The Freedom We Resist

On Second Thought

“If the Son makes you free, you shall be free indeed.” — John 8:36

There are moments in worship when discomfort settles in quietly, almost imperceptibly. It is not the temperature of the room, the length of the sermon, or the firmness of the pew that causes it. Rather, it is the uneasy awareness that something within us has been exposed. Jesus’ words in John 8:31–36 confront us with a reality many believers recognize but rarely articulate: freedom is offered freely, yet often resisted deeply. The tension we feel is not evidence of God’s absence but of His nearness. Conviction, after all, is one of the Spirit’s most faithful ministries.

Jesus speaks these words to those who had already believed in Him. That detail matters. He does not address skeptics or opponents but followers—people who had accepted His message yet were still wrestling with its implications. “If you abide in my word, you are truly my disciples,” He says, linking discipleship not to agreement alone but to continued dwelling. The Greek verb menō, translated “abide,” suggests remaining, staying, and making one’s home. Freedom, in Jesus’ teaching, is not a momentary release but the fruit of sustained relationship with truth. To know the truth is not merely to learn information; it is to live in alignment with what God reveals about Himself and about us.

The discomfort that arises when truth presses in is often the moment we attempt escape—not from sin, but from surrender. When Scripture or preaching touches a hidden fear, a guarded habit, or a cherished illusion of control, we instinctively recoil. We delay. We rationalize. We tell ourselves we will deal with it later. Yet Jesus warns, implicitly, that delay strengthens bondage. What begins as hesitation can harden into resistance. The irony is striking: we fear surrender will cost us freedom, when in fact it is the refusal to surrender that keeps us bound.

Jesus exposes this paradox when His listeners protest, “We are Abraham’s descendants and have never been enslaved to anyone.” Their words reveal how deeply self-deception can run. Historically, Israel had known slavery well—Egypt, Babylon, Rome. Spiritually, they were blind to the chains that pride and self-righteousness had wrapped around their hearts. Jesus responds not with argument but with diagnosis: “Everyone who commits sin is a slave to sin.” The issue is not external circumstance but internal allegiance. Bondage persists not because freedom is unavailable, but because truth is unwelcome.

What Jesus offers, however, is not condemnation but escape. He presents Himself as the decisive difference. “If the Son makes you free, you shall be free indeed.” The phrase “free indeed” points to authentic, lasting freedom—not the temporary relief of avoidance, but the deep liberation that reshapes identity. This freedom is not achieved by willpower or religious effort. It flows from sonship. Slaves, Jesus says, do not remain in the house forever, but sons do. Freedom is secured not by striving harder but by belonging more fully.

For the believer, this truth carries both comfort and challenge. When we accepted Christ, the Holy Spirit fully equipped us for freedom. Bondage is no longer inevitable; it is optional. That statement can unsettle us, because it removes excuses. If chains remain, they do so not because Christ failed, but because we have not yet yielded fully to His truth. The enemy’s trap is not simply sin, but the lie that freedom can be postponed without consequence. Yet every delay deepens the habit of resistance, making submission feel increasingly costly.

Jesus’ invitation is strikingly simple: abide. Remain in His word. Allow truth to confront, correct, and heal. Freedom is not found by escaping conviction, but by walking through it with Christ. The Holy Spirit does not expose wounds to shame us, but to heal us. When truth burns, it is because it is cauterizing what would otherwise continue to infect the soul. The ultimate escape artist is not the one who avoids discomfort, but the one who allows truth to break every lock.

As we reflect on this passage, the question is not whether we desire freedom—we all do—but whether we are willing to accept it on God’s terms. Truth makes us free, but only when we stop arguing with it, delaying it, or redefining it. Jesus does not negotiate liberation. He offers it fully, lovingly, and decisively.

On Second Thought

There is a paradox hidden in Jesus’ promise of freedom that many of us overlook: the very thing we try to escape—conviction—is often the doorway to the freedom we crave. We assume that discomfort signals danger, yet in the spiritual life, discomfort frequently signals invitation. What if the unease we feel when truth confronts us is not a threat to our peace, but the beginning of its restoration? We spend so much energy trying to silence conviction that we miss its purpose. Conviction is not God pushing us away; it is God drawing us closer.

