Knowing Him Personally

A Day in the Life

“And this is eternal life, that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent.”
— John 17:3

When I read the prayer of Jesus recorded in John 17, I am always struck by how clearly He defines eternal life. Many people assume eternal life is primarily about duration—living forever. Yet Jesus describes it differently. Eternal life is relational before it is chronological. It is the experience of knowing God personally and knowing Jesus Christ whom the Father has sent. The Greek word used for “know” here is ginōskō, which describes knowledge gained through relationship and experience rather than intellectual awareness. In other words, Jesus is not speaking about religious information; He is speaking about a living relationship with God.

This distinction is important because many believers live with a quiet tension between what they know about God and what they actually experience with Him. It is possible to study theology, read Scripture faithfully, and yet feel as though the power of God described in the Bible is happening somewhere else. The Apostle Paul confronted this very issue when he wrote, “Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord” (Philippians 3:8). Paul did not merely want to understand Christ; he longed to know Him. A few verses later he wrote, “that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection” (Philippians 3:10). Paul’s language shows that biblical knowledge always includes personal encounter.

When I reflect on the life of Jesus, I see that He constantly invited people into this kind of experiential faith. The disciples did not simply sit in a classroom learning theology. They walked dusty roads with Him. They watched Him calm storms, restore broken lives, and speak with authority that changed hearts. Their knowledge of God grew through real encounters with His presence. Dallas Willard once wrote, “The greatest issue facing the world today is whether those who identify as Christians will become disciples—students, apprentices, practitioners of Jesus Christ.” That observation challenges me. Am I content to know ideas about God, or am I willing to live closely enough with Christ to experience His work in my life?

Sometimes discouragement sets in when our experience seems smaller than the promises we read in Scripture. We read about faith that moves mountains, prayers that open doors, and love that transforms lives. Yet our own spiritual experience may feel quiet or ordinary. At that moment, a subtle temptation appears. We may begin lowering our expectations of Scripture so that they match our experience. But the Bible calls us to the opposite response. Instead of reducing Scripture to the level of our experience, we are invited to bring our lives up to the level of God’s promises.

Jesus Himself prayed that His followers would know the fullness of God’s love. The Apostle Paul echoes this prayer in Ephesians 3:18–19, writing that believers might “comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge.” Notice the paradox: Paul speaks of knowing a love that surpasses knowledge. This is the language of experience. It is the difference between reading about the ocean and standing in it.

A.W. Tozer once wrote, “What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.” Yet Tozer also warned that knowledge of God must move beyond concepts. He wrote that God wants to be known in the living reality of our lives, not merely in our ideas about Him. That insight reminds me that Christianity was never meant to be a distant study of God. It is an invitation to walk with Him.

So what should we do when we read biblical truths that we have not yet experienced? The answer is not frustration or resignation. Instead, we keep those truths before us in prayer and expectation. We ask God if there are adjustments He wants us to make. Sometimes the adjustment involves trust. Sometimes it involves obedience. At other times it involves simply waiting with patience while God works in ways we cannot yet see.

This approach mirrors the life of Jesus Himself. Throughout the Gospels, we see Him withdrawing to pray, trusting the Father, and living in constant awareness of God’s presence. The relationship between the Father and the Son was not theoretical—it was lived moment by moment. That is the life Jesus invites us into as well. Eternal life begins now, not merely in heaven. It begins the moment we step into a real relationship with the living God.

Today, as I think about the prayer of Jesus in John 17, I am reminded that faith is not about settling for secondhand stories of God’s work. We rejoice when God moves in other people’s lives, but Jesus prayed that we would know God personally. That means experiencing His guidance, sensing His presence, and watching His power work in ways both quiet and extraordinary. The journey of discipleship is the journey of discovering that the God described in Scripture is the same God who walks with us today.

If there are promises in Scripture that feel distant from your current experience, do not abandon them. Hold them close. Pray over them. Ask God to make them real in your life. The same Lord who spoke through the pages of Scripture is still at work today, drawing His people into a deeper knowledge of Himself.

