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.
This was the prayer that came to my spirit as I walked and prayed this morning.
If a celestial staircase opened before me Lord, I would climb it, step by step, all the way to heaven. If I could lay my burdens down, I would lay them all down now, at Your feet oh Lord.
If the noise of this world could be silenced forever, O what a glorious moment that would be. For nothing surpasses the peace of Your presence, The stillness, the holy rest of our God.
There is no clamoring when we draw near to You, Lord, Only rest, and peace, and stillness. You make me lie down in pastures green, You lead me beside the still waters of life.
Amid the tumult and noise of this age, Fix my mind on the eternal, unseen kingdom. Open my eyes to behold Your way, The kingdom that cannot be shaken.
Open the staircase of heaven before me, Lord, That I might climb into Your presence, Leaving the clamor and the noise behind, And dwelling forever in Your light.
History is filled with examples of national or collective consequence, when entire populations suffer the results of ideologies or movements they have supported. After World War II, the German people endured immense suffering. Over 600,000 children were killed. Cities were flattened. Women were raped by the invading Soviets. Hunger and displacement were widespread. While not every German was guilty of Nazism, Hitler and his regime had broad popular support. That support had consequences, natural, inevitable, and devastating.
This was not divine retribution, it was the harsh outcome of cause and effect. When a society builds its identity around hatred, violence, or conquest, it will eventually face the very storm it helped create. This same pattern is unfolding in Gaza. Hamas is not simply a fringe extremist group acting independently. Repeated polling over the years has shown that a strong majority of the Palestinian population, at times over 80 percent, has expressed support for Hamas and its methods. This includes the targeting of civilians and the use of human shields. The suffering that has followed, while tragic, is not inexplicable. It is the bitter fruit of seeds long sown.
That said, two wrongs do not make a right. But when someone has a 100 percent record of only criticizing one side, when outrage is selective and never balanced, that outrage loses moral authority. It becomes ideology rather than truth. And ideology, not principle, is the root of most of the world’s injustices. We must speak differently as followers of Jesus. Our voice must not echo the rage or loyalties of the world. When we become partisan, we compromise our witness. That is how crowds are stirred to cry out, “Give us Barabbas,” choosing political allegiance over righteousness.
The law of sowing and reaping is real and impartial. Everyone is accountable. But in any violent conflict, especially one where survival is at stake, the party that initiates the aggression bears the greater weight of responsibility. The suffering of civilians is always a tragedy, but it does not occur in a moral vacuum. When a people support a movement that glorifies destruction, they must also face the consequences that naturally follow. That does not mean every individual is guilty, but it does mean that actions have repercussions, and movements supported by the many will inevitably shape the fate of the whole.
Yet as Christians, our place is not to take sides in the quarrels of men. Our loyalty is not to any earthly cause but to the Kingdom of God. When Joshua encountered the angel of the Lord and asked, “Are You for us or for our adversaries?” the angel replied, “No, but as Commander of the army of the Lord I have now come” (Joshua 5:13–14, NKJV). This response reveals the true nature of heavenly alignment. It is not about whose side God is on, but whether we are on His.
We are not called to be partisan in the affairs of man. We are ambassadors from another Kingdom, the Kingdom of God. Our response is not to mirror the anger of the world but to weep over its hatred, to mourn the vengeance that devours the children of men, and to speak with clarity, compassion, and conviction from a place that transcends politics, borders, and ideologies.
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.
In the fierce heart of every storm, there lies a sacred stillness , a place untouched by the chaos that rages all around. That stillness is Christ. He is not on the edge, not watching from afar , He is at the very center, the calm within the tempest, the anchor of our souls.
When we run to Him, we do not escape reality , we enter into a deeper one. We step into perfect peace, not because the storm ceases, but because the Prince of Peace reigns within it. But if we flee, if we try to outrun the storm in our own strength, we hurl ourselves into its fiercest winds. The resistance grows, the fear swells, and we are battered by every gust.