On second thought, perhaps the greater danger is not being bound, but becoming comfortable with bondage. Familiar chains can feel safer than unfamiliar freedom. Bondage offers predictability; freedom demands trust. Bondage allows us to manage appearances; freedom requires honesty. When Jesus speaks of abiding in His word, He is not describing a strategy for self-improvement, but a willingness to remain exposed before God. That exposure feels risky, yet it is the only place where real transformation occurs.

It is worth asking whether some of our spiritual routines—our attendance, our vocabulary, our habits—have quietly become ways of avoiding truth rather than embracing it. We may prefer the comfort of religious familiarity over the disruption of obedience. Yet Jesus does not offer partial freedom or symbolic release. He offers freedom indeed—the kind that reaches the deepest places of fear, habit, and resistance. On second thought, the question is not whether truth will cost us something, but whether we are willing to let it cost us what is already costing us far more.

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Power That Walks With You, Not Fear That Paralyzes You

A Day in the Life

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.”
2 Timothy 1:7

When I read Paul’s words to Timothy, I cannot help but imagine a quiet morning in Timothy’s life—waking with responsibility pressing heavily on his chest. He was young, naturally timid, physically fragile, and surrounded by opposition. Ministry was not theoretical for him; it carried real consequences. And yet, Paul does not tell him to toughen up, nor does he minimize the dangers ahead. Instead, he gently but firmly re-centers Timothy’s identity. Fear, Paul says, is not a gift from God. What God gives is power, love, and a sound mind. As I walk with you through this truth today, I want us to hear this not as rebuke, but as reassurance meant to steady us for faithful obedience.

The only fear Scripture commends is the fear of God—a reverent awareness of His holiness, authority, and final judgment. Paul speaks of this when he writes, “Knowing therefore the fear of the Lord, we persuade others” (2 Corinthians 5:11). This kind of fear does not shrink us; it clarifies us. It orders our loves and realigns our priorities. Fear of people, on the other hand, disperses our energy. It causes us to manage impressions rather than steward obedience. I have learned that when I fear people more than God, I begin negotiating faithfulness—softening convictions, delaying obedience, or staying silent when clarity is required. Proverbs captures this soberly: “The fear of man lays a snare, but whoever trusts in the LORD is safe” (Proverbs 29:25). The snare is subtle, but it is real.

Timothy knew fear not because he lacked faith, but because he understood the cost of faith. He watched Paul endure imprisonment, rejection, and violence. He knew that faithfulness could lead him down the same road. Fear often intensifies not in ignorance, but in awareness. Most fear is fear of the unknown—what lies ahead if we obey fully. Left unchecked, our imagination becomes an adversary, magnifying obstacles until they appear insurmountable. John Calvin observed, “Fear is the false apprehension of danger when there is none, or an excessive dread when danger is present.” This is where Paul introduces the gift of a sound mind. The Greek word sōphronismos implies disciplined, self-controlled thinking—seeing reality through God’s perspective rather than our anxieties.

Jesus modeled this clarity repeatedly in His own daily walk. He did not ignore danger, but neither was He governed by it. When opposition rose, He remained resolute, grounded in the Father’s will. In moments of threat, He withdrew—not in fear, but in discernment. In moments of confrontation, He spoke truth—not recklessly, but courageously. His confidence flowed from intimacy with the Father and reliance on the Spirit. That same Spirit now dwells in us. Paul reminds us that the Holy Spirit enables us to see as God sees, not as fear imagines. As A.W. Tozer wrote, “Faith is seeing the invisible, but fear is believing the false.” The Spirit anchors us in truth when fear distorts reality.

Fear is never an excuse for disobedience. That may sound strong, but it is deeply freeing. If fear dictated faithfulness, obedience would always be optional. Christ came not only to forgive sin, but to liberate us from bondage—and fear is a form of bondage. “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18). When fear dominates, love is diminished; when love is restored, fear loses its grip. This does not mean the absence of trembling moments, but the presence of courage that moves forward anyway. As we ask God to expose and release our fears, He does not shame us; He strengthens us. He replaces fear’s paralysis with power, fear’s isolation with love, and fear’s confusion with a sound mind.

