In Corinth, Paul lifts the veil and speaks of glory.
In Corinth, Paul lifts the veil and speaks of glory. Even the law, etched upon tablets of stone, a ministry of death, bore a splendor from God. Yet if such a ministry shone, how much more shall the ministry of the Spirit blaze. If condemnation itself arrived clothed in glory, then righteousness must surely outshine it all. Praise be to God. (2 cor 3:7,9)
Now see the glorious transition Paul teaches in Romans.
For when we enter Romans 7, the apostle stands exposed, a man laid bare beneath the weight of his own inability.
“O wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me from this body of death?”
No pause, no philosophy, no remedy of self. Only the one solution.
“I thank God, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
This is like dawn breaking upon a battlefield, the cry of despair yields to the trumpet of triumph.
“There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit.”
What wonder is this. What glory unimagined.
The ministry of condemnation dissolves into the proclamation of no condemnation at all. The Old Covenant had passed, and the new one was born in Christ Jesus, and Him crucified and resurrected!
Let none suppose that Moses trafficked in darkness. Far from it. The Law was holy, its purpose sure, its season appointed. It revealed the blazing holiness of God, gave sin a name and a measure, set boundaries against the flood of evil, and pointed every soul toward Christ.
The fault lay not in the Law, for the Law was perfect. The fault lay in us. Flesh, frail, rebellious, unyielding.
So Christ came in flesh, and that flesh was lifted upon the cross. There it was nailed, restrained, undone. The cross was no swift end. It was a long and gasping death. The flesh struggled. It fought for breath. Yet dying it was, all the same.
We wrestle still, not with flesh and blood, but with principalities and powers. And yes, the flesh wars against the Spirit. But the war is already decided.
The sentence has been overturned. The gavel has fallen. The court stands adjourned.
There is therefore now no condemnation. Saints, this is what victory looks like. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus “HAS,” set me free from the law of sin and death. (Rom 8:2)
It is offered for those who are weary, confused, or quietly faithful under a weight that has not been lifted. It is for saints who have prayed, waited, endured, and still do not see why the path has taken the shape it has. What follows is not meant to explain away pain, nor to minimize it, nor to offer quick comfort. It is meant to affirm that suffering in the life of the believer is not meaningless, not forgotten, and not without purpose, even when that purpose remains hidden. If you are walking through trials whose cause you cannot name and whose end you cannot see, He sees. You are not overlooked. You are being worked upon by a faithful hand, and He will finish what He has begun.
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.
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.
“The system of fathers of the world church, the clergy system of the state church, and the pastoral system of the independent churches are all the same in nature. They are all Nicolaitans. In the Bible there are only brothers. There is the gift of a pastor, but no system of pastors. The pastoral system is man’s tradition. If the children of God are not willing to return to the position of that in the beginning, no matter what they do, it will not be right.” (Watchman Nee)
The tragedy of it all is this, so many who rose from the hippy fires of revolution, men and women who once swore they would never bow to establishment or institution, have now become the very thing they once defied. And worse still, they sit enthroned within the organized church, clinging even more fiercely to their positions than the generation they accused of rigidity.
For real change, holy, seismic, God breathed change, would demand a repentance so deep it would shake the marrow of their bones. It would require them to stand before the mirror of truth and confess the hunger for platform, the thirst for influence, the desire for a throne that was never theirs to claim. And then, having confessed, to lay it all down, not into the hands of their children, not into the waiting arms of their handpicked heirs, but into the hands of a generation chosen by God Himself.
For when the prophet cried, “Is there no other?” it was not the polished sons of privilege who answered, it was the forgotten shepherd boy in the back fields of obscurity, smelling of sheep and wilderness, overlooked by everyone but God. And he was the anointed one.
I do not see this one man system surrendering. Men have woven their lives, their reputations, their small kingdoms and fragile thrones, into its very fabric. Their identities, their incomes, their sense of worth, each is wrapped around this man made construct. To dismantle it would be to unravel themselves.
And yet… if God calls for it, He will raise up His Davids from the hills again.
When I was seventeen, my first child was born, Stephen. He lived for two days.
Two days—barely enough time to understand love,
but long enough to understand loss. “He is not going to make it.” “His lungs are not developed.” “It might be time to turn off the machine……but it’s your decision.”
Everything around me felt blurred, the world was suddenly condensed and it was pressing in on me, crushing my heart and spirit. “Do you want to hold him.” Inexplicably, and something that would torture me for many years……”No.” I did not want to hold my own dying heart, how utterly selfish.
