Four Lessons for the Depressed from 1 Kings 19

Early in my ministry, I was serving as a youth pastor in Amarillo, Texas when I walked straight into a deep chasm of spiritual warfare. It was born out of too many promises, too many personal expectations, and a growing pile of disappointments. In the midst of all the victories I experienced back when I had less gray hair and more energy—lives changed, ministries growing—depression crept in like a snake in the castle of my personal world. And it whispered four words: Your ministry is over.

It was a difficult season. When I should have been in a place of rejoicing, all I could do was wish the journey of life was over.

Out of that time, I began to search the Scriptures and came across a familiar passage about depression. It’s amazing how when we search the Scripture, the Scripture begins to search us.

In 1 Kings 19, I met a strong and dynamic leader who had a limitless amount of faith—certainly much more faith than a twenty-six-year-old youth minister. He had seen fire from heaven. He had confronted kings. He had taken up the sword of spiritual warfare and knocked the foundations of idolatry across an entire nation.

And yet here we see this man, Elijah, being threatened by one vicious woman. After so many victories, how could this be? He escapes into the wilderness, collapses under a broom tree, and says, “Enough. Enough.”

At first glance, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Jezebel doesn’t even deliver the threat herself. She sneers to a messenger: “May the gods deal with me, be it ever so severely, if by this time tomorrow I do not make your life like that of one of them.”

And Elijah—the same man who had just called fire from heaven—was blanketed in fear. He ran. He told God, “I have had enough, Lord. Take my life. I am no better than my ancestors.” And then he fell under that broom tree in total, stark, deep, dark depression—and fell asleep.

You know the story. An angel comes, touches him on the shoulder, and says, “Get up and eat.” Then this: “Your journey is too much for you.” And Elijah was strengthened.

The lessons I see in this story are some of the best counsel for anyone going through depression—those who have entered into this unwanted fraternity. We often call it “that howling black dog.” Sometimes it’s acres away from your house. Other times, it’s right at your doorstep.

1. God Meets Us in Our Exhaustion

The first lesson I’ve learned, especially through the story of Elijah, is that God meets us in our exhaustion. He doesn’t rebuke us. He doesn’t hand us a gym membership. He doesn’t rattle off all the reasons we should buck up and feel grateful. He doesn’t even begin by sharing great wisdom.

Elijah had just come off the spiritual high of Mount Carmel, where God’s power was displayed and his enemies ran for the hills. But God met him there in his exhaustion—with care, not a lecture.

Sometimes the best thing we can do when we’re depressed is to get away, eat some good food, drink some water, and have a nap. As one of my mentors once said—and I quote this because it is staggeringly profound—“The most important thing to do when you’re exhausted is to get some rest.” I know. Groundbreaking. But sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is sleep and eat. God addresses the physical before he addresses the spiritual.

With every battle, every trial, every failure, and every victory, our bodies take a blow. Those blows can cause us to stagger into a cave that no one wants to enter.

2. Depression Can Follow Our Greatest Victories

Elijah didn’t fall apart during the contest with the prophets of Baal. His boldness allowed him to mock the idolaters to their face, making caricatures of their gods. If he spoke in English, let’s just say his trash talk would have definitely made the highlight reel.

But the emotional crash after that intense battle didn’t indicate a lack of faith. It indicated humanity. Elijah realized that the power was never from him. It never was.

As we walk through depression, it’s important to realize that the same great power that can calm storms and move mountains is also the God who brings us face to face with our own humanity.

3. Isolation Distorts Our Perspective

We hear Elijah say to himself and to God, “I’m the only one.”

And the Lord responds—in this literal cave where Elijah spent the night—with a powerful question: “What are you doing here, Elijah?” That’s a question I think God asks us all the time. He asked it in the Garden. And he asks it of us. Where are you?

For those times when I’ve entered into depression, I’ve also heard that still small voice: Where are you, Matt?

I can relate to Elijah’s response. I’ve often prayed, “God, I’ve been faithful to you. I’ve been zealous for your name. And nothing seems to work.” Israelites will be Israelites, and the church will be the church. And we feel those words of Elijah: “I am the only one left, and now they’re trying to kill me too.”

