against it” (Matt. 16:18).
Likewise, Scripture never promises sinless perfection in this life. Paul said, “Not that I have already attained, or am already perfected; but I press on” (Phil. 3:12). John warns: “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us” (1 John 1:8). Victory is real, but it is lived daily in dependence on Christ — not by declaring the battle finished.
The Spirit Wars Against the Flesh Paul wrote: “The flesh lusts against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh” (Gal. 5:17). If the flesh were already silenced, Paul’s warnings would be pointless. Why command us, “Walk in the Spirit, and you shall not fulfill the lust of the flesh” (Gal. 5:16), if there were no struggle?
Romans 6 shows our union with Christ. Romans 7 shows Paul wrestling still: “I find then a law, that evil is present with me, the one who wills to do good” (Rom. 7:21). Deliverance comes not by denying the conflict, but through Christ: “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Rom. 7:25).
The Crucified Flesh: Decisive, Yet Lingering Paul declared: “Those who are Christ’s have crucified the flesh” (Gal. 5:24). Crucifixion was decisive — but it was not instant death. It was slow, agonizing.
A crucified man’s fate was sealed once nailed, yet he still lingered in pain until death. Spiritually, our flesh has been nailed to the cross, its fate sealed — but it still struggles.
This is why Paul said, “I die daily” (1 Cor. 15:31), and urged believers, “Put to death therefore what is earthly in you” (Col. 3:5). The cross was applied once, but its execution unfolds daily until glory.
Jesus said: “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily” (Luke 9:23). If the flesh were fully dead, why would He command us to do this?
Walking According to the Spirit “There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus, who do not walk according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit” (Rom. 8:1).
To be in the Spirit is our position (Rom. 8:9). To walk according to the Spirit is our practice.
The flesh condemns: “You are weak, defeated, guilty.”
The Spirit builds up: “You are sons and daughters, more than conquerors.”
Gideon heard two reports: his flesh said he was the least (Judg. 6:15). God’s Spirit called him a mighty man of valor (Judg. 6:12). The question was: whose report would he believe?
Conclusion The Bible does not teach sinless perfection now, nor that the flesh has vanished, nor that a greater “latter rain” revival is coming. It teaches this:
The flesh has been crucified with Christ.
Its death is certain, though it lingers.
We must deny ourselves, take up the cross daily, and walk according to the Spirit.
To collapse this tension is to miss the biblical balance. Christ’s cross guarantees victory — but discipleship requires daily cross-bearing until the war is over.
Let the Word close the matter: “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us” (1 John 1:8).
“Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 2:5)
“For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal but mighty in God for pulling down strongholds, bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ.” (2 Corinthians 10:4–5)
In nature, when water flows over sandstone, it slowly carves a channel. At first it is shallow, but as the water continues, the groove deepens, until it becomes a permanent path. When the rain returns, it always follows the same course.
The human mind works much the same way. When we experience pain in the body, for example an injury to the elbow, the signal travels from the point of pain along a neural pathway to the brain. The more often that signal fires, the more established that pathway becomes.
In the same way, when someone wounds us through word or deed, a kind of spiritual signal travels from the point of the injury to the soul. Over time, that pain forms an inner pathway, a reflex of hurt, fear, or anger that becomes easier to travel each time it is triggered.
And so, just as the sandstone is shaped by the flow of water, the soul becomes shaped by pain. It cuts deep grooves into the inner life, and our thoughts begin to flow along those old tracks without effort. We do not even choose it, it becomes instinct.
Yet there is a remarkable truth found even in the world of medicine.Surgeons sometimes use a method called mirroring, where a patient focuses their attention on the healthy limb instead of the injured one. The brain begins to believe that healing is occurring in the damaged area, and the pathways of pain are slowly rewritten.
In the same way, Jesus is our healthy limb. When we take our eyes off our wounds and fix them on Him, we begin to heal. As we behold Him, His forgiveness, His grace, His mercy, we begin to mirror Him. We start to think as He thinks, to love as He loves, and to forgive as He forgave.