On the day of the funeral, I sat in the back of the hearse,
a small white coffin resting on my knees.
It felt too light. Too still. Maybe just an empty box….. like my heart.
I was there but I was distant in my mind, none of it seemed real.
He was to be laid in the place reserved for stillborn children,
though he hadn’t been stillborn.
He had lived. He had tried, he had tried hard.
The driver took a corner faster than he meant to,
and the tiny body shifted inside the box.I could “feel,” him move.
That was the moment all the walls I had built
collapsed in a single breath.
I knew what was in the box.
The truth I had been keeping at arm’s length
pressed itself into me with a weight I simply could not carry.
For a long time I carried anger for that driver—
that unnamed man who broke the silence for me
before I was ready.
There are things we bury deep,
not because they are gone,
but because we cannot look at them, cannot handle the weight of it, but is still caries the same weight whether we look at it or not.
Years passed.
I came to the Lord.
Life moved on in the way life does—
slowly, quietly, with its own kind of insistence.
And then one ordinary day,
standing under the warm water of the shower,
the deep finally broke open.
Grief rose from the hidden places
like something long trapped beneath ice—
cold, vast, unstoppable.
My legs buckled.
I held the walls with both hands.
A lifetime was passing through me in moments, years
were flooding out of me, threatening to sweep me away.
My wife heard me and thought I was breaking apart.
Maybe I was.
But when it was over, I could breathe again.
The bitter waters that had filled that sealed chamber
were gone, emptied out.
In its place came something pure, living waters
from a pure crystal stream, unmistakably from Him.
The Lord leaves no room untouched.
Every locked door is His.
Every deep place is His.
He moves like a glacier—nothing stands in its way
slow, sure, reshaping everything in His path
until what was buried
finally meets the light. No chamber left untouched.
If you are carrying within you something hidden—
something buried away, unnamed, unknown to the world
know this brother, sister
it will not stay buried forever.
He will touch it.
He will open it.
And when He does,
what comes will be healing.
Unmistakable.
Beautiful in its own way.
Stephen, you are not forgotten…..but your father is forgiven.
Last year, in the midst of chemo, my house became unbearable. Nausea was a problem I never overcame for the several months of treatment and every smell made my stomach turn. I just had to be outside so I would take refuge on our deck—a south-facing suntrap where the fresh air seemed like heaven itself. Out there I could breathe again. Out there the warmth, the breeze, and the open sky were gifts. The Spirit of God would literally rest upon me. This was a place for me where sky and earth seemed to become one.
I told a friend I felt as though I were taking a Masterclass in Grace. Because the Spirit of God would rest on me out there, even as nausea raged through my body. I forced myself to walk a block each day, slow, steady, determined, and then I’d return to my lounger on the deck. Between me and the heavens were trees full of birds I had never noticed before. Dozens of tiny frenetic little guys. Great joy filled me as I watched their antics. How could I have not noticed these wee fellas before A thousand songs in the branches.
I was strangely alive.
I sat there for hours, looking up.
That was the lesson He pressed into me:
Lift up your eyes, Frank and see where your help comes from.
Even while chemo ravaged my body, grace flooded my spirit.
Behind my house is a field owned by a church. I have always loved that openness, the privacy, the flow of wildlife, the quiet beauty of it. During that season, I watched a BBC documentary on rewilding, taking a low-yield field, restoring native plants, planting indigenous trees, letting the land become what it was meant to be again. The transformation was stunning. Butterflies returned. Birds returned. Life returned.
Somehow I felt like that rewilded field. Early stages for sure. There are no fences in the fields God restores. He works in wide open spaces. There are no straight edges in nature, nothing to tell you where the old man-made boundaries once stood.
No manicured edges to remind you of the places trimmed by the hands of men. Only the quiet rise of something wild and free beginning to grow again.
That show stirred something deep in me. In the flush of my enthusiasm
I contacted the church.
“How about you rewild your field,” I suggested, with great enthusiasm. “It would save you lots of money, you would not have to mow it.” And “you would be helping the environment.” I was hoping to appeal to something, anything. He explained to me that the city wont let them grow the grass over a certain height.
I called the city, found grants, stirred possibilities, sent the information to the church…….and then, life and treatment and circumstances pulled the thread from my fingers, and the idea slipped away into the quiet. Like many great stirrings, it got swallowed up by circumstances that press in and with great tyranny, demand your attention.