Brothers and sisters, run to the center. Run to Jesus. For in Him, the storm loses its power, and the winds fall silent in the shadow of His presence. He prepares a table for us in the heart of every storm. He causes us to lie down in green pastures , beside still waters. He anoints us with oil and restores us. This goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our lives.
It was a cost that had to be counted. It was a road that had to be walked alone. More than eighteen years ago, I began the web-sight of “A Call to the Remnant,” knowing full well that such a path would not be popular. Yet the Lord impressed upon me to speak to the remnant, encourage them that they are not alone, and do not concern yourself with those who are drawn to personalities or positions of influence. To speak of suffering and endurance. To focus on taking up one’s cross daily. None of these subjects were or are popular.
In every sphere of life, even within the realms of revival and now the so-called “remnant movement,” there is the ever-present temptation to be seen as a leader. This must be resisted at all costs. For the call of Christ is not to innovate or to gather followers, but to return. To return to the old paths, to rediscover what has been forsaken, not to reimagine or redesign it.
“Thus says the Lord, ‘Stand in the ways and see, and ask for the old paths, where the good way is, and walk in it, then you will find rest for your souls'” (Jeremiah 6:16).
Ours is the ancient path. It is the road of the cross, the way of dying daily, of fellowshipping in His sufferings. It is not the road of crowds and applause, but of quiet obedience and sacred obscurity. It is not about drawing attention to ourselves, but rather retreating to the mountains where only the Father sees.
“Then Jesus went out to the mountain to pray, and continued all night in prayer to God” (Luke 6:12).
Jesus did not seek the multitude. In fact, when the crowds pressed in, He often withdrew. He did not entrust Himself to men, for He knew what was in them. He was not flattered by popularity, nor swayed by numbers.
“But Jesus did not commit Himself to them, because He knew all men, and had no need that anyone should testify of man, for He knew what was in man” (John 2:24–25).
To take up the cross is to refuse the limelight. It is to prefer the valley of humility to the heights of acclaim. It is to labor for an unseen Kingdom, to speak to the few who are willing to walk the narrow way.
“If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me” (Luke 9:23).
“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).
To be unknown in this world, and yet known in heaven, this is our portion. We abide under the shadow of His wing. The world may not understand us, but the Spirit bears witness that we are His.
“He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty” (Psalm 91:1).
We are not called to build movements. We are not called to replicate the machinery of men. We are called to bear witness. We are called to walk in truth and in love, to speak to the few, the weary, the broken, the ones who hunger and thirst for righteousness.
“Let us go forth to Him, outside the camp, bearing His reproach” (Hebrews 13:13). “For your fellowship in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ” (Philippians 1:5–6).
This is the way of the wilderness. This is the way of the cross. It is not the world’s way, the path of influence and comfort, but the Lord’s way,the narrow way. It is the road that leads to life.
The Pentecostal and Charismatic world has been shaped by movements such as “name it and claim it” and the so-called “word of faith” message. Add to that the prosperity gospel, and what remains is a witches brew, a kind of spiritual confusion brewed in our own theological cauldron. These movements have often shifted the focus of faith from trusting in God to demanding from God, turning faith into a formula for material gain rather than a pathway to spiritual depth. What was once a holy dependence on the sovereignty of God has, in many circles, become a technique for manipulating outcomes.
Yet Scripture offers a deeper, more sobering view. Depending on the translation, the word “faith,” appears around 270 times in the Bible. The vast majority of these references are not about miracles or breakthrough, but about trust, trust in God’s character, His promises, and His sovereign will.
Hebrews 11:6 says, “But without faith it is impossible to please Him, for he who comes to God must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him.”
The kind of faith that pleases God is not transactional, but relational. It is the quiet, unwavering confidence in who God is, even when heaven is silent and the way is dark.
Romans 8:8 reinforces this truth: “So then, those who are in the flesh cannot please God.” Faith and flesh are incompatible. One walks by sight, the other by belief. To walk in the flesh is, functionally, to walk without faith.