For additional reflection on knowing God through relationship rather than mere information, see:
https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/what-is-eternal-life

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When God Finds Willing Hands

Experiencing God

There are moments in Scripture when an image is so ordinary that we are tempted to overlook its depth. Clay is one of those images. It is common, unimpressive, easily overlooked underfoot. Yet in Jeremiah 18:6, the Lord anchors one of His most searching revelations in this humble substance: “O house of Israel, can I not do with you as this potter?” says the Lord. “Look, as the clay is in the potter’s hand, so are you in My hand, O house of Israel!” The prophet is sent to the potter’s house not to learn a trade, but to witness a truth about how God works with people. The God who redeems nations and restores lives does not begin with polished instruments; He begins with yielded material.

As I sit with this text, I am struck by how often I approach God with a résumé rather than with surrender. I tell Him what I am good at and quietly hope He will agree to use me there. I also tell Him what I am not good at, subtly asking Him to excuse me from those assignments. Yet clay does not negotiate. Clay does not announce its strengths or weaknesses. It simply remains in the potter’s hand. The Hebrew verb yatsar (יָצַר), “to form” or “to shape,” emphasizes intentionality. God is not improvising with His people; He is shaping with purpose. What He seeks is not self-assessment but availability.

This is where the life of Jesus quietly reorients our understanding of usefulness. Jesus lived in complete submission to the Father’s will, not because He lacked ability, but because He trusted the Father’s design. “The Son can do nothing of Himself, but what He sees the Father do” (John 5:19). That statement is not weakness; it is perfect alignment. Paul later echoes this paradox when he writes, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9). God does not wait for our competence to peak; He waits for our resistance to soften. As A.W. Tozer once observed, “God is looking for people through whom He can do the impossible—what a pity that we plan only the things we can do by ourselves.”

The study reminds us that God knows precisely how to bring salvation to families, communities, and even cultures. What He looks for are vessels willing to be shaped for that work. Sometimes the assignment requires humility, and God must press down the clay, removing air pockets of pride that would cause collapse in the kiln. At other times, the work requires zeal, and the Spirit must apply pressure and motion to give the vessel strength and form. In still other seasons, God must scrape away impurities. This trimming can feel uncomfortable, even unnecessary to us, but it is essential to the vessel’s integrity. As John Calvin noted in his commentary on Jeremiah, God’s shaping hand is not arbitrary; it is corrective and purposeful, always aimed at restoration rather than destruction.

There is nothing glamorous about being clay. It earns no applause and receives no recognition. Yet this is precisely what makes it usable. When I stop insisting on defining my own role and instead submit to God’s agenda, I begin to experience Him more deeply—not as a distant supervisor, but as a present and attentive craftsman. The discipline of surrender places me back on the wheel daily, trusting that the same hands that apply pressure also provide support. Experiencing God, in this sense, is not about discovering my potential but about yielding to His design.

If you find yourself frequently telling God what you can and cannot do for Him, Jeremiah’s image invites a quieter posture. Like clay, we are called to remain responsive, pliable, and yielded. There is no boast in that posture, only trust. Yet it is in that trust that God forms instruments capable of carrying His grace into the world.

For further reflection on this biblical metaphor, see this thoughtful article from Bible.org:
https://bible.org/article/god-potter-and-we-are-clay

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When Faith Becomes Familiar—and God Feels Distant

Experiencing God

“Neither did they say, ‘Where is the Lord, who brought us up out of the land of Egypt, who led us through the wilderness?’”
Jeremiah 2:6

There is something quietly unsettling about Jeremiah’s observation. The people of God had not rejected Him outright. They were still worshiping, still practicing the rituals handed down through generations, still calling themselves the covenant people. What they failed to notice was not a change in God, but an absence they had grown accustomed to. “Neither did they say, ‘Where is the Lord?’” That question had simply faded from their spiritual vocabulary. As I sit with this text, I recognize how easily familiarity can dull attentiveness. Faith, when reduced to routine, can continue functioning long after relationship has thinned. Jeremiah’s words press gently but firmly against a modern temptation: to remain active in religious practice while no longer actively seeking the presence of God.