But then God gives Elijah a reality check. He tells him to get out of the cave and go stand on the mountain. His voice seemed to say, “Look, you’ve done some amazing things, and I’ve been able to use you to advance my kingdom. But I want to tell you this: you’re not alone.”

There were 7,000 prophets who had not bowed to Baal. In America today, I think God would say there are hundreds of thousands of churches and millions of faithful men and women who serve him. The reality check of depression allows us to see that it’s not on our shoulders. The battle doesn’t hinge on our strength to stand.

4. God’s Rescue Is Rarely Dramatic

And then the last thing I see in the Scripture—the one that helps me when that dog is at my doorstep barking and I’m huddled in the corner—is that God’s rescue is rarely dramatic.

He speaks softly. He speaks in a still, small voice. The wind, earthquake, and fire came, but God wasn’t in any of that. And then slowly, steadily, he begins to speak with a gentle voice. Not an accusing voice. Not a screaming voice. Softly. Carefully.

When we’re depleted, we may expect God to show up in spectacular ways—to rescue us from the waters like he did the children of Israel. But instead, he comes to us and invites us to rest, to get a bite to eat, to take one step and then the next and then the next. And sometimes that’s all you can do.

Don’t concentrate on next week. Just look at today. God didn’t give Elijah a five-year plan. It was just one assignment. Just one next thing.

If you’re feeling the slings of depression, I hope you’ll remember Elijah—a foremost prophet of God whose mighty deeds cover Sunday school walls everywhere. But the picture that has encouraged me the most is the one you won’t find on a flannel board: an exhausted servant who encounters God through a still, small voice.

Shut down the email. Turn off the TV. Get off social media. Have a good meal. Take a nap. And listen.

That’s not a complete prescription, of course. Those who are struggling with depression should seek all the tools that are available. All good gifts come from God—including connecting with a counselor, listening to wise counsel about medication, and learning how to set boundaries. But those first three steps—eat, rest, and listen—will help you get back in the fight.

Coldplay’s haunting anthem Viva La Vida tells the story of a king who has lost everything—once commanding armies and ruling cities, now reduced to sweeping the very streets he used to own. It’s a portrait of reversal, of glory turned to ash, of a crown that couldn’t save him.

When I hear that song, I think of Mephibosheth.

He was born into royalty—the grandson of King Saul, son of Jonathan, heir to a dynasty. He should have ruled. Instead, he was hiding in a forgotten wasteland called Lo Debar, crippled, broken, and waiting for the kind of knock on the door that only meant one thing in the ancient world—execution.

He used to be a prince. Now he was sweeping streets he used to own.

But then David came looking for him. And everything changed.

It’s the story of Mephibosheth, a funny name for a powerful allegory of God’s grace.

The Pursuit of Kindness

David had a heart to do kindness to someone in Saul’s house. It would be easy for David to say, “I want nothing to do with the memories of this brutal king who fought me at every turn, who pursued me without mercy, whose mental instability resembled a dark triad.” But instead, David goes in pursuit of kindness.

I am reminded of the generational curse. We were all once enemies of God. We came from a long line of sinners. And yet we were pursued.

Notice—it wasn’t Mephibosheth who inquired of David. David sought out Mephibosheth. A long time ago, God sought you. For some of us, He is still seeking. For others of us, we have forgotten the fact that we were immobile because of our sin and our shame.

The Wages of Sin

In the ancient culture, Mephibosheth would be executed. I’m reminded that the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life.

The fact that Mephibosheth was lame in both of his feet reminds us of our own helplessness. He can’t defend himself. He can’t advance himself. He can’t inherit anything on his own, because his life is bankrupt—just as our lives are bankrupt.

No Pasture

Mephibosheth lives in a land called Lo Debar. That name means “no pasture, no word.” In other words, he is living in a state of wilderness where there are no green pastures and still waters. There is no word.

I know that I have often experienced seasons when the voices of my life grow silent and there is no word for me.

And yet the first word that Mephibosheth hears is: “Do not fear.”

This is the gospel. We have nothing to fear.

Gospel Language

Throughout the story of Mephibosheth, we hear gospel language. There is no condemnation. There is only great grace.