Romans 8:5 explains, “For those who live according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh.” The word mind here, phroneó, speaks of setting one’s affections, fixing one’s thoughts and desires. To “mind” the things of the flesh is to be consumed with the visible, temporal world. The Greek word for flesh, sarx, in this context means “the symbol of what is external.”
What does that look like in practical terms? It means being consumed with our careers, our possessions, our reputations, our politics, our social standing, our image, gaining our miracles, our health, rather than being absorbed in the things of God. A mind dominated by these mostly earthly concerns is incompatible with the Spirit-led life. Such a person is not walking in the Spirit, and therefore cannot please God. Being obsessed with miracles often flows, not from the heart of God, rather , it flows from the depths of our flesh.
“For to be carnally minded is death, but to be spiritually minded is life and peace.” (Romans 8:6)
The spiritual mind is one that seeks first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness (Matthew 6:33). It is a life oriented toward the eternal, not the temporary.
Hebrews 11, that great chapter of faith, gives us a dual picture. We rejoice in the stories of deliverance:
“By faith the walls of Jericho fell” (v.30), “Through faith they subdued kingdoms, worked righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions” (v.33). These are victories worth celebrating.
Yet the chapter shifts abruptly. “Others were tortured, not accepting deliverance, that they might obtain a better resurrection. Still others had trial of mockings and scourgings, yes, and of chains and imprisonment. They were stoned, they were sawn in two… being destitute, afflicted, tormented, of whom the world was not worthy.” (vv.35–38)
The common thread?
“And all these, having obtained a good testimony through faith, did not receive the promise.” (v.39)
Their faith was not measured by immediate reward, but by enduring trust in the unseen. Job expressed it best:
“Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” (Job 13:15)
Habakkuk echoes the same heart: “Though the fig tree may not blossom… yet I will rejoice in the Lord.” (Habakkuk 3:17–18)
This kind of faith is not swayed by trials or silence. It is rooted in relationship, not reward. Psalm 23 reminds us that God does not remove the enemies, but prepares a table in their midst.
“You anoint my head with oil, my cup runs over.” (Psalm 23:5) The oil flows not in times of ease, but in times of pressure. The true reward of faith is not what we receive, but who we receive—His presence.
“In Your presence is fullness of joy.” (Psalm 16:11)
The last 2,000 years of Church history bear witness to this truth. Millions have suffered for Christ, not because their faith failed, but because their faith endured. They possessed a spiritual mind and a heart anchored in another world. Their lives pleased God. Their testimonies still speak.
So the question is this: will you walk in the Spirit today? Will you cast aside the fleeting things of this world and set your affections on things above (Colossians 3:2)? Will you walk by faith and not by sight (2 Corinthians 5:7)? Will you trust God even when there is no sign of deliverance?
This is the faith that pleases God. And without it, we cannot.
A few years ago, my wife and I visited Bar Harbor, Maine, a picturesque town along the rugged coast of northern Maine. On the surface it was charming, but beneath that charm I sensed something deeply troubling. There were pride flags in abundance, drag performers openly parading down the street, but it was not the mere presence of these things — it was the spiritual atmosphere. It was oppressive, heavy, dark. A spirit hovered there that grieved my soul, and I knew it. The Spirit of God within me bore witness, and I felt led to walk through that town early one morning, praying in the Spirit.
With each step I called on the name of the Lord, walking the streets as one who carries the presence of God. Eventually, I came to the Village Green, and felt impressed to sit and worship. I reached for my earphones, but realized I had left them in the hotel. Yet the call to worship remained. So I turned up the volume on my phone and let the songs of praise rise into the morning air. I sat there quietly at first, hoping not to disturb, but then the Holy Spirit spoke gently to my heart.
He said, “There are pride signs everywhere. These people are proud of who they are. Are you proud of who you are?” It was not harsh, not condemning, but firm and loving. The answer welled up in me, not just as a thought, but as a fire—yes Lord, I am not ashamed of You. I am not ashamed of the Lord Jesus Christ. And then the Spirit said, “Raise your hands here, in the middle of this park, and worship Me.”