And this healing does not simply restore us to our original condition. It lifts us higher, it transforms us. For we are not merely conquerors over pain and sin, we are, as Scripture says, “more than conquerors through Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:37)
Paul writes, “Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 2:5) This is an invitation to transformation, to a spiritual rewiring of our inner life. The Holy Spirit begins to pour living water through us, and slowly, the current changes course.
Where fear once ruled, trust begins to flow. Where bitterness dug deep, forgiveness takes root. Where sorrow carved its mark, peace begins to move like a river.
Paul also says, “Bring every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ.” (2 Corinthians 10:5) Each time we catch a thought before it slides into the old groove, we redirect the flow toward Him. This is the renewal of the mind, the Spirit reshaping what pain once defined.
Each surrendered thought deepens a new channel of grace. Each moment of obedience erodes the old pathways of pain. Soon the soul begins to flow naturally toward Christ. The old grooves may still be visible, but they no longer control the current.
Ask yourself: What grooves in my mind were carved by pain or fear?
Do I still let my thoughts run down those channels?
Or am I letting the Spirit redirect the flow toward peace, mercy, and faith?
The final reproach of the saints, when truth itself is branded as hate.
From the earliest days of the church, the saints of God have endured the reproach of being called what they are not. To stand for truth has always been to invite slander, and to speak the Word of God faithfully has never been received without hostility. As Jesus Himself said, “Blessed are you when they revile and persecute you, and say all kinds of evil against you falsely for My sake” (Matthew 5:11). History testifies that the righteous have consistently been accused of hatred, malice, and cruelty when, in reality, they were bearing witness to the love and holiness of God.
In our present age, particularly since the cultural shifts of the early twenty-first century, a new distortion has arisen. It is no longer permissible in much of society to disagree with the prevailing moral fashions without being branded a hater. A deliberate conflation has been made between disagreement and hatred, as if to question the legitimacy of homosexual practice or transgender ideology were to harbor malice against those who embrace it. But disagreement is not hatred. To call sin what Scripture calls sin is not to despise the sinner, but to speak truth in love (Ephesians 4:15), the truth that alone can set men free (John 8:32).
This inversion of meaning is no accident. It is the inevitable fruit of a culture that prefers sentimentality over truth, appearance over substance, and human approval over divine authority. The saints of God must see it for what it is: an attempt by the spirit of the age to silence the proclamation of the gospel by weaponizing false accusation. For if every Christian who holds to biblical teaching is deemed a “hater,” then every genuine believer is, by that definition, worthy of scorn and—according to some—even worthy of destruction.
And make no mistake, saint: the false accusers of the brethren have almost always come from within the ranks of what calls itself Christendom. Nearly all the martyrs of the last two thousand years were condemned at the insistence of religious institutions, who sought to preserve their own influence and protect their own power. Secular authorities and atheists may join in, but the fiercest opposition is often religious. Those who speak the truth boldly are always a danger to the religious establishment, because they expose its corruption, its hypocrisy, and its lifeless form. And so the institutions respond either by silencing themselves in cowardice or by attacking the voices of truth with fury—denouncing, separating, and historically, even putting to death those who dared to stand in the light of God’s Word.
This is the way of religion versus relationship. It has always been so, and it will always be so until the end of the age. Jesus reserved His harshest words not for pagans or atheists, but for the Pharisees, the Sadducees, and the scribes—the religious authorities of His day (Matthew 23). Though divided among themselves, Pharisees and Sadducees, Herodians and Zealots, even Rome itself, found common cause in their hatred of Christ. In an unholy alliance, they conspired to destroy Him because His very presence threatened every institution and every system of control. And kill Him they did.
That same religious spirit has not died. It has persisted through the centuries, raising its hand against prophets, apostles, reformers, and martyrs. And it remains strong today. As the end draws nearer, that spirit will only intensify, aligning with worldly powers to silence, discredit, and ultimately destroy those who walk in genuine relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ. For “the time is coming when whoever kills you will think he offers God service” (John 16:2).