Christian faith was never designed as a system to be maintained but as a relationship to be lived. Scripture consistently reveals that God’s commands are relational in intent, not transactional in purpose. The Hebrew concept of yadaʿ—to know—often used to describe knowing God, implies lived experience, intimacy, and ongoing encounter rather than mere awareness. Christianity, at its heart, is an ever-deepening relationship with Jesus Christ, not a checklist of beliefs mastered or behaviors managed. As A. W. Tozer once wrote, “The essence of idolatry is the entertainment of thoughts about God that are unworthy of Him.” Ritual can quietly become idolatrous when it replaces attentiveness to the living God with confidence in our performance.

Worship provides a clear example. God designed worship as a space where His people behold His glory and respond with reverence, gratitude, and surrender. Yet worship can subtly drift into habit—another service attended, another song sung, another sermon heard—without expectation of divine encounter. Jesus Himself addressed this condition when He quoted Isaiah: “These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me” (Matthew 15:8). The issue was not the act of worship, but the absence of relational engagement. Worship without awareness of God’s presence becomes hollow repetition, spiritually busy but inwardly disengaged.

The same drift can occur with sacrifice, prayer, and obedience. The sacrificial system was given so God’s people could express love, trust, and dependence, yet it devolved into a means of managing guilt rather than nurturing affection. Prayer, intended as conversation, becomes monologue when we speak but never linger to listen. Dallas Willard observed, “We are never more than one thought away from God, but often that thought is crowded out by our own noise.” Commandments, meant as loving guardrails, turn into ladders of legalism when obedience becomes a way to secure approval rather than an expression of trust. In each case, the practice remains intact while the relationship weakens.

Jeremiah’s warning exposes a deeper danger: it is possible to lose the presence of God without immediately losing the appearance of faithfulness. The people were satisfied with ritual because ritual was controllable. Presence is not. The manifest nearness of God disrupts complacency, confronts self-sufficiency, and reshapes priorities. When God is truly present, transformation follows. Lives change. Hearts soften. Repentance flows naturally. Love deepens. This is why settling for religion without relationship is so spiritually perilous. It offers comfort without change and activity without encounter.

As I reflect on this passage, I am drawn back to Jesus’ invitation: “Abide in me, and I in you” (John 15:4). Abiding is relational language. It requires attentiveness, vulnerability, and time. Experiencing God is not about abandoning spiritual disciplines but reclaiming their purpose. Worship becomes encounter again when I enter it asking, “Lord, show me Your glory.” Prayer becomes conversation when I pause long enough to listen. Obedience becomes joyful when it flows from love rather than fear. The question Jeremiah highlights—“Where is the Lord?”—is not an accusation but an invitation. It calls me to examine whether I am content with form or still hungry for presence.

Henry Blackaby captured this tension well when he wrote, “You cannot stay where you are and go with God.” Relationship requires movement, responsiveness, and willingness to be led. God has never desired a people skilled in ritual but distant in heart. He seeks those who long for Him, notice His absence, and rejoice in His nearness. When God is present, the difference is unmistakable—not louder religion, but deeper love.

For further reflection on moving from religious activity into genuine relationship, see this helpful article from Desiring God:
https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/what-does-it-mean-to-experience-god

 

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When God Speaks and the Soul Responds

Experiencing God

“But on this one will I look: on him who is poor and of a contrite spirit, and who trembles at My word.” Isaiah 66:2

There is something unsettling—and deeply life-giving—about realizing that the living God still speaks. Isaiah’s words confront us with a posture that is increasingly rare, even among sincere believers: trembling at the Word of the Lord. The prophet is not describing a paralyzing fear but a reverent responsiveness, a heart that understands the weight of divine speech. The Hebrew verb often translated “trembles” carries the sense of quivering attentiveness, the kind that comes when one recognizes they are standing on holy ground. God declares that He “looks” upon such a person—not impressed by status, intellect, or achievement, but drawn to humility and teachability. As I sit with this text, I am reminded that the primary question is not whether God is speaking, but whether I am listening in a way that allows His Word to shape me.

