The Prodigal’s Lament is a journey from ruin to return. This is my story. I am 61 and have been saved for 35 years, yet I gave my heart to the Lord as a small boy. As a teenager I walked away from my precious Lord and wandered far, far away and would find myself in pigsty of life, the very bottom of the bottomless pit! I gloriously returned to my Father’s house at the age of 26, and He threw His arms around me and His almighty love and forgiveness ruined me for this life. I wrote this a number of years after my return to the Lord.
It begins in darkness , a soul laid bare, surrounded by loss, silence, and the consequences of wandering far from my Father. But in that place of breaking, a cry arose in my spirit… and everything turns.
Because the story does not end with the prodigal’s return……
It ends with The Father running.
Not rejection, but mercy. Not distance, but restoration. The robe, the ring, the feast — all waiting.
If you know a prodigal, share this with them. And if you are one… the way back is still open.
In 1 Corinthians 14:23, the wording really matters, and we need to read it exactly as it is written:
“Therefore if the whole church comes together in one place, and all speak with tongues, and there come in those who are uninformed or unbelievers, will they not say that you are out of your mind?”
The weight of this verse rests on two words, “if” and “whole.”
The word “if” comes from the Greek “ean.” It is a conditional word. It is not describing what normally happens. Paul is not saying when the church comes together. He is saying if a certain situation takes place. That is very important. He is presenting a scenario, not defining the regular pattern of church life.
Then he says, “the whole church.” That comes from the Greek “holē hē ekklēsia,” which means the entire assembly, the complete body, nothing missing.
That raises an obvious question. Why say “whole church” unless, for the most part, the whole church is not together?
This confirms what we already know from other scriptures, that the early church met in multiple house gatherings. They were not all meeting together all the time. So when Paul says “the whole church,” he is talking about something different from those normal, smaller gatherings.
So now read it again slowly.
“If the whole church comes together in one place…”
This is not a house meeting. This is the entire body, all those smaller gatherings, coming together as one in a single location.
And that explains what follows.
“…and there come in those who are uninformed or unbelievers…”
That only really makes sense in a setting that is accessible, visible, and large enough for others to enter and observe. This is not a closed, private setting. This is something that can be witnessed and would be open to the public.
And to strengthen this point even further, we know historically that the early believers met behind closed doors in homes. These gatherings were not openly accessible to the general public. Because of that, it gave rise to rumors and misunderstanding among outsiders.
There were accusations of things like cannibalism and the drinking of blood, clearly a distortion of the Lord’s Supper, but it shows how little was understood by those on the outside looking in.
So when Paul speaks about unbelievers and the uninformed coming in, he is describing a different kind of setting, one where access is possible, where what is happening can be seen and heard.
So what we are seeing here is very clear.
The early church met in houses, in smaller gatherings.But there were also occasions when the whole church came together in one place.
And when that happened, what took place in that gathering mattered, because it was being seen by those outside, the uninformed and the unbelieving.
And so this leads to an important conclusion.
The regular gatherings of the early church were not public in the way gatherings are today. They were not open meetings in the modern sense. They were primarily within homes, more contained, and not freely accessible to the general public.
Public visibility appears in this passage as something connected to a specific condition, when the whole church comes together.
So the argument from this passage is not just about order in a meeting. It also points to a pattern.
The normal life of the church was in smaller, more private gatherings. The larger, more public setting was the exception, not the rule.
And that raises a question for us now.
Have we reversed what was normal and what was occasional?
Because Paul’s words suggest that when the whole church comes together, something distinct is happening. And if that is the case, then not every gathering was meant to function in that same open, public way.
When Paul spoke of the “most eminent apostles,” he was not honoring them. He was exposing them. His words were edged with holy sarcasm. He was tearing down men who had exalted themselves, men who drew disciples after their own name, men who clothed pride in the language of Christ.
So ask yourself plainly:Who would Paul call “super apostles” today? (hyperlian apostolon) 2 Cor 11:5
Who, in our own time, has taken to themselves titles of authority, power, and spiritual supremacy? Who has stood before multitudes and presented themselves not merely as servants of Christ, but as the voice to be obeyed, the authority not to be questioned?