Mephibosheth calls himself a dead dog—broken, worthless, forgotten. But God.

Paul captured this same reality when he wrote:

“And you were dead in your trespasses and sins in which you previously walked according to the ways of this world, according to the ruler of the power of the air, the spirit now working in the disobedient. We too all previously lived among them in our fleshly desires, carrying out the inclinations of our flesh and thoughts, and we were by nature children under wrath as the others were also. But God, who is rich in mercy, because of his great love that he had for us, made us alive with Christ even though we were dead in trespasses. You are saved by grace!” —Ephesians 2:1-5 (CSB)

It was David who found Mephibosheth, restored his land, his security, and gave him a seat at the table.

King David said, “You shall always eat at my table.”

This is not a probationary period. This is not a temporary reprieve. No, this is permanence. He eats at the king’s table.

Hidden Beneath Grace

But notice—he’s not healed. He remains lame. He continues to be broken. And I find that one of the most encouraging details in the entire story.

Grace doesn’t erase our brokenness, but it covers it.

Mephibosheth still limps to the table. Every single day he makes his way into the king’s presence with that same halting, uneven gait—the limp that tells the story of everything he lost, everything he couldn’t fix, everything that remains undone in him. And yet the seat is still there. The table is still set. The king still welcomes him.

I know that limp. I live with it daily. The same struggles that marked me before grace found me have a way of following me still—the same patterns, the same weaknesses, the same uneven stride. Some days I arrive at the king’s table barely holding it together, wondering if this is the day the invitation gets rescinded.

It never does.

Because the miracle of grace isn’t that it makes us suddenly whole on this side of eternity—it’s that it covers what remains broken. His feet are hidden beneath the tablecloth, and ours are too. We are welcomed not because we have healed ourselves but because the king himself made a way. We still limp. But we still feast.

Our feet are covered and hidden under the table of grace. His feet are hidden beneath the tablecloth, and ours are too.

Thank God for grace. Thank God for Mephibosheth, who personified the state of every human that ever existed on this planet—except One.

When I was 3, I had an X-15.

Picture a small trike with more noise than brakes — and a whole lot of reckless joy.

I loved racing down hills on that thing — the wind in my face, the rattling wheels, the rush of freedom.

But I had one problem: I didn’t trust the pedals to slow me down. Instead, I’d press my shoes against the concrete. It worked… sort of. But it shredded my sneakers and bloodied my toes.

It drove my mom crazy — but it did keep me out of her hair.

My parents told that story for years…

it revealed something true about me:

I’ve always tried to control the uncontrollable.

I love adventure… to a certain point of fear.

Fear is a balancing act.

It’s good to have fear — otherwise, we might manufacture our own premature demise. (Like racing your X-15 off a ledge into oncoming traffic.)

But fear can also keep us inside.

Keep us fortifying our overblown rainy-day funds.

Keep us binge-watching the latest on Netflix.

Keep us blaming people, parties, and our own pitiful limitations.

And keep us from ever testing the thrill of the X-15 we call life.

We try to control pain — both the kind we feel and the kind we cause.

We try to manage our image and outcomes.

Sidenote: Sometimes we even try to manage God’s image — keeping Him neat and predictable– a Sunday School friendly version rather than this boundless ground-shaking Savior.

The Lion will not dwell in our cage.

Safety can be appreciated,

but life won’t stay inside the lines. Collisions happen. Hearts break. People disappoint us.

And yet — this is where life actually begins.

To avoid the mess, we turn to our self-invented tools:

People-pleasing.

Perfectionism.

Escapism.

Addiction — the “easy button” we press to avoid our deep need for connection.

They promise relief, but they deliver isolation.

The truth is, life with Jesus isn’t tidy. It’s wild. It’s unpredictable.

It’s the rush of the hill — with a Savior who says, “Trust Me. Don’t drag your feet.”

Surrender isn’t giving up; it’s opening up.

It’s connection. It’s risk. It’s grace.

Maybe the invitation today is this:

Trade your torn shoes for courage.

Stop trying to control the ride.

Be like Jesus– Live without cages.

There are no cages in heaven — and the only ones here are the ones we build ourselves.