Scripture consistently shows that when God speaks clearly, the human response is rarely casual. John, overwhelmed by the risen Christ, writes, “When I saw Him, I fell at His feet as though dead” (Rev. 1:17). Paul, confronted by the voice of Jesus on the Damascus road, collapses to the ground, his entire trajectory altered in a moment (Acts 9:4). Moses trembles before the burning bush, aware that the God of Abraham is addressing him personally (Acts 7:32). Peter, having witnessed the authority of Jesus over creation itself, falls to his knees and confesses his unworthiness (Luke 5:8). These encounters share a common thread: when God’s Word is truly heard, it reorders the listener. As A. W. Tozer once observed, “The Bible was written in tears, to tears, and for tears.” God’s Word is not informational alone; it is relational and transformative.

This sense of awe is closely tied to what Scripture calls the fear of the Lord. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Prov. 9:10). Biblical fear is not terror that drives us away but reverence that draws us nearer with humility. When that fear diminishes, our reading of Scripture can become hurried, overly familiar, or merely academic. We may still gather information, but we lose expectation. Yet Jesus’ own ministry reminds us that divine speech carries creative and restorative power. A word from Him raises the dead, stills storms, and heals what medicine cannot. If that same Christ speaks through Scripture by the Holy Spirit, then opening the Bible is never a neutral act. C. S. Lewis captured this tension well when he wrote that we often approach God “as if He were a tame lion,” forgetting that holiness is both beautiful and unsettling.

As I reflect on Isaiah’s call, I find myself asking not when I last studied the Bible, but when I last approached it with holy expectancy. Do I pause long enough to recognize that the God who spoke light into existence is now addressing my heart, my habits, my assumptions? Experiencing God in this way requires slowing down, allowing silence, and admitting that His Word may confront as much as it comforts. Yet it is precisely here that discipleship deepens. When we tremble at God’s Word, we are not weakened; we are made receptive. Wisdom, discernment, and obedience grow in ways that cannot be manufactured by effort alone. The invitation before us is simple yet demanding: the next time we open Scripture, to do so with the awareness that God intends not merely to inform us, but to encounter us.

For further reflection on reverence and Scripture, see the article “The Fear of the Lord” at Desiring God:
https://www.desiringgod.org/topics/fear-of-the-lord

 

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Placed on Purpose

Faithfulness Where God Has Set You
Experiencing God

“But Daniel purposed in his heart that he would not defile himself with the portion of the king’s delicacies.” (Daniel 1:8)

When I sit with the opening chapter of Daniel, I am struck by how ordinary the setting feels and how extraordinary the faithfulness becomes. Daniel was not standing on a battlefield or preaching to a crowd; he was eating meals in a foreign court, surrounded by pressures that quietly invited compromise. “Daniel purposed in his heart”—the Hebrew sense behind this resolve reflects a settled, inward decision, not a momentary impulse. Long before the food reached his plate, Daniel had already decided who he belonged to. As I reflect on this, I realize that experiencing God often begins not with dramatic action, but with quiet resolve formed in the presence of God. Faithfulness is cultivated internally before it ever becomes visible externally.

Daniel’s refusal to defile himself was not an act of rebellion against authority; it was an act of allegiance to God. He understood that obedience was not situational but comprehensive. The world system around him offered advancement, comfort, and acceptance at the cost of faithfulness. Yet Daniel recognized that usefulness to God is inseparable from obedience to God. Jesus the Son echoed this same truth centuries later when He said, “Whoever is faithful in very little is also faithful in much” (Luke 16:10). In my own discipleship, I am reminded that God’s work through me is often shaped by my willingness to honor Him in the small, unseen decisions that define my character.

Scripture consistently reveals that God places His servants precisely where they are needed most. Daniel’s life is not an isolated case but part of a broader biblical pattern. Esther was positioned in the royal court “for such a time as this” (Esther 4:14), and Joseph was elevated in Egypt to preserve life during famine (Genesis 41:39–40). As I consider these accounts, I am reminded that history never surprises God. The time, culture, and circumstances of my life are not accidental. Oswald Chambers once observed, “God does not give us overcoming life; He gives us life as we overcome.” Experiencing God means trusting that He is already at work in the very place where I sometimes feel most constrained or overlooked.