These are not outsiders. Not pagans. Not those who openly reject Christ.
These are men who speak His name. Men who preach in His name. Men who build vast followings under His banner.
And yet, like those in Corinth, they exalt themselves.
They boast in power. They boast in revelation. They boast in influence, in miracles, in numbers. They draw attention to themselves, and in doing so, they rob Jesus of His preeminence and take that preeminence for themselves. You will never hear them boasting of their infirmities. They wouldn’t do it and their audience dont want to hear that.
Paul would not be impressed.
For he said, “Though we walk in the flesh, we do not war according to the flesh.” His weapons were not carnal. They were not built on personality, persuasion, or platform. They were mighty in God, for pulling down strongholds.
And what were those strongholds?
Arguments. Prideful reasonings. Every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God.
These men, then and now, construct systems of thought and authority that rise up, not against religion in general, but against the true knowledge of Christ. They speak of Him, yet elevate themselves. His name is invoked only so their own name can be elevated.
This is why Paul says: “Bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ.”
Not to a man. Not to a movement. Not to a personality.
To Christ.
These leaders exercise enormous influence. Hundreds of thousands, even millions, sit under them. Their words shape thinking, their authority directs lives.
But we are without excuse.
We have the Spirit of God. We have the Word of God.
And we are commanded to take every thought captive.
Every sermon. Every claim. Every display of power. Every declaration of authority.
All must be brought under Christ.
Paul refused to compete with these men on their terms. He would not boast in greatness.
Instead, he says, “I will boast in the things which concern my infirmities.”
Weakness. Suffering. Dependence on God.
That is the mark of a true servant.
So the question is not merely who these men are.
The question is this:
Will we recognize the difference?
Will we discern between those who exalt Christ, and those who exalt themselves in His name?
Raising the sails of affliction. The paradox of the genuine Christian life. Men and women who become entangled in the affairs of this world, who allow the headlines of the day or their present circumstances to draw their eyes away from the Lord, are those who lower their sails rather than power them when the winds of affliction begin to blow.
The storm is not the problem. The issue is where the eyes are fixed. When the eyes are fixed on the storm, fear rises. When fear rises, faith recedes. And when faith recedes, the sails come down. Look at the storm and you will sink. Look to Jesus and you will rise, carried by the wind above the waves. The same wind that terrifies one man will carry another. The difference is not the storm. It is the direction of the gaze and whether the sails are raised.
𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗗𝗢𝗟𝗗𝗥𝗨𝗠𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟
Racing across the sea with the wind in your face, hurtling toward home, or finding yourself stalled and drifting in the spiritual doldrums of life. Brothers and sisters, the doldrums is a real place. It lies between five degrees north and five degrees south of the equator, shifting slightly throughout the year.
It stretches across the great oceans of the world, the Atlantic, the Pacific, and the Indian. Sailors of old, when sails were king, dreaded being trapped there. It was a place of weak or absent wind, of oppressive heat and heavy air, of sudden and violent storms that rose without warning. To be caught there was to make no forward progress. Supplies would dwindle. Water would run dry. The danger was real, not to perish in a raging storm, but to languish in a place where you are stuck, where you cannot move forward, and where the unseen currents of this world begin to drag you backward, and you do not even notice.
𝗦𝗧𝗨𝗖𝗞 𝗕𝗘𝗧𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗡 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗠 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗦
Brothers and sisters, do you find yourself caught in the headlines of today. Do the circumstances of your life dominate your horizon. Either way, whether overwhelmed by storm or suffocated by inertia, the result is the same. The soul begins to sink into the morass of this world. Progress slows. Vision fades. Growth stalls. A life once moving toward the Lord becomes weighed down by what is seen, rather than lifted by what is unseen.
𝗟𝗜𝗙𝗧 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗘𝗬𝗘𝗦
Lift your eyes. For it is in Him, and Him alone, that we live and move and have our being. He alone is the answer to the storm. He alone is the answer to being stuck. There is no circumstance, no headline, no moment that exists outside of His authority. When the eyes are lifted, the soul is steadied. When the gaze returns to Him, direction returns, strength returns, life returns. The alternative is that headlines or the circumstances which you find yourself in dominate your life. Rather than taking your thoughts captive you are taken captive by them.
𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗗𝗢𝗫 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗠
Here is the paradox. We are called to raise our sails in the very teeth of the storm. Not to fight it, not to resist it in our own strength, but to yield to the wind of the Spirit. The storm that appears to threaten destruction becomes the very means by which we are carried forward. What seems contrary becomes the pathway. What appears dangerous becomes the vehicle of progress.
𝗥𝗜𝗗𝗘 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗜𝗡𝗗
Fight the storm and you will perish. Ride upon it, carried by His power, and you will not only live, you will live abundantly. The winds of affliction, when met with faith, do not destroy. They drive us forward. They press us onward. They hasten our journey. And so with the wind in your face and your sails lifted high, you are not drifting, you are not stalled, you are not overcome. You are being carried, steadily and powerfully, ever closer toward home.
There’s a phrase we use in the world: “The devil is in the details.”
It’s usually applied to negotiations or contracts, a warning to examine how things will actually work out. But there is another application to that phrase.
When you are in a trial, in a tribulation, and you allow your mind to go over and over and over every aspect of the circumstance, something begins to happen. You surrender control of your mind. We are told to take every thought captive to the obedience of Christ (2 Corinthians 10:5).
Yet when we rake over every detail of what has happened, rehearsing it, replaying it, analyzing it, and then telling one person, and then another, and another, adding to it each time, we are not walking in that obedience. We are multiplying our sorrows.
The Scripture says, “You will keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on You, because he trusts in You” (Isaiah 26:3).
Notice, peace is connected to where the mind stays.
Think about this.
How does a bird feed its young? It regurgitates food from its stomach back into the mouths of its chicks. That is how nature works.
But when we regurgitate, and let’s use the plain word, vomit, our circumstances to five other people, and then they begin to add their own details to our story, we are not seeking peace. We are reliving it. We are feeding on it again.
The apostle Paul instructs us clearly: “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6–7).
The guarding of the heart and mind comes after we bring it to God, not after we rehearse it before men.
Instead, when we continually retell and relive the circumstance, we rake over the ashes and coals of what has happened. We fan embers back into flame. We reset the fire of the circumstance rather than bringing it to the Lord and finding peace in Him.
We forget that the Lord was not in the wind, nor in the earthquake, nor in the fire, but in the still small voice (1 Kings 19:11–12).
And that stillness cannot be heard in a mind that is constantly agitated.
So remember this, brothers and sisters: Unless you are in a place of peace, unless you have quieted your mind enough to hear the still, small voice of God, do not regurgitate the story. Do not relive it again and again.
“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” (Matthew 6:21).
If the treasure becomes the injury, the offense, the trial, then the heart will remain there.But if the treasure is Christ, then the mind will return to Him. You are not glorifying the Lord by rehearsing the wound.You are not edifying your brothers and sisters by spreading the ashes.
And you are not strengthening yourself by reliving the fire.
We stand in a time when the Lord’s description of the harvest is no longer theoretical, but increasingly observable, to the point that what once lay hidden within the field can now be discerned as the age moves toward its consummation.
The Lord did not frame the close of the age as a single moment, but as a harvest season, as He Himself declared when opening the parable of the field [Matthew 13:24].
A closing span in which what has long grown together can no longer conceal its nature, for the harvest, He said, is the end of the age [Matthew 13:39].
When the grain reaches fullness, weight comes upon the head of the true wheat. It bows, heavy with formed life, while the tare, light and fruitless, remains upright, exposed by its own barrenness.
This is why there must be a period of unveiling. The distinction, once hidden in the green blade, becomes undeniable in the ripened field, just as He taught that both must grow together until the harvest [Matthew 13:30].
What could not safely be touched in the early growth can now be handled without harm to the wheat, because maturity has made separation just, visible, and irreversible. So within the synteleia tou aiōnos (Matthew 13:39), the consummation of the age, there unfolds a measured work of exposure and removal.
It is not haste, but precision. Not impulse, but ripeness that governs the reaping. The tares are taken from among the wheat because their habitation was never separate, reflecting His own words that the enemy sowed them among the wheat while men slept [Matthew 13:25].