I’m still that kid on the X-15, learning (again) how to let go and trust the wind.

I want to live like Jesus lived– Cage Free.

After heart of Redford’s passing, my mind wandered back to my sophomore year at Louisiana College, when I stepped into a darkened theater at the Alexandria Mall to watch “The Natural.” With just a couple of teenage months to spare I was captivated by what seemed like a simple story about baseball and second chances. Now, in the seventh inning stretch of my life, I approach the film with different eyes and accumulated experience. Perhaps the greatest revelation I’ve discovered is the Christ figure that emerges in fleeting glimpses throughout the movie through the character of Roy Hobbs.

Baseball has always been fertile ground for mythic tales and mind-bending consequences—from the ball slipping through Bill Buckner’s legs, to the limping gait of Kurt Gibson as he rounded the bases in the Dodger’s World Series, to the Babe pointing to the stands before his legendary home run. This week, I streamed the movie again, drawn perhaps by nostalgia and the timeless pull of great storytelling. As with any great movie, I discovered new layers I had never noticed before, or perhaps had never spent time truly contemplating. Mythological and biblical imagery abound in ways that are both subtle and profound. I’m sure I’m not nearly the first to notice them and I made a point not to Google it. I will after writing this.

I was particularly struck by the scene between The Judge and Hobbs, where Roy is tempted to throw games for money. The parallel to Jesus’s forty days in the wilderness became unmistakable. “Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor. ‘All this I will give you,’ he said, ‘if you will bow down and worship me'” (Matthew 4:8-9). The Judge’s seductive offer mirrors Satan’s temptation precisely. His promises of money and comfort strikingly reflect this biblical encounter.

https://www.youtube.com/embed/D69ShXtN__s?si=FPjkg86hB5iGKj7a

The lightning bolt serves as perhaps the film’s most potent symbol of supernatural power. Born from a tree struck by lightning, Roy’s bat—Wonderboy—carries mythic significance. The wooden bat itself echoes the cross, an instrument of both destruction and redemption. When his teammates become captivated by Roy’s miraculous performances and choose to stitch lightning bolts on their jerseys, it mirrors the Great Commission: “Therefore go and make disciples of all nations” (Matthew 28:19), each carrying forward the symbol of transformation.

Roy’s rejection of pure materialism echoes Jesus’s response: “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God'” (Matthew 4:4). His choice to pursue his calling rather than wealth reminds us of Philippians 2:7, where Christ “made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant,” choosing mission over personal gain.

The silver bullet piercing Roy’s side from the mysterious Harriet Bird echoes the fate of a more perfect One: “Instead, one of the soldiers pierced Jesus’ side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water” (John 19:34). After years of silence and exile, Roy emerges—much like Jesus striding out of the wilderness to begin his ministry. This resurrection motif transforms Roy from a fallen hero into something approaching the sacred.

Roy’s teammates become his disciples of sorts, transforming from a ragtag squad of nobodies into followers of a champion. There’s something profound about his mysterious, late arrival to the scene—Roy Hobbs seems to be on a divine mission, just as “Jesus went up on a mountainside and called to him those he wanted, and they came to him. He appointed twelve that they might be with him and that he might send them out to preach” (Mark 3:13-14).

https://www.youtube.com/embed/Y1pgp1BOqqM?si=TbRHpo6Ld2B9vmPY

The film’s ending offers perhaps its most heavenly imagery: Roy playing catch with his son in golden, almost ethereal light. This scene suggests paradise regained—all relationships restored, all purposes fulfilled. It evokes the promise found in Revelation 21:4: “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” I couldn’t help but think of my own father and all those who have passed before us, and the promise that we will all gather together again in that perfect light.

The Imperfect Savior: Certainly, there are profound differences between Roy Hobbs and the figure of Christ, even in metaphorical terms. Roy was full of pride, experienced a devastating fall, and struggled with very human weaknesses. Yet perhaps this is where the metaphor becomes most powerful—it places us in Roy’s shoes. Like the apostle Paul, we can say: “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do” (Romans 7:15). We are often attacked, frequently tempted, and sometimes betray those we love most.

The story of redemption echoes through the longings of our own hearts and lives, reminding us that “if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9).