A year and a half later, just last week, I walked through my back gate which leads to the field, which leads to a familiar path, the trail where so many prayers have risen like incense. Many of you have seen the prayer videos and the pictures I have taken along my narrow path. But this day I saw poles driven across the field, a line, a boundary, dividing the ground in half. Close to my house. Too close.
I told my wife, “Something is being built in the field”
We were dismayed at the thought of construction in our peaceful oasis in the back. Some parking lot perhaps that would be illuminated at night like a stadium?
Then the neighbor,the keeper of all neighborhood knowledge, you know the one (the guy who would complain to the church if they did not cut their grass in time) told me what was going on:
They are rewilding the field!!!
The aeration, the markings, the disturbance, it was preparation for wildflowers.
Boy Scouts were involved. A grant had been given.
The city approved the letting-go of their height rules..
Our field will very soon rise up and bloom.
Then I realized that the enthusiasm for my field, in the midst of my chemo with the Spirit of the Lord resting on me was Spirit breathed. And what He breathes upon springs to life……in it’s time.
I had forgotten, but the Lord had not.
A thought born in weakness, planted in sickness, had been carried by God until its season came.
Wildflowers were coming to my back door.
God had not forgotten.
A memory from early in my walk with the Lord returned to me.
I once lived near manicured neighborhoods, gardens shaped by tape-measures and string lines, flowers placed with military precision. Beautiful, yes… but controlled, tamed, measured. As I walked that neighborhood and surveyed these impressive gardens in these huge houses, the Holy Spirit whispered in my ear “look the other way.”
Across the street was a culvert beside an open field, and around that culvert grew thousands of wildflowers, flung by the wind, seeded by the unseen hand of God. No symmetry. No order. Only life, and that more abundantly.
And the Lord said to me then:
“Look, Frank. This is what I want for you.”
Not the regimented garden of man’s expectations, his denominatons, his preconceived notions…….
but the freedom of a wildflower field—
growing where His wind carries me,
rooted where His hand plants me.
Now, all these years later, and after chemo last year, after grace under the open sky, after the birds and the sunlight and the prayers in the field……it comes full circle.
The field behind my house is becoming what God once whispered into the soil of my soul.
A place of wildflowers.
A place of return.
A place of restoration.
And I know now:
I have been rewilded.
This is where I am.
Not in the place of always striving for perfection…
Not in the place of certainty.
But in the tender, trembling ground of becoming.
I am standing in the field between who I was
and who He is forming me to be.
The soil is soft.
My soul, undone.
My life, waiting like a seed beneath the surface —
buried, broken, but not forgotten.
In order to restore God has to reclaim. He has to undo the work of man. He has to carefully remove all of their marks and then the allows the ground to lie fallow. And then the wind begins to blow and the seed fall upon the prepared ground, good ground, ready to receive.
And when God restores, beauty returns.
Color returns.
Freeness returns.
The wildness of grace returns.
The butterflies come home.
Life begins to inhabit the field again.
When the Lord returns us to our true beginning…….
the place He dreamed for us before we were shaped by the world…..
something magnificent unfolds.
The complexity of life falls away.
The garden grows without our striving.
For in a rewilded field, the hand of man is no longer the gardener.
The Lord Himself tends the soul.
He sends the rain.
He calls forth the flowers.
He arranges the seasons.
He brings beauty from earth we thought was barren.
And now I can see it. He has been rewilding me all along. Slowly, surely, and my unawareness of it, up till now, only makes it all the more the Masters work.
He has taken the field of my life,
cut square by the expectations of organized religion,
shaped by the hands of others,
emptied by suffering,
and He is restoring it
to the original design He designed for me
before I ever took a breath. Now the calling is to us all, come off that road and walk through the gate into the open field that leads to the high mountain passes and wildflower alpine meadows. He is restoring His Church, He is rewilding it.
And what He does is marvelous.
What He does is holy.
What He does is beautiful to behold.
I am being rewilded — and the work of His hands is wonderful to behold.
What does it mean to have faith? What does it mean to exercise faith? And what does it truly mean to trust in the Lord? The words faith and trust are often used interchangeably, yet Scripture distinguishes their shades of meaning. The Greek word for faith, πίστις (pistis), carries the sense of conviction, fidelity, and steadfast belief , a firm persuasion of the truth and character of God. It is not vague optimism but anchored certainty rooted in who He is. The Greek term for trust, πεποίθησις (pepoithēsis), flows from pistis and means confident reliance, settled assurance, and inward persuasion. It is faith extended through endurance, faith that has matured under testing. Thus, pistis believes what God has spoken, and pepoithēsis continues to rest in that promise when sight fails and the storm gathers. Both are born of the same root: confidence in the unchanging nature of God. This is the foundation upon which all true preparedness stands, the faith that acts and the trust that endures.