They shared the same soil, the same rain, the same sun, yet bore no grain. And when the reapers move, they do so in a window of divine timing, for He said the reapers are the angels sent forth at the close of the age [Matthew 13:39–41].
In that solemn interval, the uprightness of the tare becomes its own testimony, and the harvest, long foretold, proceeds without injury to the wheat, fulfilling His declaration that all things that offend would be gathered out of His kingdom [Matthew 13:41].
And in an actual field, as the season turns and the wind moves across the ripened grain, another distinction appears.
The wheat does not only bow from weight, it moves differently.
When the gusts come, the true wheat sways in unified rhythm, heavy heads yielding, bending without breaking, the whole field rolling like waves of gold.
But the tares, stiffer and lighter, resist the movement. They jut upward, visually discordant, unable to flow with the humbled harvest around them, a living contrast between fruitfulness and barrenness. Farmers have long known that near reaping time, the mixed field reveals itself not merely by fruit, but by motion, posture, and response to pressure.
And so too in the closing span of this age, when the winds of testing, exposure, and judgment begin to blow across the house of God, ministries once indistinguishable from the surrounding wheat find themselves revealed by how they stand, echoing the apostolic warning that judgment must begin at the house of God [1 Peter 4:17].
The recent unravelings surrounding International House of Prayer Kansas City and controversies touching streams connected to Bethel Church have, for many, felt like that late season wind moving across the field.
Not creating what was hidden, but revealing what maturity and pressure made visible. For the first labor of the harvest is not the gentle gathering of the wheat, but the careful and deliberate removal of the tares from among it.
Separation is the primary work. For they did not grow in distant fields, but intertwined in the same soil, their roots wrapped together beneath the surface, their blades indistinguishable in the early season. And so when the harvest begins, the more exacting task comes first, just as the Lord instructed, gather the tares first and bind them [Matthew 13:30].
The tares must be identified, drawn out, and gathered away with precision, lest the wheat be harmed in the process. It is a judicial work before it is a restorative one, a clearing of the field before the securing of the grain.
Only when that difficult labor has been sufficiently accomplished does the harvest of the wheat proceed with swiftness and clarity. For once the choking growth has been removed, the bowed heads stand unobstructed, ready for the reaper’s hand.
Then the work becomes one of gathering rather than separating, of bringing in rather than casting out, fulfilling His promise that the righteous would be gathered into His barn [Matthew 13:30].
The barn awaits what the field has produced, and the weight of the wheat, once hidden among the tares, is now brought safely home. The paradigm shift has taken place in the world.
Thus the parable and the apostolic warning converge, revealing that the exposure of the tares is not reserved for a distant day, but is taking place even now.
What was planted in secrecy is being uncovered in the present hour. The likeness that once concealed is breaking down, and the field itself is bearing witness to the difference.
For the harvest is advancing, the separation is underway, and the righteous stand on the threshold of that moment when they will shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father [Matthew 13:43].
There is a profound contrast in Scripture between Saul and David, and it is not merely the difference between two kings, but between two kinds of men, two kinds of callings, and two kinds of authority. Saul is chosen by men. He fits the visible criteria. He is tall, impressive, outwardly commanding. He looks like a king. Yet when the moment comes for him to step into what God has spoken, he is found hiding among the equipment. The one selected to lead is crouched among baggage.
He has already spoken of his small tribe, his insignificant family, and while those words sound humble, they reveal a man measuring himself by human categories and shrinking beneath the weight of them. His humility is not rooted in trust, but in fear. When pressure comes, he preserves himself.
David is altogether different.
David’s story does not begin on a battlefield or in a palace, but in obscurity. He is the youngest. He is forgotten by his own father when Samuel comes to anoint a king. Yet long before any man sees him, the eye of the Lord is already upon him.
Scripture reminds us that God knows His own before they ever draw breath, that He forms them and calls them while they are yet in the womb. David is such a man. The hand of God, the presence of God, and the purpose of God are upon him from the beginning.
This is no man hiding among the equipment. While Saul hides, David fights. While Saul shrinks from visibility, David embraces responsibility. Alone in the fields, with no audience and no reward, David lays his life on the line for the sheep.