Therefore, the genuine saint must not shrink back. He or she must understand that as the darkness increases, so too will the accusations, the betrayals, and the persecutions. Yet none of this is strange, for our Lord told us beforehand: “If the world hates you, you know that it hated Me before it hated you” (John 15:18). The darkness hates the light and will always seek to extinguish it (John 3:19–20).
But take heart. The slanders of men are but passing shadows. The record of heaven is clear, and the Judge of all the earth will vindicate His people. To be falsely accused is grievous, yes, but it is also glorious—it means we are walking in the footsteps of prophets, apostles, martyrs, and of Christ Himself, who “was despised and rejected by men, a Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3).
So let the saints stand firm. Let them embrace the reproach of Christ as greater riches than the treasures of Egypt (Hebrews 11:26). For though the world brands them as haters, heaven knows them as beloved, faithful witnesses of the Light. And as the night grows darker, their testimony will shine all the more brightly until the Day dawns and the Morning Star arises in their hearts (2 Peter 1:19).
These words have unleashed a storm through the ages. In a single sentence, God named a tension that would reverberate through every generation, a battle not just of flesh and blood, but of wills, of hearts, of spirits.
The Hebrew word teshuqah can be taken two ways, and both carry weight. It may mean that the woman would still long for her husband, long for his presence, his love, his intimacy, even in a fallen world. She would ache for connection even while living under the pain of fractured relationship. Or, like the use of the word in Genesis 4:7 (“sin’s desire is for you, but you must rule over it”), it may mean that she would desire to control or master her husband. In other words, there would now be a struggle for authority, a contest of wills, her desire versus his rule. Either way, the result is the same: conflict.
“And he shall rule over you.” That one line has lit fires of rebellion in the hearts of countless women. Read it aloud to most woman and watch, there will be a bristling, a flash in the eyes, a quick retort: “Men have abused that. Men have ruled harshly. Men have crushed women underfoot.” And they are right, men have done that. I grew up in a home where it was lived out in the worst way, domination, violence, cruelty. And yet, none of that cancels what God said. God did not bless abuse, He named the consequence of sin. The harmony of Eden was broken. The man who was meant to lovingly lead now rules with a heavy hand. The woman who was meant to joyfully walk beside him now resists his authority.
Man shakes his fist at God, woman resists the man, and all of it flows from the same poisoned well: sin. The man says, “I will be captain of my own soul.” The woman says, “You will not rule over me.” Both are disobedience. Both are rebellion against God’s order.
And through it all, the serpent still hisses, “Did God really say?” “Surely God didn’t mean that.” “Surely He didn’t mean for a man to be the head of the home.” He whispers the same lies he whispered in the garden, “You will not surely die, you can rewrite God’s word, you can be your own authority.” And when a woman rejects biblical headship with fury, when the spirit of Jezebel rises up, it is not just personal, it is spiritual war. The enemy rages against the order God set in place.
Genesis 3:16 is not a suggestion. It is not cultural. It is the divine diagnosis of the human condition after the fall, and we must deal with it. Men must repent of harsh rule and love their wives as Christ loved the Church. Women must repent of rebellion and come under godly headship as unto the Lord. Both must bow to God’s Word.
The cross is where the curse is broken. The cross is where the war ends. But the first step is to acknowledge what God has said, even when our flesh bristles, and choose obedience.
The Doctrine That Christ Hates: The Rise and Return of the Nicolaitans (Did They Ever Leave?)
Christ’s Piercing Words
In the opening chapters of Revelation, the risen Christ speaks directly to His Church—piercing words, burning eyes, a two-edged sword proceeding from His mouth. Among the commendations and rebukes, there is one name that echoes with particular disdain: the Nicolaitans.
To the church in Ephesus, He says, “You hate the deeds of the Nicolaitans, which I also hate.” To Pergamos, a more grievous charge: “You have there those who hold the doctrine of the Nicolaitans, which thing I hate.”