As I move through my own day, I am learning to pause and ask: Am I acting from fear or from trust? Am I trying to appease people, or am I seeking to please God? When obedience feels costly, I remind myself that the Spirit within me is not weak, uncertain, or hesitant. He is the very presence of God, equipping me to walk forward faithfully. And He does the same for you today—quietly, steadily, and faithfully.

For further reflection, see this article from Desiring God on overcoming fear through faith:
https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/how-fear-is-defeated

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Before the Altar, On the Road to Peace

A Day in the Life

“So if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go. First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift.”
Matthew 5:23–24

There are moments in the life of Jesus that unsettle us not because they are unclear, but because they are painfully clear. Matthew 5:24 is one of those moments. As I sit with this teaching, I find myself slowed down by its directness. Jesus interrupts worship itself—not because worship is unimportant, but because unreconciled relationships distort it. He speaks as if reconciliation is not a spiritual accessory but a prerequisite. In the rhythm of His day, devotion to God and devotion to others are inseparable. I cannot claim intimacy with the Father while harboring distance, resentment, or unresolved conflict with my brother or sister.

What strikes me most is that Jesus places the responsibility squarely on the worshiper, not on the offender. “If you remember that your brother has something against you…”—even if I believe I am right, even if I feel justified, even if I have been wounded. Jesus does not ask who started it. He does not weigh degrees of harm. He simply commands movement toward peace. The Greek word used here for reconciliation, diallassō, carries the sense of a decisive change in relationship, not a symbolic gesture or internal resolution. This is not about feeling peaceful; it is about actively pursuing peace. As John Stott once observed, “Reconciliation is not optional for the Christian; it is a requirement of obedience.” That observation presses against every instinct for self-protection I carry.

The world’s approach to reconciliation is cautious and conditional. It asks whether the other person deserves it, whether the risk is manageable, whether dignity can be preserved. Jesus’ way is far more demanding—and far more freeing. He does not teach His disciples to assert themselves, but to deny themselves. The contrast is sharp. Where the world warns us about being exploited, Jesus is more concerned that love not be withheld. He seems remarkably unconcerned with fairness as we define it. His priority is faithfulness—faithfulness to the character of God, who loves without condition and gives without calculating return.

As I reflect on this teaching, I hear the familiar objections rise within me. What if the wound runs deep? What if the other person refuses? What if reconciliation feels unsafe or humiliating? Jesus anticipates none of these as exceptions. Instead, He broadens the command. If the person is an enemy, love them. If they persecute you, pray for them. If they insult you, do not retaliate. If they take from you, give more. This is not weakness; it is cruciform strength. Dietrich Bonhoeffer captured this tension well when he wrote, “The cross is laid on every Christian. The first Christ-suffering which every man must experience is the call to abandon the attachments of this world.” Reconciliation often begins with that abandonment—the surrender of my right to be understood, vindicated, or repaid.

Jesus Himself embodies what He teaches. No one was more wronged, more humiliated, or more unjustly treated than He was. And yet, from the cross, He prays, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” This is not sentimental forgiveness; it is costly obedience. When I trace a day in the life of Jesus, I see that reconciliation was not an abstract ideal for Him. It was lived out in real time, under real pressure, with real pain. His command carries weight because His life gives it credibility.

One of the most sobering lines in the study is the distinction between “try” and “be.” Scripture does not say, “Try to be reconciled,” but “Be reconciled.” That language leaves little room for spiritualized excuses. It suggests intentional action, not passive intent. Reconciliation may not always restore a relationship to what it once was, but it does restore the disciple to obedience. Paul echoes this when he writes, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone” (Romans 12:18). The outcome may not be in my control, but obedience always is.