When the lion comes, when the bear comes, David does not calculate his odds. He does not preserve himself. He runs toward danger, because something in him already understands what it means to be a shepherd. The sheep matter more than his own safety.
This is the true shepherd, contrasted with the king men choose.
Men look for height, strength, charisma, and persuasive speech. God looks for the heart. Men crown what impresses them outwardly. God entrusts authority to those who are faithful inwardly. Saul is anointed first, but David is formed first.
David’s courage does not begin after anointing, it precedes it. His confidence is not in himself, but in the Lord who has already delivered him before anyone was watching.
This distinction is not confined to ancient Israel. It is painfully relevant today.
In every generation, men continue to choose leaders who are tall, handsome, articulate, and compelling. They gather crowds, build platforms, and command loyalty. Yet many have never been touched or shaped by the Spirit of God in secret. They are appointed by men, affirmed by numbers, and sustained by applause.
When the crux of the matter comes, when the cost is high and the wolves are near, they preserve themselves. They protect the institution, the reputation, the platform, rather than laying down their lives for the sheep.
David stands as God’s rebuke to this pattern. God is not impressed by appearance. He is not moved by charisma. He does not entrust His flock to those who hide when the cost becomes personal. He looks for shepherds who have already proven, in hidden places, that they will bleed for what is His. He looks for hearts that run toward danger when others retreat, for men who fear God more than visibility, and obedience more than survival.
The tragedy of Saul is not that he was small. The glory of David is not that he was strong. The difference is this: Saul belonged to himself.David belonged to God.
I was speaking with a brother the other day, a man seasoned by many years. He has been a pastor for more than three decades and also served for many years as a police officer. Before all of that, he once drove a concrete truck.
He told me about a day in Texas when the truck broke down while carrying ten yards of concrete. The drum stopped turning. Time passed, and before the load could be poured, the concrete had set solid inside the bowl. It took him nearly a week with a jackhammer to break it free. Concrete must keep moving until it is ready to be laid, otherwise it hardens without mercy and becomes unusable.
So it is with our hearts. When the Spirit’s work is resisted, delayed, or neglected, what was meant to be formed and poured out becomes hardened instead. What should have been usable for God’s purpose becomes difficult to break and costly to restore.
He spoke about the slump. Concrete must meet a precise measure. If it does not rise to the required standard, the entire load is rejected and discarded. There is no partial acceptance. If it does not meet the specification, it cannot be used.
So it is with the work God is doing in us. God does not measure by appearance or intention, but by what meets His standard. What does not rise to the measure of obedience and faith cannot be blended in or excused, it must be dealt with before the work can continue.
I shared with him what I had learned in construction. Samples are taken from the pour, allowed to harden, and weeks later crushed beneath great pressure. Only then is its strength revealed. Only then is it known whether it can bear the load for which it was made.
So it is with our faith. What God has formed in us is not proven in comfort, but under pressure. The crushing does not create the strength, it reveals whether the strength is truly there to bear the weight God has assigned.
There is also the matter of composition. Water, sand, aggregate, and cement must all be present, and each must be measured carefully. Too much or too little of any one part weakens the whole. The mixture determines the endurance.
So it is with the life God forms in us. Truth, obedience, suffering, grace, and patience each have their place, and none can be removed without consequence. When we favor one at the expense of the others, the strength of the whole is compromised, and what remains cannot endure the load it was meant to bear.
He then spoke of the freshly poured surface, smooth and carefully troweled. Sometimes someone comes walking toward it. You can see it happening and men shout warnings, but at times the person keeps going and walks straight through the concrete.
When that happens, the work is ruined. Either it must be torn up and done again, or the footprints remain forever, a permanent mark where none was meant to be.
Here the lesson becomes clear. When the Lord is doing a work, it is holy ground. When He is forming, shaping, and strengthening something, it is not to be trampled by careless feet.
God determines the mixture of our lives. He measures joy and sorrow, strength and weakness. He allows the testing and the crushing, not to destroy us, but to reveal whether we can bear the load appointed to us.
The strength that grows in us is not accidental, and the endurance is not self-made. It is the result of a careful and deliberate work of God. And even then, He does not leave us to carry the load alone. He bears it with us.