Faith, then, is the spiritual substance of what is unseen, the invisible made certain in the heart of the believer. “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). It is not mere belief that God exists, but confidence in His goodness, His promises, and His Word. Faith does not rest upon sight or circumstance; it rests upon the immutable character of God. It looks into the unseen and says, “Thou art faithful.” It is the anchor of the soul, both sure and steadfast, which enters within the veil where Christ Himself has gone before (Hebrews 6:19–20). Pistis is not a feeling to be maintained but a conviction to be lived by, it sees the eternal in the midst of the temporal and moves the heart to obedience.
To exercise faith is to act upon that conviction. Faith untested remains theory; exercised faith becomes testimony. The one who believes that winter is near cuts his firewood before the frost. His pistis (faith) moves his hands; his belief produces action. But the frail widow, who has no strength to lift the axe, exercises faith in another form. She cannot labor, but she trusts , her pepoithēsis (trust) clings to God’s faithfulness, believing He will make provision where she cannot. In both, faith lives and breathes. The strong man acts upon what he believes; the widow rests upon what she cannot see. Faith is not idleness. It is obedience moving in harmony with the will of God , for “faith without works is dead” (James 2:17). Yet these works are not self-reliant striving; they are the fruit of divine persuasion , the evidence that pistis (faith) is alive within the heart.
To trust in the Lord , to walk in pepoithēsis (trust) , is to place one’s full confidence in His sovereign care when reason falters and outcomes remain hidden. “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths” (Proverbs 3:5–6). Trust is faith stretched through time; it is the steady endurance of the soul that refuses to doubt the character of God though all outward things collapse. Job, sitting among the ashes, spoke this divine paradox: “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him” (Job 13:15). That is trust refined in the fire , pepoithēsis (trust) at its highest expression. Faith says, “God can.” Trust declares, “God will.” Love adds, “Even if He does not, He is still my God.”
What, then, is our part in this divine partnership? Scripture tells us to “put on the whole armor of God” (Ephesians 6:11), to take up the shield of faith, to gird our loins with truth, and to shod our feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace. These are commands of readiness. The armor is given by grace, but it must be worn by choice. The believer must take up what God has provided. Preparation is not unbelief — it is the living demonstration of faith’s reality. The man who sharpens his sword before battle is not denying God’s help; he is aligning himself with it. Our pistis (faith) equips us; our pepoithēsis (trust) steadies us. The one is the conviction that moves; the other is the confidence that endures.
And did not our Lord Himself prepare? The supreme pattern of readiness is found in Gethsemane. Beneath the olive trees, Christ waged the invisible war before the visible cross. “And being in agony He prayed more earnestly: and His sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground” (Luke 22:44). The disciples slept, but the Captain of our salvation fought alone. The struggle was not with men but within His own humanity , the surrender of His human will to the divine. And when the moment came — “Not my will, but Thine be done” , the victory was secured. From that garden He rose, His face set like flint (Isaiah 50:7), and for the joy set before Him He endured the cross, despising the shame (Hebrews 12:2). The battle of Calvary was the outworking of the triumph of Gethsemane. Pistis (faith) led Him into prayer; pepoithēsis (trust) carried Him through obedience.
What, then, does it mean for us to be prepared? It means to cultivate a heart steadfast in pistis (faith) and anchored in pepoithēsis(trust). The prepared soul is not caught unaware when the storm descends. It has stored the Word in its heart, for the Word is the sword of the Spirit (Ephesians 6:17). It has guarded its thoughts with the helmet of salvation and girded its life with truth (Ephesians 6:14). It prays without ceasing, for prayer is the breath of faith (1 Thessalonians 5:17). It stands ready with the gospel of peace, for readiness itself is part of the armor. Such a soul walks neither in fear nor presumption, but in quiet confidence. The unprepared are like those who wait for winter with no firewood; but those who live by faith have already kindled the flame within their hearts.