I hesitated for a moment. The flesh wrestled with the spirit. What will people think? What will they say? But the Spirit whispered, Who cares what they think? Galatians 1:10 says, “For do I now persuade men, or God? Or do I seek to please men? For if I still pleased men, I would not be a bondservant of Christ.” So I surrendered, I raised my hands, and worshiped. In the open. In the daylight. Among strangers.
And when I did, something broke. The chains of fear and intimidation snapped. Freedom swept over me like a wave. For ten, maybe fifteen minutes, I sat there, hands lifted to heaven, praising the King of glory. People walked by, some stared, but I no longer cared. I had entered the sanctuary of His presence in the open square. And when it was done, the oppression that had pressed upon me was gone. Lifted. Dispersed like a mist under the rising sun.
You see, brothers and sisters, there is power in being unashamed. There is liberty in declaring with your whole life that Jesus is Lord. As it is written in Romans 1:16, “For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ, for it is the power of God to salvation for everyone who believes.” There is a direct connection between boldness and power, between confession and anointing.
Jesus said in Luke 9:26, “For whoever is ashamed of Me and My words, of him the Son of Man will be ashamed when He comes in His own glory, and in His Father’s, and of the holy angels.” Let it not be so with us. Let us be those who glorify our God not just with words, but with surrendered lives, with uplifted hands, with fearless obedience.
The world is growing darker, more hostile to Christ and His people. But the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.
Stand firm. Be unashamed. And in doing so, walk in the power of His gospel — the only power that saves, the only power that delivers. His way, His truth, His life.
You know, tomorrow is Pentecost (I wrote this a few weeks ago) And like many sacred things in the church, we have made a symbol of it. We have reduced it to a ritual, a religious observance marked by a date on the calendar. Pentecost, like Christmas or Easter, has become a ceremony. But, brothers and sisters, let me tell you plainly, that is not what it was meant to be.
Pentecost was not a celebration of a day. It was the arrival of a Person. The Holy Spirit descended like fire from heaven. As the Word declares, “Then there appeared to them divided tongues, as of fire, and one sat upon each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit” (Acts 2:3–4, NKJV).
That moment was not meant to be memorialized once a year, it was meant to revolutionize every day. One encounter with the baptism of the Holy Spirit transforms a life utterly. It sets the heart ablaze and loosens the tongue with boldness. It becomes the source of power that causes the devil to flee. It strengthens our feet for the narrow way, “Because narrow is the gate and difficult is the way which leads to life, and there are few who find it” (Matthew 7:14, NKJV).
The Spirit enables us to pass through valleys, to climb spiritual mountains, to face the enemy of our souls. Not with trembling but with power. For “greater is He who is in you than he who is in the world” (1 John 4:4, NKJV). Pentecost is not a date, it is a way of living, it is heaven’s breath within us, propelling us forward in divine strength.
Jesus Himself declared, “I came to send fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled” (Luke 12:49, NKJV). And John the Baptist testified of Christ, saying, “He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire” (Luke 3:16, NKJV). This fire, I believe, was taken from the coals of the heavenly altar, the very presence of God, and placed upon frail men.
And what happened? Those few, filled with that fire, “turned the world upside down” (Acts 17:6, NKJV). They did not wait for a Sunday. They did not look to feast days. They carried Pentecost in their bones, in their breath, and in their speech. They were pierced by power and spoke so that “when they heard this, they were cut to the heart” (Acts 2:37, NKJV).
You must be born again. You must be baptized in the Holy Spirit. You must have the fire of God within. Without Him, Christianity becomes religion, an empty shell. But with Him, it becomes life and that more abundantly (John 10:10, NKJV).
For it is the God who commanded light to shine out of darkness, who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ (2 Corinthians 4:6, NKJV).This divine command, “Let there be light,” echoes not only through the void of creation, but through the depths of the human soul, awakening the dead and igniting the flame of divine revelation within frail vessels of clay.