You get caught, the pressure builds, the crisis reaches critical mass, and suddenly something must be done. So the machinery groans into motion, statements are issued, gestures are made, hands are wrung. Damage control. Optics. Containment. It’s what politicians do, it’s what Hollywood does, it’s what the world does when exposure becomes unavoidable.
But it is not repentance. It is not the brokenness that comes when the Holy Spirit convicts a soul and strips it bare before God. It is theater, not truth. We’ve seen it before, paraded as humility, recycled as reform, trotted out whenever the spotlight burns too hot. But the repentance of the world does not lead to life, it leads to death.
And the system that birthed this spectacle, the swollen engine of charismania, is rotten clear through. It has flooded the earth with slogans instead of Scripture, promises instead of obedience, “name it and claim it” in place of the fear of the Lord.
Health and wealth, prosperity without holiness, gold dust and feathers, signs without substance, every unclean counterfeit dressed up as revival. Its leaders have fattened themselves on the flock and boasted in their excess without shame. This road has only one destination. It does not end in awakening. It ends in judgment.
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 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.
And cheap grace inevitably reframes defeat as realism and victory as naïveté.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Many years ago I was asked to write a piece for the ministry “Persecution Watch,” founded in part by my dear brother Blaine, now gone on into glory. I believe that every genuine saint will soon enough face bars and chains. This is to encourage the saints. Please share if you are led by the Spirit.
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.
To breathe in the beauty of God’s creation, while walking with the Creator, is to inhale something of the rarified air of heaven. To listen to the quietness is to set our spirit at ease. Noise is the great distraction of this world, the noise of current events, the noise of the TV and the radio, the never-ending noise of the device in our hand, now intimately connected to our ears in a constant stream of stimulation. It dulls the soul and renders the spirit deaf to the still, small voice of the Master.
It is the great tragedy of our age. In such a place it becomes impossible to “seek ye first the Kingdom of God,” for the Kingdom of God is fundamentally still. Who, in our age, has ears to hear what the Spirit would whisper to our souls?
Tell me… can you hear the willows whisper on the wisp?
Can you hear the wings of the swallow as it sweeps through the soft-dying light of dusk?
Can you hear the river murmur as it winds its ancient path beneath the gathering dusk?
Can you hear the sigh of the pines as the evening wind passes through their crowns?
If you can hear these things, then perhaps you can hear the beating heart of God
and find His rhythm.
Many years ago, I walked with a very heavy burden of a particular situation, the constant noise of it filling every step. I did not even notice when the Lord was no longer in the midst of my thoughts, so completely had the season overtaken me. Then, breaking through that long silence of my spirit amidst the great noise of my flesh, came a still, small whisper: “I miss you.” Its simplicity undid me. Only then did I see how long the noise had carried me away. Through tears I answered, “I miss You too.” And in that sacred moment, after a season of distance, we were together again.
Expressions of love are the first clear waters that gather at the river’s beginning.
To encounter the Lord is not merely to learn of Him, but to know Him, and to be known in return.
It is in this deep, Spirit-breathed knowing, far beyond thoughts and far above language, that eternal life begins its quiet pulse within the heart.
The heart steps forward, and the mind bows back, and suddenly what we know of His glory is no longer information, but illumination.
Scripture tells us Joseph did not “know” Mary until after Jesus was born. Yet even that sacred intimacy is but a distant shadow of the knowing God invites us into.
There is a depth of communion with Him no earthly union can ever touch.
For it is in the tasting, that one comes to understand what fruit truly is.
Many speak of fruit, many can weigh it, name it, analyze it, fruit “experts,” confident and polished, and yet they have never let the sweetness touch their tongue.
But the psalm still whispers its ancient invitation, “Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good.”
Goodness is not a theory. It is an encounter. It is a knowing.
And when the tide of our soul recedes, when insecurities rise like exposed stones and longing aches within us like a deer panting for the brooks, the Lord does not turn away.
He sees the weakness of our frame. He understands the fragile tremble of our flesh.
So we wait, dear saint, not in despair, but in quiet expectancy, for the tide always returns.
His presence always comes again to the seeking heart.
And when it rises once more, we are refreshed, restored, and know again that we are known by the One who called us His own.
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.
A Call To The Remnant 