Rarely does the Lord speak with such pointed hatred. What was it that provoked such divine revulsion?
Who Were the Nicolaitans?
The Nicolaitans were not outsiders attacking the faith. They were insiders—wolves in sheep’s clothing—sowing seeds of compromise. Rooted in a doctrine that perverted liberty and corrupted grace, they encouraged the early believers to indulge in idolatry and sexual immorality under the guise of Christian freedom. They blurred the line between the sacred and the profane. They whispered, “God is gracious,” while leading souls into darkness.
Many early church fathers—Irenaeus, Hippolytus, Epiphanius—linked them to Nicolas of Antioch, one of the first seven deacons. Whether or not this connection is historically solid, what is certain is the nature of their teaching: a doctrine that offered a crown without a cross, a kingdom without righteousness, and grace without repentance.
The Meaning of Their Name
The very name “Nicolaitan” is telling: Nikao—to conquer, and Laos—the people. The conquerors of the people.
This was a sinister inversion of Christ’s model of leadership, where the greatest is the servant of all. In their wake rose a clerical hierarchy, a division between clergy and laity—a spiritual caste system that stripped power from the Body and vested it in a ruling class.
The Nicolaitan spirit enthroned man-made authority in the place of the Spirit’s leading. It built platforms and pulpits where once there had been tables and towels.
A Doctrine of Compromise
But the sin of the Nicolaitans was not merely institutional—it was deeply immoral. They taught that one could follow Christ and still feast at pagan altars. They sanctified sensuality. They preached a gospel without holiness, a salvation without separation, a Christ without a cross.
In them was the spirit of Balaam, who taught Balak to seduce Israel through compromise. And like Balaam, they prophesied for profit.
Has the Doctrine Returned?
And now, we must ask with trembling hearts: Has the doctrine of the Nicolaitans returned to us in this present age? Or worse, has it never left?
Look around the modern Church. In the pursuit of relevance, we have forsaken reverence. In the name of love, we have lost truth. Preachers boast of grace, yet never speak of sin. Congregations are entertained but never convicted. Holiness is ridiculed. Repentance is optional.
Sexual immorality is tolerated—even celebrated—and leaders who should be shepherds build kingdoms in their own names. The altar has become a stage, and the sanctuary a marketplace. We have fashioned a Jesus who fits into our culture, but not a Christ who calls us out of it.
The Nicolaitan Spirit Today
The Nicolaitan spirit thrives where there is no fear of God. It preaches freedom, but enslaves. It promotes unity, but at the cost of truth. It claims to speak for Christ, yet it is the very doctrine He hates.
Yet not all have bowed the knee. Even in Pergamos, where Satan’s throne was, there were those who held fast to His name. And even now, Christ calls out to His people:
“Repent, or I will come to you quickly and will fight against them with the sword of My mouth.” (Revelation 2:16)
The Call to the Remnant
This is no small matter. The Lord of glory will not share His bride with Baal. He will not allow His house to be defiled with the teachings of those who flatter the flesh and poison the soul. The time has come for judgment to begin at the house of God. The line is being drawn.
Let every remnant heart arise and echo the cry of the saints in Ephesus:
“We hate the deeds of the Nicolaitans, which our Lord also hates.”
Let us cast down the altars of compromise, break the scepters of clerical control, and return to the simplicity and power of the faith once delivered to the saints. Let us be those who love truth more than comfort, holiness more than relevance, and Christ above all.
For the sword of His mouth still speaks. And the One who walks among the lampstands is watching.
More than a decade ago, I wrote The Fall of Christendom—And the Separation of the Remnant. Since its publication, I have been humbled by the many messages from readers who shared how it opened their eyes to the larger story, the sweeping overview of how Christendom arrived at its present state. That “big picture” view has always been the burden of my spirit.
Today, I return to those themes, not to rehash old arguments, but to press them further—deeper, into the marrow of our collective conscience. The question remains as urgent as ever, perhaps even more so in our time of great religious confusion:
How did we get here?