And these vessels, earthen, vulnerable and mortal, contain within them a treasure beyond comprehension, so that the surpassing greatness of the power may be shown to be of God and not of us (2 Corinthians 4:7, NKJV).It is in this paradox, this sacred tension, that the furnace of affliction becomes the forge of transformation. We are summoned into the crucible, not to be consumed, but to be refined, not to be broken, but to be remade in the image of the Son.
Pressed on every side, yet not crushed, perplexed, but never abandoned to despair, persecuted, yet never forsaken, struck down, but not destroyed (2 Corinthians 4:8–9, NKJV). This is the holy pattern, the bearing of the dying of the Lord Jesus in our bodies, that His life, resurrected and victorious, might also be manifest in us (2 Corinthians 4:10, NKJV).
The flesh suffers and is scourged that the Spirit might rise, the outward man perishes so that the inward man may be renewed day by day (2 Corinthians 4:16, NKJV).This, indeed, is the Christian mystery, that the path to life is through death, and the ascent to glory begins with the descent into suffering.
For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory (2 Corinthians 4:17, NKJV).We do not fix our eyes upon what is seen, for what is seen is fleeting, mortal dust swept along by the winds of time. No, we set our eyes upon the eternal, upon the unseen, where Christ is seated at the right hand of God.
It is there, in the realm of eternity, that power is born, the power to endure, to overcome, to rise from the ashes with beauty unspeakable.Peter walked upon the waters while his eyes were locked upon the gaze of his Master. And he began to sink the moment he turned his attention to the storm (Matthew 14:29–30, NKJV).
So it is with us, brothers and sisters. When we look to Christ, we walk in divine power, power to break chains, to still the storm, to raise the dead things to life.Even in the fire, He is with us.“Look!” he answered, “I see four men loose, walking in the midst of the fire, and they are not hurt, and the form of the fourth is like the Son of God” (Daniel 3:25, NKJV).
As with the three Hebrew children, the world may peer into the furnace and behold One like the Son of God walking amidst the flames in the midst of our circumstances.And the testimony shall rise, not only from our lips, but from our lives, that this, indeed, is the God of heaven (Daniel 3:28–29, NKJV).
Shall our lives not speak of such glory, saints? Shall our lives not bear testimony of the majesty that resides in us, the Lord Jesus? In the crucible, which is our lives, may our heavenly treasure pour forth as we are poured out for His sake.
The apostolic revelation given to Paul, as recorded in Colossians 1:26, presents one of the most profound disclosures in redemptive history—a mystery once concealed from ages and generations, now gloriously revealed to the saints. This mystery, long hidden in the counsels of God, was not perceived by the prophets nor comprehended by the wise of this world. It is the astounding truth that in Christ Jesus, Jew and Gentile are no longer divided, but made one—a new humanity, a single body in the Messiah. This is the long-anticipated fulfillment of the promise to Abraham, that in his seed all the nations of the earth would be blessed. No merely ethnic boundary remains, for in Christ there is neither Jew nor Greek. This is a revelation of cosmic consequence and divine ingenuity, wholly unforeseen in its breadth and intimacy.
Yet, astonishingly, the mystery deepens. As Paul continues in Colossians 2:2–3, he reveals that the purpose of this unity is not an end in itself, but a divine conduit by which the saints are brought into the very heart of God. He prays that their hearts might be encouraged, being knit together in love, and that they may attain to all the riches of the full assurance of understanding—to the knowledge of the mystery of God, both of the Father and of Christ.
Herein lies the surpassing dimension of the mystery: not merely reconciliation between former enemies, but an invitation into divine communion. In Christ are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. Through union with Him, the veil is lifted and the Father—once unknowable and inscrutable—is made known. The mystery begins with the joining of the divided, but it climaxes in the revelation of the Divine. It is not only that Jew and Gentile are made one in Christ, but that in being made one, they are ushered into the very life of God.