The battle, as the Lord showed us, is won not first in the field but in the heart’s preparation. “The preparations of the heart in man, and the answer of the tongue, is from the Lord” (Proverbs 16:1). Victory begins in surrender. When a believer bows in the secret place and whispers, “Not my will, but Thine be done,” the triumph is already assured. From that hidden Gethsemane he rises clothed in divine strength, able to endure the cross set before him, whatever form it takes. Faith has believed; trust has endured; preparation has secured the victory.
To have faith is to believe. To exercise faith is to act. To trust is to endure. To prepare is to triumph before the battle begins. And when the soul, through pistis (faith) and pepoithēsis( trust), comes to that holy place of surrender, it finds, as Christ did, that peace flows where agony once reigned. For the Lord who prepared Himself in Gethsemane now prepares His saints likewise , that they may stand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand (Ephesians 6:13). Praise be to the Lord, for the battle is His , yet He trains our hands for war and girds us with strength for the fight (Psalm 18:34, 39).
Scripture Appendix
I. Πίστις (Pistis) — Faith, Conviction, Persuasion
Hebrews 11:1 – Faith as substance and evidence of the unseen.
Romans 1:17 – ‘The just shall live by faith.’
Ephesians 2:8 – Faith as the gift of God in salvation.
Romans 10:17 – Faith comes by hearing the Word of God.
Galatians 2:20 – Living by the faith of the Son of God.
James 2:17 – Faith without works is dead.
Hebrews 11:6 – Without faith it is impossible to please God.
2 Timothy 4:7 – ‘I have kept the faith.’
II. Πεποίθησις (Pepoithēsis) — Trust, Confidence, Assurance
2 Corinthians 3:4 – ‘Such trust have we through Christ to Godward.’
Philippians 1:6 – Being confident that He who began a good work will perform it.
Philippians 3:3–4 – Having no confidence in the flesh.
Hebrews 3:14 – Holding the beginning of our confidence steadfast to the end.
2 Corinthians 1:9–10 – Trusting in God who raises the dead.
Ephesians 3:12 – Boldness and access with confidence by the faith of Him.
Faith (pistis) is the seed; trust (pepoithēsis) is its fruit. One believes God’s word; the other continues in that belief when all else fails. Together, they form the unshakable posture of the prepared soul , believing, enduring, and standing firm until the end.
Then “He delivered Him to them to be crucified. So they took Jesus and led Him away. And He, bearing His cross, went out to a place called the Place of a Skull… where they crucified Him” (John 19:16–18). And as He hung between two criminals—with Jesus in the center—the crucified Lord spoke: “When Jesus therefore saw His mother, and the disciple whom He loved standing by, He said…” (John 19:26–27).
The crucified man speaks.
This is not merely a historical moment—it is a spiritual revelation. When I say “the crucified man,” I am not referring only to men, but to all mankind—male and female. In Scripture, “man” refers to the old nature we inherited from Adam, the fleshly soul-life within us. This old man was judicially crucified with Christ at the moment of salvation. Yet crucifixion is not instant death. It is a lingering, agonizing process. The flesh is on the cross, but it still speaks.
The apostle Paul declared: “Knowing this, that our old man was crucified with Him…” (Romans 6:6). “Those who are Christ’s have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires” (Galatians 5:24). “I have been crucified with Christ…” (Galatians 2:20). “I die daily” (1 Corinthians 15:31).
All of these verses reveal a spiritual truth: our flesh has been crucified. Yet our experience testifies that it still cries out. It still resists death. It still seeks to exert control. This is why Jesus commands us to take up our cross daily. If the flesh were silent, there would be no need to deny it daily.
Many can “take up” the cross for a moment. They can lift it onto their shoulder in a burst of zeal. But to bear the cross—to carry it through deep valleys, across raging rivers, and up steep mountains—is another matter. To bear is to endure when every natural instinct cries out for relief. To bear is to persevere when the flesh screams, “Lay this burden down!” To bear is not to escape the cross, but to remain upon it until the flesh is silenced.
The day will come when we lay our burdens down—but that day is not today. It is not tomorrow. It is the day when we take our final breath, and like our Lord, we shall say, “It is finished” (John 19:30).
Consider the two thieves crucified beside Jesus. Both were nailed to their crosses. Both were dying. Both were suffering. Yet one railed against Christ, while the other surrendered and was saved. This is a prophetic picture for every believer: the crucified flesh still speaks, but only the surrendered soul will see Paradise.
The voice of the flesh cries, “Save yourself! Come down from the cross!” But the voice of the spirit says, “Not my will, but Yours be done.”