Roy Hobbs is not Christ, but he points us toward Christ. His story reminds us that even the fallen can rise, even the wounded can heal others, and even those who have lost everything can find their way back to grace. In the end, “The Natural” offers us more than entertainment—it provides a glimpse of the gospel played out on America’s most mythic stage.

The metaphors may be imperfect, but they are undeniably present, woven throughout the film like threads of gold catching light in unexpected moments. Sometimes the most profound truths come to us not through sermons or scripture alone, but through the stories that capture our imagination and refuse to let go.

Mr. Redford, I don’t know if I’ll see you in the life to come. But I want to thank you—for bringing Bernard Malamud’s story to life with such care, dignity, and beauty. Through your performance, you gave me another glimpse of the gospel. Another reminder that even in a game, even in a story, we can catch sight of something eternal.

Grace slips through our fingers like water, not because it’s elusive, but because we keep clenching our fists. There’s something almost maddening about the concept of grace—how it defies every instinct we have about earning our place in this world. We live in a universe of transactions, of cause and effect, of merit and reward. So when we encounter love that asks for nothing in return, acceptance that comes without prerequisites, forgiveness that arrives before we even ask for it, our minds revolt. This cannot be! There must be a catch. And so we bargain for things we already possess.

We spend our days climbing mountains, thinking God waits at the summit with a checklist and a stopwatch. We catalog our good deeds like currency, counting up our prayers like coins in a jar, convinced that somewhere there’s a cosmic ledger where our efforts will finally tip the scales toward worthiness. All the while, He stands in the valley below, arms open, calling us home.

“There is always room for one more,” echoes through the chambers of our striving hearts. One more son. One more daughter. One more opportunity to simply receive what has already been given. But we’ve forgotten how to have open hands. We’ve trained ourselves to grasp, to work, to prove.

We know grace like the back of our hand—that familiar territory we’ve mapped with our minds—and yet we cannot seem to turn that hand palm-up in surrender.

The truth is devastating in its simplicity: the work has already been done. Every prayer we think we need to earn, every moment of acceptance we believe we must achieve, every drop of love we imagine we must prove ourselves worthy of—it’s already ours. Not because we’re perfect, but because we’re His.

We don’t need perfection. We need direction. Not toward some distant goal of worthiness, but toward the radical act of receiving. There’s something achingly familiar in the way we catalog our spiritual efforts, isn’t there? Like that haunting refrain that asks if we’ve got soul—we keep taking inventory of all the things we’ve done, as if the ledger itself might save us. But grace doesn’t keep score.

Still, we climb. We strive uphill, bloodied knees and calloused hands, trying to improve our spiritual résumé while Love itself waits in the mess of our valley. In our woundedness. In our spiritual chaos. The invitation isn’t to clean ourselves up first—it’s to come as we are, broken and beautiful and bewildered by grace.

“Come home,” He whispers, while we shout up the mountain asking to be accepted.

“Help me,” we cry, not realizing we’re already held.

“Redeem me,” we plead, blind to the fact that redemption happened long before we knew we needed it.

What He wants isn’t our perfection—it’s our passion. Not our achievements, but our attention. Not our worthiness, but our willingness to be loved without earning it. He’s waiting for that moment when we finally exhale the words that change everything: “Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.”

Broken, bloodied, and feeling utterly useless as we may be, this is the movement from chaos to serene—not through our striving, but through our surrender. Not by climbing higher, but by coming home.

Grace remains maddening because it asks us to accept what we cannot earn, receive what we did not work for, and trust in love that makes no sense by the world’s standards.

Perhaps that’s exactly the point.

In a world obsessed with merit and achievement, grace stands as a quiet revolution—a love that simply is, without condition or clause, waiting for us to stop climbing long enough to be embraced.

You know that moment when you’re the first one awake on a Saturday morning? Your phone isn’t buzzing every thirty seconds, and even the neighbors haven’t started their leaf blowers yet. You step outside with your coffee and suddenly realize: Holy cow, it’s actually quiet. Even your phone is still asleep. No Amazon delivery trucks rumbling by. Just birds doing their thing and wind in the trees – the same sounds people heard thousands of years ago before Spotify.