This is the formation of the true Israel of God—a people sanctified, a royal priesthood, whose minds are being renewed and whose hearts are being enlarged by the Spirit. The saints are not left with mere doctrine, but are drawn into the riches of divine intimacy, discovering the boundless wisdom and knowledge hidden in Christ. This is the full arc of the mystery: reconciliation leading to revelation, unity giving way to glory, and the Church—Christ’s body—growing in grace as it beholds the face of God in the person of Jesus Christ.
One of the most tragic realities of the contemporary church, most glaringly within the American context, yet by no means confined to it, is the widespread absence of the new birth among professing Christians. This foundational deficiency renders it utterly impossible for such individuals to love as the early church loved, for the very source and sustainer of that love is Christ Himself. It is He who binds believers together in divine unity.
The church, properly understood, is not a building, a denomination, or an institution, it is the living body of Christ. And unless one has been joined to that body through regeneration, one simply does not belong to the Church in the true, biblical sense, the ekklesia, the “called-out ones.”
It is spiritual folly to expect those outside of Christ, unregenerate and untouched by the Spirit of God, to manifest the supernatural love that defined the earliest believers. This love flows not from religious duty or communal sentiment, but from the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit.
Oswald Chambers, in his meditations on the Sermon on the Mount, rightly observed that any attempt to live out Christ’s teachings apart from the new birth results in a miserable experience. For the unregenerate, the Sermon is not a light but a crushing burden, a lofty ideal that exposes the impossibility of genuine righteousness without divine transformation.
Religion, absent the life of Christ, becomes little more than a philosophy, a system of ethics, or a cultural form. It may produce momentary acts of kindness, but it cannot sustain the sacrificial, Spirit-wrought love of the saints. This love, that bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things, does not arise from human effort but from the supernatural work of God in the soul.
Thus, what many interpret as disunity in the church is, in truth, the presence of multitudes who are members of religious organizations, but not members of Christ’s body. They are, at best, moralists striving in their own strength, at worst, deceived souls clinging to the form of godliness while denying its power.
The Scriptures are not silent on this. “Many are called, but few are chosen” (Matthew 22:14). The remnant, the few, are the truly born again, those who love with a love not their own, who recognize one another not by label or denomination, but by the Spirit of Christ within. When these encounter one another, there is immediate fellowship, unfeigned and deeply rooted in shared life.
To expect widespread spiritual unity in a landscape dominated by nominalism is to set oneself up for continual disillusionment. Indeed, the gap between our expectations and the reality of the religious world around us is often the precise measure of our grief.
But if we understand this reality, that true unity and true love exist only among the regenerate few, we will cease to be disheartened by the failures of the masses and instead rejoice to find, here and there, a brother or sister truly alive in Christ. For these are the Church. These are the Body. These are the beloved of God.
Our small house church, though modest in number, stands as a precious testimony to a deeper reality, a reality that transcends the glittering edifices and booming stages of modern Christendom.
Over a decade ago I made the conscious, Spirit-led shift, joining countless others across the globe who have heard the still small voice calling them out of spiritual Babylon. For in every generation, God reserves for Himself a remnant, a people who will not bow the knee to Baal, no matter how cunningly he reinvents himself through culture, compromise, or counterfeit religion.
Before our very eyes unfolds the tragic convergence of the harlot church, a synthesis of worldliness and religion, dressed in finery but inwardly defiled. Its heartbeat is not the cross, but the stage; not the Spirit, but spectacle. As it was in Rome, so it is today. The Coliseum, once the epicenter of Roman life, rose from the gold and silver plundered by Titus during the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. One temple fell, another was built. Worship of the Holy was replaced by worship of self, veiled in the opiate of entertainment. Bread and circuses—tools of distraction, tools of dominion.
Yet the martyr Stephen, in his final breath, echoed the words of our Lord: “The Most High does not dwell in temples made by human hands.” Jesus, speaking to the Samaritan woman, dismantled the geography of worship and pointed to its essence—Spirit and truth. When asked, “Where should we worship?” Christ responded not with a location, but with a mandate: how we are to worship.