Apostolic Warnings
The New Testament contains not only proclamations of grace but also sobering warnings. Three texts stand out as particularly vital:
Hebrews warns against retreating into Judaism.
Galatians cautions against beginning in the Spirit but seeking perfection through the law.
Revelation presents Christ’s own admonitions to the churches, declaring that their lampstand would be removed if they refused to repent.
And here lies the burning question: What would it look like if they did not repent?
What if the Galatians persisted in finishing in the flesh what began in the Spirit?
What if the Hebrews clung to the forms and ceremonies of a passing covenant?
What if the churches ignored Christ’s rebuke and carried on with cold orthodoxy, lukewarm faith, or lifeless ritual?
History itself gives us the answer: Christianity, once ablaze with apostolic fire, slowly morphed into a religion of priests, altars, incense, and empire. A living faith became an institution. The Spirit was quenched. The lampstand removed.
And yet—even in the darkest chapters—God preserved a remnant. A people who chose Spirit over ceremony, truth over tradition, Christ Himself over the systems that claimed His name.
A Prophetic Call
This post is not merely history, nor is it theory. It is a call. A prophetic summons to look unflinchingly at where we are, to trace how we got here, and to reckon with what it means that the lampstand has already been removed from much of Christendom.
The only hope lies where it always has:
In returning to the Word of God and the Spirit of Truth.
In joining the remnant outside the gates.
In embracing Christ as the living Head of His people.
1. Hebrews: Warning Against Returning to Judaism
The Epistle to the Hebrews insists the old covenant is obsolete:
“Now what is becoming obsolete and growing old is ready to vanish away.” (Heb. 8:13 NKJV)
To return to temple and priesthood was to crucify Christ afresh (Heb. 6:6).
History confirms the warning was ignored. By the late 2nd century, the Eucharist was increasingly described as a sacrifice, bishops as priests. Cyprian of Carthage argued the bishop stood in the place of Christ in offering the Eucharist. Thus, shadows of Judaism crept back under Christian names.
2. Galatians: Warning Against Finishing in the Flesh
Paul’s rebuke was stark:
“Having begun in the Spirit, are you now being made perfect by the flesh?” (Gal. 3:3 NKJV)
By the 3rd century, salvation was widely understood as mediated through sacraments. Baptism, Eucharist, and penance became a system where grace was dispensed mechanically. The life of the Spirit was overshadowed by ritual performance.
3. Revelation: Warning to the Churches
Christ warned the churches: Ephesus had lost first love, Sardis had a name but was dead, Laodicea was lukewarm.
By the 4th century, Christianity outwardly triumphed with basilicas and liturgies, but inwardly the flame dimmed. Nominal Christianity flourished while true discipleship waned.
4. Historical Development: From Apostles to Constantine
a. Second and Third Centuries
The monarchical bishop system arose. Ignatius urged obedience to bishops as if to Christ.
The Montanists resisted, emphasizing the Spirit, prophecy, and holiness. Tertullian joined them. They were condemned as heretics, proof that institutional Christianity preferred order over Spirit.
b. Constantine and Imperial Christianity
The 4th century marked a dramatic shift. Constantine favored Christianity, making it the religion of empire. Bishops gained power, councils met under imperial patronage.
Christianity outwardly triumphed but inwardly conformed to worldly structures.
5. The Hollowing of Christianity
By the medieval period, the warnings were ignored:
Hebrews ignored: a priesthood and continual sacrifices (the Mass).
Galatians ignored: salvation by works and sacraments.
Anabaptists (16th c.) – Radical discipleship, voluntary faith, often martyred by both Catholics and Protestants.
7. The Reformers: A Partial Recovery
The Reformers restored key truths—justification by faith, authority of Scripture, priesthood of believers.
But much of the medieval framework remained:
Luther retained infant baptism and the state church.
Calvin enforced conformity and sanctioned persecution.
The Reformation was real, but incomplete.
8. Theological Reflections
Warnings are Perennial – Drift to ritual, reliance on flesh, loss of first love appear in every age.