As I walk with this teaching today, I am reminded that reconciliation is not primarily about emotional closure; it is about spiritual alignment. It realigns my heart with the mercy I have received. It loosens the grip of bitterness. It frees worship from contradiction. Augustine once noted, “There is no love without forgiveness, and there is no forgiveness without love.” Jesus seems to agree. He will not allow me to separate my love for God from my posture toward others.

So the question lingers, quietly but persistently: Is there someone with whom I need to make peace? Not someone who owes me an apology, but someone toward whom God is calling me to move. The answer to that question is rarely theoretical. It usually has a name, a face, and a history attached to it. And Jesus, with steady clarity, says, “Go.”

For further reflection on this teaching, see this article from The Gospel Coalition:
https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/article/jesus-and-the-hard-work-of-reconciliation/

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A Call from the Shore

A Day in the Life of Jesus

There are moments in the life of Jesus that feel almost tenderly ordinary, and John 21:1–6 is one of them. As I walk through this scene with you, I am struck by how quietly human it feels. The disciples are not preaching, healing, or confronting opposition. They are fishing. After the trauma of the crucifixion and the wonder of the resurrection, they return to what their hands remember even when their hearts are uncertain. Simon Peter’s words, “I’m going fishing,” carry more than occupational intent. They sound like a man searching for footing after failure. Many commentators have noted that Peter’s denial still hangs in the air. As D. A. Carson observes, Peter’s return to fishing is not rebellion but retreat—a familiar place when the future feels unclear. I recognize that instinct in myself, and perhaps you do as well.

The night of fishing yields nothing. John is careful to tell us this: “that night they caught nothing.” Scripture often lingers on emptiness because emptiness prepares us to recognize grace. In the gray light of dawn, a figure stands on the shore, unseen and unrecognized. Jesus does not announce Himself. He calls out with a question that sounds almost playful: “Any fish, boys?” The Greek term paidia (παιδία) is affectionate, more like “children” than a stern address. It reminds us that the risen Christ is not distant or impatient. He speaks with familiarity, even after their abandonment and Peter’s denial. Their answer is brief and honest: “No.” Sometimes the most faithful prayer we can offer is simply naming our lack.

What follows deliberately echoes Luke 5:1–11, and the disciples would have known it. Once again, Jesus instructs them to cast their net differently—“on the right-hand side of the boat.” There is nothing magical about the side of the boat. The miracle rests entirely in obedience to a word spoken by Jesus. When they listen, the abundance is overwhelming. The net strains with life. The point is not technique but trust. As William Barclay once wrote, Jesus is Lord not only of sermons and sanctuaries, but of boats, nets, and ordinary labor. He meets them in their routine and reveals His authority there. That truth reshapes how I understand discipleship. Jesus does not wait for us to become spiritually impressive. He enters our everyday spaces and teaches us to listen again.

This moment is also quietly restorative for Peter. Before Jesus ever asks him to reaffirm his love later in the chapter, He reenacts the very miracle that first called Peter to follow Him. Grace often works this way. It does not merely forgive; it re-teaches. The abundance of fish is not about provision alone. It is about memory. Jesus is saying, without accusation, “I am still the One who called you. I have not changed My mind.” The love of Christ is not revoked by our failure. It patiently brings us back to the place where obedience once began, not to shame us, but to heal us.

As I sit with this passage, I find myself asking the question embedded in the study: Is Jesus standing on the beach calling to me? The answer, if I am honest, is often yes—but I do not always recognize Him at first. He comes quietly, through Scripture read again, through a nudge to trust rather than strive, through an invitation to obey even when exhaustion says it will not matter. Jesus meets us where we are, but He never leaves us there. He calls us from empty nets toward attentive listening. The Christian life is not sustained by effort alone, but by repeated responsiveness to His voice.

If you want to explore this scene more deeply, a helpful companion article can be found at The Gospel Coalition, reflecting on John 21 and the restoration of Peter: https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/article/jesus-restores-peter/.

May the risen Christ meet you today in the familiar places of your life. May you recognize His voice even when the night has been long, and may obedience—simple, trusting obedience—open your hands to grace you could not manufacture on your own. May your walk with Jesus be marked not by perfection, but by listening.

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