It is vital—indeed, imperative—that the true saints gather not around programs, performances, or personalities, but around the presence of God. In Spirit. In truth. And as the great Day of the Lord draws ever nearer, this calling becomes all the more urgent. For history has shown: men gather to entertain themselves. But few gather to worship God as He has ordained.
Let us, then, be counted among the few—those walking the narrow path that leads to life. Let us not be swept away by the many, whose feet tread the broad road of destruction. Let our assemblies be small, but pure; hidden, but radiant. May our worship rise not from stages, but from sanctified hearts. For the time is short, and the Bride must make herself ready.
A couple of days ago, I found myself praying through the pain. The weight of chronic suffering pressed hard against my body, sleepless nights, relentless aches, and then came the news: my mother, already fragile, had fallen again, twice in three days. Now she lies in a hospital bed back in Scotland, and I feel the ache of distance more deeply than the pain in my bones.
But in the middle of this storm, our little fellowship had just been walking through Colossians 1, and Paul’s words struck deep: “Strengthened with all might, according to His glorious power, for all patience and longsuffering with joy.” Oh, what a mystery! That in our weakness, we are strengthened, not by our own feeble will, not by grit or determination, but by all might, according to His glorious power. It is Christ. It is all Christ. His strength, His might, His glory. He initiates, He enables, and in Him, we become more than conquerors. And as this truth ignited my spirit, a prayer rose from the depths, a cry not of despair but of victory, and it thrilled my soul and lifted me high, far above the valley, to a place where joy and power meet on the mountaintop of faith. Glory to God!
……………………This was my prayer……….
When every last breath is torn from my lungs, still, I will give You the kiss of life. When I have tasted no food for many days, my soul shall yet feed the hungry. When the sun has hidden its face and the heavens remain cloaked in silence, I will lift my face to You, and You, O Radiant One, will shine through me. And when my heart is heavy with sorrow and anguish drowns my soul, I will break the alabaster jar of joy and pour it out upon the weary. O Lord of Heaven and Earth! Even in the testing, even in the fire and the fury, even in the shadow of death and in the long-suffering of my pain, let me be a blessing. Let me bless them from the prison of that pain. Let me lift them from the depths of my own valley. If they are halfway up the mountain and I am still far below, let them hear my song rise from the depths:Glory to God. Glory to God!
And may the valley blaze with the light of that glory. Let the darkness tremble. Let chains be shattered. Let the echo of praise thunder through every cavern, For You, O King, are worthy in fire and flood, in feast and famine. Majesty in the valley. Majesty on the mountain.
If I can rejoice in the midst of suffering, then I stand at the threshold of a sacred mystery, that place where I, in my own frail flesh, “fill up what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ… for the sake of His Body.” Only the soul saturated and drenched in the Spirit of the Living God, can rise in the midst of wreckage of loss and cry out with trembling lips, “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord!” This is no mere endurance, no stoic stance, it is a sacred participation in the sorrow and the splendor of Christ. It is the fellowship of His suffering. A communion few will dare to enter, too costly for most, and yet it is the very ground where heaven bows down and kisses the wounded earth
When heaven collides with earth, then it enters into sorrow. How could it be otherwise? One is perfect, the other a ruin of its original. And we, we who have been born from above, have been invaded by that very heaven. It fills our bones. It saturates our hearts. And in that collision we begin to drink from the same bitter cup our Lord once drank. We are not spectators. We are not distant. We are His Body, and so we must enter into that same sorrow, that way of suffering, and there we must rejoice in the midst of it all. And the joy we share, as we tarry there, begins to tear down the kingdom of darkness.
Our joy is the indelible, supernatural fingerprint of heavens glory that lies within us. Our brokenness, shattered by a dying world, becomes the sacred fissures through which the glory of God bursts forth. And as that glory pours forth, it kisses the wounded earth, and it becomes a balm of Gilead. It is the fellowship of His suffering. It is the communion of the afflicted. It is the royal priesthood of the scarred and the sanctified. A holy nation, set apart, bearing upon our very bodies the marks of our King. Not in shame, but in triumph. Not in defeat, but in everlasting victory.
A Call To The Remnant 