Apostasy as Substitution – Replacing Christ with religion, law, or cultural Christianity.
The Remnant Principle – God preserves a faithful witness in every generation.
Conclusion: A Prophetic Word for Today
History demonstrates the accuracy of the apostolic warnings. Christendom became ritual without reality, tradition without truth, form without fire.
The prophetic word today is urgent:
The lampstand has already been extinguished in much of what calls itself church.
God’s people must leave man-made religion and come into the light of Christ.
They must go outside the camp, bearing His reproach but gaining His glory (Heb. 13:13).
The hope does not lie in the institutions of Christendom, but in Christ Himself, the same yesterday, today, and forever.
The choice is clear: remain in the darkness of religion where the lampstand has been removed, or come into His marvelous light where His Spirit gives life.
In the parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11–32), Jesus gives us a picture we dare not turn away from. A son goes to his father and demands what he believes is his right. The father, with sorrow in his eyes, grants it. The son leaves for a far country, intoxicated by the noise of sin and the wine of the world. For a time the music is loud and the cups are full, yet the sweetness turns bitter and the music fades into the groan of hunger. All is gone, and he is left with nothing. He takes work feeding swine, longing even for their food, and no one gives him anything (v.15–16). The father does not chase him into the darkness. He waits. He longs. But the son must first come to himself before he can come home (v.17).
In the stench of the pigsty the young man finally sees the truth. His condition pierces his heart like an arrow (Lamentations 3:40). His pride is broken and his hope rests only in mercy. He says, I am no longer worthy to be called your son, make me like one of your hired servants (Luke 15:19). He rises, not in strength but in weakness, not in triumph but in repentance (James 4:10). Step by step, through dust and shame, he walks the long road home (Micah 6:8). The father sees him while he is still far off, runs to him, embraces him, and restores him fully (Luke 15:20).
Church, do you not see? We are that son. We have taken the treasures of heaven, the sharp and living Word of God (Hebrews 4:12), the glory of His presence, the power of His Spirit (Acts 1:8), the holy calling to be a set apart people (1 Peter 2:9), and we have squandered them. We have gone into the far country, embraced its ways (Romans 12:2), and lived as it lives. We have traded holiness for popularity (Hebrews 12:14), truth for comfort (2 Timothy 4:3–4), and the fear of God for the applause of men (John 12:43).
Now the banquet is over and the gold has turned to dust in our hands. Our garments are stained and our lamps are dim (Matthew 25:8). This is the state of the modern church. We are in the pigsty (Isaiah 1:4–6), trying to call it blessing while the stench rises to heaven. And yet, even now, the voice of the Lord is heard, saying, Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest (Matthew 11:28). Return to Me, and I will return to you (Malachi 3:7). Be zealous and repent (Revelation 3:19).
Leaders, shepherds of the flock (Jeremiah 23:1–2), you will give an account before God. Tear your hearts and not your garments (Joel 2:13). Weep between the porch and the altar (Joel 2:17). Let your tears be rivers upon your cheeks (Psalm 126:5). Let cries of repentance rise like incense before the throne (Psalm 141:2). The hour is late and the call is urgent.
We must come to ourselves. We must take the road of humiliation back to the Father’s house, for His thoughts are not our thoughts, nor are His ways our ways (Isaiah 55:8). If we will humble ourselves under His mighty hand (1 Peter 5:6), He will lift us up. He will heal our wounds (Hosea 6:1–2) and restore the joy of His salvation (Psalm 51:12). But if we refuse, the pigsty will be our dwelling still and the stench will only deepen.
The question is not whether the Father is willing to receive us. The question is whether we will rise from the filth, bow low before Him, and begin the journey home. The door stands open. The Father waits. The time to move is now.
At the turn of the 20th century, we witnessed the birth of two monumental Pentecostal movements. First, in 1904, came the Welsh Revival in Britain, and then, in 1906, the fires of revival swept through Azusa Street in Los Angeles. These were no ordinary stirrings, they were powerful outpourings of the Holy Spirit that would give rise to entire movements, such as the Elim Pentecostal Church in Britain and the Assemblies of God, which would spread globally and impact hundreds of millions.