It hits me that this might be the only five minutes all day when I could actually hear God if He wanted to say something. Which makes me wonder: maybe the reason we struggle to hear from God isn’t because He’s not talking, but because we’ve gotten really good at noise.

One of my favorite writers, Bob Benson was asked in a radio interview, (long before podcasts were invented) “What are you trying to say? What’s the big message?” He had a seven word reply: God has something to say to you. The problem is that He most often speaks softly.

The story of young Samuel getting called by God in the middle of the night got me thinking about how we approach prayer today. Here are four ways we might be making it harder than it needs to be.

1. “God, I’ll do the talking. You just nod along.”

Samuel almost missed God’s voice entirely because he wasn’t expecting it. Sound familiar? We’ve turned prayer into this weird one-sided conversation where we dump our grocery list of requests on God and then say “Amen” like we’re hanging up the phone.

But what if God actually has opinions? What if He’s been trying to get a word in edgewise while we’re busy explaining our five-year plan? The Bible shows prayer as this back-and-forth thing – less like leaving a voicemail, more like texting with a friend who actually texts back.

2. “Here’s my wishlist, God. Thanks in advance.”

We’ve got real stuff going on – bills, relationships, health scares, that acrimonious supervisor. But sometimes I wonder if I’m so focused on getting God to sign off on my agenda that I never stop to ask what His might be.

What if God’s more interested in changing me than he is changing my circumstances? What if He’s got plans that are bigger than my immediate comfort zone? Wild thought, I know. But I have to realize that God isn’t focused on how to make me comfortable. It’s quite the opposite! As C.S. Lewis taught us: “I’m not sure God wants us to be happy. I think he wants us to love, and be loved. But we are like children, thinking our toys will make us happy and the whole world is our nursery. Something must drive us out of that nursery and into the lives of others, and that something is suffering.”

3. “God, please bless this thing I’ve already decided to do.”

This one’s sneaky. We make our plans, get emotionally invested, and then ask God to rubber-stamp them. “Dear God, I really want this opportunity/relationship/thing. Please make it work out!” Maybe the better question isn’t “Will you bless this?” but “What do you think I should do?” and then actually waiting for an answer.

4. “God, I’ve got seven minutes before my next Zoom call.”

We’ve gotten pretty good at compartmentalizing everything, including God. Twenty minutes of quiet time in the morning, check the spiritual box, now back to real life. It would be a shame for us to get to the end of our lives realizing that prayer and contemplation were actually the “real life” we were created for.

Maybe Try This Instead

Remember what Eli told Samuel? “Next time you hear that voice, just say: ‘Speak, Lord. Your servant is listening.'” Not exactly rocket science, but harder than it sounds.

What if we started our prayer time with our mouths closed and our mental chatter on pause? What if we actually waited to see what God might want to talk about before launching into our presentation?

Try starting with something like:

“God, I’ve got seventeen things I want to talk to you about, but first – What do You want to say to me?”

“Lord, my brain is ping-ponging between my to-do list and that weird thing my boss said yesterday. Help me settle down here so I can actually focus. (Takes a breath) Okay, I’m listening.”

“God, I’m honestly pretty frustrated right now, but I’m here and I’m listening anyway.”

“Lord, take all the time you need with me. I’m not going anywhere. And when I do leave this spot, help me keep my ears open throughout the day – even in the noise, even in the silence. I want to hear what you’re really trying to tell me.”

The world’s only gotten noisier since Samuel’s time, but God’s voice hasn’t gotten any quieter. Maybe we just need to remember how to tune in.

“Prayer is nothing else than an intimate sharing between friends; it means taking time frequently to be alone with Him who we know loves us.” Teresa of Avila

“Speak, Lord. I’m listening.”

“So, what’s shaken’ down there?” Gabe asked Raphael, a seasoned guardian of an American church. 

“Looks like they’ve gathered to worship,” Raphael said as he squinted down at the entrance. 

“What’s that lady carrying in? Looks like some kind of package,” Gabe asked

“Probably a casserole,” came the matter-of-fact response.

“A casserole?”

“Must be having a special ‘something-or-other’ after worship.”