This perspective reshapes how I view my surroundings. Rather than asking whether my environment is ideal for spiritual growth, I am invited to ask whether I am yielding myself fully to God within it. Daniel did not wait for Babylon to become Jerusalem; he became faithful right where he was. Jesus the Son modeled this same incarnational obedience, stepping fully into the realities of human life without surrendering holiness. To follow Him is to believe that God intends to make a difference through ordinary people who are willing to remain obedient in extraordinary pressure.

The question that lingers for me—and perhaps for you—is deeply personal: am I allowing my surroundings to determine how I invest my life, or am I allowing God to use me to shape my generation? Experiencing God is not merely about sensing His presence; it is about aligning my will with His purposes. When I ask God to reveal His will, I often discover that He is less concerned with changing my location than with transforming my obedience. Faithfulness, anchored in love for God, becomes the channel through which He accomplishes His work.

As the life of Daniel reminds us, God delights in using those who dare to believe that obedience still matters. When I purpose in my heart to honor God, even in small decisions, I begin to see that He is already weaving my life into His greater redemptive story. Experiencing God, then, becomes less about extraordinary experiences and more about daily surrender to a faithful God who never misplaces His people.

For further reflection on living faithfully in challenging environments, see this insightful article from Desiring God: https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/faithfulness-in-exile

 

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When Holiness Undoes Us—and Remakes Us

Experiencing God

“So, I said: ‘Woe is me, for I am undone … for my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts.’” (Isaiah 6:5)

There are moments in Scripture that feel less like stories we read and more like mirrors held up to our own souls. Isaiah’s encounter with God in the temple is one of those moments. I find myself slowing down every time I read Isaiah 6, because it confronts a quiet assumption many of us carry—that we can encounter God deeply and yet remain largely the same. Isaiah thought he knew something of holiness until the day he truly saw the Lord. The Hebrew phrase nidmêti—“I am undone”—carries the sense of being unraveled, brought to silence, reduced to truth. This is not theatrical guilt; it is the honest response of a human life suddenly measured against the blazing holiness of God.

An exalted view of God has a way of clarifying everything else. Isaiah’s vision did not begin with a confession of sin; it began with worship. The seraphim cried “Holy, holy, holy”—qadosh, qadosh, qadosh—and the thresholds shook. Only then did Isaiah see himself clearly. A diminished view of God, by contrast, always distorts our self-understanding. When God is small, sin becomes manageable and self-esteem quietly inflates. As A. W. Tozer famously wrote, “What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.”

When our vision of God is reduced, our concern for holiness follows suit, and we begin measuring righteousness horizontally—against others—rather than vertically, before the Lord.

Isaiah may well have been considered a godly man before this encounter. Yet standing in the presence of divine holiness exposed not only his own sin but the brokenness of the people among whom he lived. This is a consistent biblical pattern. Peter, encountering the power of Jesus in the miraculous catch of fish, fell at His knees and said, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord” (Luke 5:8). Holiness does not produce self-righteousness; it produces humility. Genuine worship leaves us changed because it brings us face-to-face with truth. John Calvin observed that “man never achieves a clear knowledge of himself unless he has first looked upon God’s face.” Isaiah’s cry, “Woe is me,” was not despair; it was awakening.

This passage also presses a searching question upon us: have we grown comfortable in an unholy world? It is possible to adapt so thoroughly to the patterns around us that sin feels ordinary and holiness feels extreme. When someone does live with visible integrity, we may label them “superspiritual,” not realizing that the standard has quietly shifted. Scripture warns against this subtle deception. Paul writes, “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2). Conformity numbs the conscience; transformation sharpens it. When we only compare ourselves to those around us, we may assume we are doing well. When we encounter the holy God, comparison falls silent, and honesty takes its place.