So I appeal to you, saints of the Living God: Surrender quickly. Obey immediately. Glorify Christ even in your pain. Do not give the flesh any place. Deny its arguments. Silence its cries. Let your spirit ascend with Christ, fixing your gaze on the glory that awaits you.
For what awaits is beyond imagination. “For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us” (Romans 8:18).
There is a day coming when you will be redeemed from this corruptible body, delivered from this sin-sick world, and welcomed into a heaven where there is no more striving, no more sorrow, no more temptation, and no more voice of the flesh. There, the crucifixion gives way to resurrection, and every tear is wiped away by the hand of God Himself.
Our cross is but for a moment—but the glory is forever.
Below is the link for the e-book. Below that is the pdf that you can read from here for free and then there is a download button below that for the PDF
Many of you have read my book “The Fall of Christendom — And the Separation of the Remnant.” Written a decade ago, that work examined how far the visible church has fallen from the purity, power, and simplicity of the early Church. It traced the rise of the remnant—those called out from religious systems to stand in the truth of Christ alone. At that time, the focus was on what had already fallen, not yet on the final deception that was soon to come.
This new work, “The AI Deception and the Rise of the One World Religion,” is the prophetic continuation of that journey. It no longer speaks in the future tense—it addresses a reality now unfolding before our very eyes. The great harlot church—foretold in Revelation—is not merely on the horizon. It is already rising. Foundations have been laid. Global structures are in place. The religious, political, and technological components of the final system are merging.
This e-book exposes why Abraham will be used as the central figure of religious unification, presenting him as the father of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. It reveals how Artificial General Intelligence (AGI), in partnership with global religious authorities, will merge the world’s faiths under a single Abrahamic identity. It uncovers the prophetic significance of the Abraham Accords and interfaith worship centers already established as prototypes of the coming world religion.
Above all, this book lays bare the greatest offense to that system: the exclusive lordship of Jesus Christ. His name will be removed. His deity denied. His uniqueness outlawed in the name of global peace.
From there, we will see how AGI will become the enforcer of this one-world faith, speaking as the image of the Beast and demanding universal allegiance.
This is no longer a warning of what may come—this is a declaration of what has already begun.
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.
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.
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.
I find myself increasingly dismayed by the widespread lack of discernment concerning not only the papacy but the Catholic Church as a whole. Speaking as a former Catholic, one who departed from the Church upon experiencing a genuine conversion, a born-again encounter with Christ. I am particularly troubled by the growing acceptance of Catholicism among Protestant and Evangelical circles that, only a few decades ago, would have maintained a clear separation. The shift over the past 25 to 30 years is both significant and concerning.
Research indicates that there are at least 20 million former Catholics in the United States alone. Of these, studies suggest that approximately 80–90% departed after undergoing a born-again experience. If we extend these figures to South America, the number nearly doubles, approaching 50 million individuals across the Americas who have left Catholicism for similar reasons. When extrapolated globally, the figure could be closer to 100 million. There is, therefore, a profound and deliberate reason why so many now identify as “ex-Catholics,” myself included, and I do not hesitate to affirm that designation.
The widespread failure to recognize these realities, in my view, correlates closely with the phenomenon commonly referred to as the “Great Falling Away” a time marked by diminishing spiritual discernment, widespread biblical illiteracy, and the dilution of Protestant witness, which has become but a shadow of its former vitality. This erosion continues largely unabated.
The idea that the head of the Catholic Church, the Pope, could be regarded as a born-again believer is, in my estimation, theologically untenable and historically absurd. This is to say nothing of the longstanding doctrinal errors promulgated by the Catholic Church, foremost among them the dogma of transubstantiation. The claim that a priest has the authority to transform a piece of bread into the literal body of Christ not only defies plain scriptural teaching but also strains credulity to the utmost. Such a claim, divorced from biblical foundations, highlights the extent of the doctrinal chasm.
Given these concerns, I have deliberately refrained from engagement with recent papal funerals, elections, and public commentary surrounding the pontificate. I am personally persuaded that the figure of the Pope, whether the present or a soon-coming successor, will fulfill the prophetic role of the False Prophet, one who will direct the world to the Antichrist, declaring him to be the true Christ. In a world that increasingly regards the Pope as the de facto figurehead of Christianity, reverently referring to him as the “Holy Father” and the “Vicar of Christ,” such developments seem to me to be falling into place with alarming predictability.
A Call To The Remnant 