From these humble beginnings, in every corner of the land, small Pentecostal churches began to emerge. Their message was simple: salvation through Jesus Christ, the power of the Holy Spirit, and the restoration of spiritual gifts. These fellowships sprang up in the shadow of massive denominational institutions, the Church of England, the Church of Scotland, and others, hige edifices steeped in their own traditions. Yet right beside them, in modest, unassuming buildings, were these Spirit-filled gatherings where lives were being radically transformed, adults were getting saved, and the gifts of the Spirit were active and alive.
This was a profound blow to the kingdom of darkness. The enemy, seeing the explosive growth of this movement, would not sit idly by. His question became clear: How can we bring this down? And so, beginning in the 1940s, we saw the emergence of new “theological,” trends, the Word of Faith movement, the Prosperity Gospel, and of course the Charismatic movement in the 60s, which would swallow up the others and become indistinguishable.
It was a cunning strategy: If you can’t beat them, buy them. The philosophy was simple, promise the very things that human beings everywhere fear to lose: health and wealth. Whether you’re in New York City or a remote village in the jungle, the universal concerns remain the same, our bodies and our bank accounts. The enemy offered a counterfeit gospel, one that shifted the focus from the cross of Christ to the desires of the flesh.
The Charismatic Movement became a Trojan horse. It infiltrated Pentecostal churches across the globe, not with persecution, but with promises. And it worked, brilliantly, tragically. The smoke from the fire of true revival has been replaced by the smoke machines of performance and entertainment. The altars were replaced by stages, the message by motivational speaking, and the Spirit by self-help and “self,” seeking
What followed was the tearing down of the very pillars upon which the early Pentecostal movement had stood. The purity of the Gospel was traded for a gospel of gain. Faith, once the precious link to Christ Himself, was twisted into a tool to manipulate blessings. Prosperity or tge lack of it, once counted as rubbish in comparison to knowing Christ, became the goal.Christ had become but a means to a materialistic end.
It was a disaster for the Church, and a stunning success for the enemy. The people rose up and played, just as they did before the golden calf in the wilderness. Think of “holy laughter,” and roaring like animals. And today, we stand in the shadow of that fall, in the ruins of what once was a mighty move of God.
These false ideologies, health and wealth, Name It and Claim It, the separation of faith from Christ Himself, have infected almost every corner of the modern Pentecostal and non-denominational world. Rare is the church untouched. Subtle or blatant, this taint remains, and it must be recognized for what it is.
Now, in this late hour, a remnant is rising, a people who are returning to the simplicity and the power of the cross, who walk not in the counsel of the world but in the fear of the Lord. Let us not be seduced by the glitter of gain or the lure of comfort. Let us remember the foundation laid in tears and prayer and holy fire. It is time to leave the circus behind, with all its many forms of entertainment, and “come out from among her.”
The Herd Mentality and the Call to Swim Against the Current
In July 2005, in Eastern Turkey near the village of Gevas in Van province, something astonishing happened. A group of shepherds had left their flock of about 1,500 sheep to have breakfast. During that time, one sheep wandered off a cliff, and every single one of the others followed. It’s a chilling picture of herd mentality , not just among sheep, but a profound metaphor for humanity.
We see this throughout history and even in our own day. People instinctively believe there’s safety in numbers, but the crowd can and mostly are terribly wrong.
One story from 9/11 that has always stayed with me is of two men who were above the impact zone of one of the towers. Very few people survived from above the crash site. These two did, and their story speaks volumes.
As they made their way down a heavily damaged stairwell, they came upon a group of 14 to 20 people heading upward. The men pleaded with them, “Don’t go up, there’s no rescue coming from the roof.”