The life of Jesus embodies this holiness in human form. He did not merely speak about sanctification; He lived it among ordinary people. His presence revealed hearts without coercion. Those who encountered Him were either drawn toward repentance or pushed into resistance. There was no neutral ground. As theologian N. T. Wright notes, Jesus “embodied the holiness of God in the midst of everyday life,” making the divine visible and unavoidable. If I am truly experiencing God through Christ, something in me must change. Worship that leaves my habits, attitudes, and relationships untouched is not biblical worship.

Isaiah’s story does not end with condemnation. A coal from the altar touched his lips, and grace met conviction. God’s holiness does not crush; it cleanses. The goal is not shame but sanctification—being set apart for God’s purposes. When God deals with us, He produces a degree of purity the world cannot manufacture. Over time, that consecrated life becomes a testimony. Others begin to notice—not perfection, but difference. Jesus Himself said, “Let your light so shine before others, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven” (Matthew 5:16). People will not trust Jesus merely because of our words, but because they see a life shaped by a holy God.

Experiencing God, then, is not an abstract spiritual exercise. It is an encounter that reorders priorities, refines desires, and reshapes witness. If today’s worship does not unsettle us at least a little, we may need to ask whether we are truly seeing the Lord high and lifted up. The prayer “Woe is me” is not the end of the journey; it is the doorway through which renewal begins.

For a thoughtful exploration of God’s holiness and its transforming impact, see this article from Desiring God: https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/what-is-the-holiness-of-god

 

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When Love Replaces Resolutions

Experiencing God

“So, when they had eaten breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, ‘Simon, son of Jonah, do you love Me more than these?’” John 21:15

There is something quietly disarming about the way Jesus restores Peter. No lecture. No replay of past failures. No demand for promises about doing better next time. After breakfast—an ordinary, almost tender detail—Jesus turns to a man who had collapsed under pressure and asks a single, searching question: Do you love Me? That question lingers with particular weight at the beginning of a new year, when many of us are tempted to measure faithfulness by resolutions, disciplines, and renewed efforts to “try harder.” Yet Jesus does not begin with Peter’s performance; He begins with Peter’s heart.

Peter’s failure was not subtle. He fled when Jesus was arrested, followed at a distance, and then denied three times that he even knew the Lord. By the time we reach John 21, Peter has already seen the risen Christ, yet the unresolved ache of his denial still hangs in the air. It is into that space that Jesus speaks—not with humiliation, but with restoration. As one commentator notes, “Jesus does not ask Peter if he is sorry; He asks if he loves Him. Love, not regret, is the foundation of restored service.” That distinction matters. Regret can paralyze us. Love reorients us.

As I walk through this passage, I am struck by how closely Peter’s story mirrors our own spiritual rhythms. Many of us begin a new year acutely aware of where we fell short—missed opportunities for obedience, moments of compromise, habits that dulled our attentiveness to God. We may wonder, as Peter likely did, whether we are still fit to follow Christ with integrity. Yet Jesus does not demand resolutions as proof of sincerity. He does not ask Peter to outline a plan for improved discipleship. He simply asks him to reaffirm love. This echoes Jesus’ earlier words: “If you love Me, you will keep My commandments” John 14:15. Obedience flows from love, not the other way around.

Jesus’ threefold question to Peter corresponds tenderly to Peter’s threefold denial, but the tone is entirely different. Each question is an invitation, not an accusation. Each response from Peter—“Yes, Lord; You know that I love You”—is met with renewed calling: “Feed My sheep.” Love leads back to purpose. As Augustine observed, “Love God, and do what you will,” not because love excuses disobedience, but because genuine love reshapes desire itself. When love is restored, service follows naturally, with the quality and humility God desires.

This is where the discipline of experiencing God becomes deeply personal. Jesus is not interested in our annual spiritual resets if they bypass the heart. Resolutions may modify behavior temporarily, but love transforms the will. When I sit with this passage, I hear Jesus asking me the same question He asked Peter—not in judgment, but in grace. Do you love Me? Not, are you organized enough, disciplined enough, or resolved enough—but do you love Me? The answer to that question determines the shape of our obedience far more than any list of commitments we might draft.

For further reflection on this passage and Christ’s restoring grace, see this article from Bible.org: https://bible.org/article/restoration-peter

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