But some in that group were being swayed by charismatic voices insisting that helicopters would come, that rescue was possible if they just went higher. But they were wrong. Helicopters couldn’t reach the roof because of the intense smoke and heat, and the rooftop doors were locked. Everyone who followed that advice died.
The two men who chose the hard way down , they lived.
That’s the herd mentality again. A subtle, collective pull toward what seems right, especially when others are doing it. But real awareness, real wisdom, often means resisting the flow.
Nazi Germany is another sobering example. A woman in a documentary from the 1960s was asked why she attended Hitler rallies. Her answer has never left me: “There was something in the atmosphere, and we all breathed it in.”
That’s the crowd again. That’s the spirit of the age, the zeitgeist, and it’s often strong enough to sweep entire nations away. Not everyone agreed with the Nazis, but most went along. They gave the salute, kept their heads down, and refused to stand out.
I remember once the Lord said to me, “Frank, if you’re running with the crowd, you’re running in the wrong direction.”
There are two rivers in this life.
The river of God, the river of life, where we are called to be immersed, not just ankle-deep or knee-deep, but swept up and carried by the Spirit of the Lord.
“And he measured one thousand cubits, and brought me through the waters, the water came up to my ankles. Again he measured one thousand and brought me through the waters, the water came up to my knees. Again he measured one thousand and brought me through, the water came up to my waist. Again he measured one thousand, and it was a river that I could not cross, for the water was too deep, water in which one must swim, a river that could not be crossed.” — Ezekiel 47:3–5, NKJV
And then there’s the river of this world, strong, dark, and swift, and we are called to swim upstream, against its flow.
We are not meant to follow the crowd off a cliff. We are called to be a peculiar people, a royal priesthood, a chosen generation. We are pilgrims and strangers in this land, never quite fitting in.
There are two overarching paths that lie before us, as stated by Jesus. One is the broad road that leads to destruction, and many will go in by it — the crowd. The other is the narrow gate and the difficult way that leads to life, and few will find it — the remnant.
“Enter by the narrow gate, for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction, and there are many who go in by it. Because narrow is the gate and difficult is the way which leads to life, and there are few who find it.” — Matthew 7:13–14, NKJV
We are those who hear the voice of the Spirit through the Word of God, who see and understand and stand, even if we stand alone.
Let us be voices that warn. And more than that, let our walk be our light and a lamp of direction to others. The word of God is a lamp to our feet, it leads us and guides us in the way that we should go.The Kingdom of God is found along the narrow path that runs counter to the world.
We encourage one another, it is a beautiful thing, a sacred rhythm in the Body of Christ. It has been the highest privilege of my life to minister to the few, those precious souls who once believed they were utterly alone. They are the ones who, at great personal cost, have come out from the organized church, misunderstood, maligned, and often mistrusted. They have been accused of elitism, of arrogance, even of falling away, when in truth, they could no longer endure the weight of a system that quenched the very Spirit they were called to walk in.
These are they who began in the Spirit, and, like Paul’s plea to the Galatians, refused to be perfected by the flesh (Galatians 3:3). They yearn to hear not the rebuke, “O foolish Galatians,” but rather the commendation, “Well done, good and faithful servant” (Matthew 25:21). They seek to gather where the Spirit is free to move, where the saints may truly fulfill the exhortation of 1 Corinthians 14, that all may speak, all may learn, all may be encouraged, and the gifts be exercised for the edification of the whole.
They long to walk simply, with humility before God and sincerity before men (Micah 6:8). In their gatherings, Christ alone is exalted, Jesus, the Lord of glory, lifted up as the only Head, the only Shepherd, the only One who is preeminent (Colossians 1:18). There are no stars, no stages, only saints, broken and burning, desiring nothing but Him.
Yet to walk this way, there has been a call, an unrelenting summons from the Lord, “Come out from among them and be separate, says the Lord. Do not touch what is unclean, and I will receive you” (2 Corinthians 6:17). This is the remnant road, walked not in bitterness but in obedience, not in pride but in pursuit of the living God, Christ in us, the hope of glory.
A Call To The Remnant 