Gabe tilted his head, confused. “So, this is what they call worship?” Gabe had been assigned to the churches in Asia, where they worship secretively. So, it was a little startling to see that big cross and that sign out there in front of God and everybody. 

“No pastors getting whisked away to sketchy tribunals? No believers getting disappeared?” He paused, taking in the half-empty parking lot. “So, you mean to tell me they’re free to worship? No restrictions? Crowd seems a little on the lighter side.”

“Well, they have more options over here. They can stream, listen to other pastors, or get the highlights on TikTok. Plus, YouTube is full of pastors that are, according to them, more viral. I think they’re just used to worship. They’re comfortable with it all, and they just want to come whenever it fits into their plan.”

“Really?”

“I’m not kidding. I’ve been watching over this church for years. Lots of churches in North America are like this. It’s more of a social thing.”

Their conversation was interrupted by raised voices from the church steps. “Hey, look over there! That guy looks pretty upset.”

Raphael sighed. “I expected this. It’s been boiling for quite some time now.”

“What’s been boiling?”

“This feud. It started on X. Those two guys have been egging each other on for weeks. They’re all in a fuss over the church finances.” 

Gabe’s eyes widened. “That church has money?”

“Of course. This is America, the richest nation in the world. The church even pays its leaders.”

“Wow!”

But it’s deeper than that. This church is filled with people who are all focused on all the MAGA controversies, still arguing about Covid, where it came from, lots of other stuff too, Epstein files, whatever…”

As they watched the congregation settle into their cushioned chairs, Gabe grew restless. “I can’t wait to see what worship is like. When does it start?”

“It already has.”

Gabe observed the scene below with growing bewilderment. “That’s worship? Everyone’s watching. Nobody’s doing anything!”

“They’re tired. They’re a very busy group: travel ball, fellowships, their jobs, their hobbies and Netflix rolled out three new limited series. It’s a lot,” Raphael explained with practiced patience.

“Are they just going to sit there?”

“No, they’ll stand a time or two. With those padded chairs, I can’t say I’d blame them for sitting.”

The singing began, and Gabe listened intently. “Who’s the guy with the mic?”

“That’s the band leader. He leads them in a kind of group karaoke. They follow along on the screens.”

Gabe squinted down at the stage. “Nice wings on his tattoo, though. Quite impressive artwork.”

The service continued, and when someone came to the microphone, Gabe leaned forward expectantly. “Finally, they’re praying!”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, they don’t really pray much. Hardly ever in private… Prayer closets are rare and prayer meetings are filled with lots of medical jargon. This is the extent of being ‘prayed up’ for most of them”

As the service wound down, Gabe looked at the empty tank behind the stage. “I guess that’s the baptistry.”

“Right. It broke a couple of years ago. Something with the plumbing went haywire but they don’t really miss it anyway.”

Raphael studied his companion’s troubled face and asked, “What do you think happened to them?”

“Kind of a Laodicea situation?” Gabe observed.”

“Right. No passion. No change. Just check the box and get back home before the game.”

“If only they could have seen what we saw in the first few centuries of the church.”

“Or even the Christians across the ocean who face persecution right now .”

As the service concluded and people began filtering out, chatting casually about weekend plans and rating the sermon, Raphael yawned and said, “Gabe, I miss the days when things were cookin’ in America and I’m not talking casseroles.”

“Sorry, bud. You’ve got a tough assignment,” Gabe said empathetically. “Well, I’d better head to our division staff meeting. We just got prayed into some new assignments from believers in Nepal, Bangkok, Tehran, and Bogota.”

“You always get to go to where the action is. I’m stuck with Americans impressing each other on Instagram.”

“Hang in there, Raphy. Things could turn on a dime here. All it takes is a remnant.” Gabe said as he patted Raphael on the back.

“I hope so. It’s been a while,” Raphael said to himself gravely as he watched Gabe disappeared into the evening sky. 

There’s a thought experiment that haunts me: What would happen if we took the Bible seriously? Not just as a collection of inspiring stories or moral guidelines, but as the actual Word of God that should fundamentally reshape how we live, love, and engage with the world around us.

The primary foundation of any authentic faith movement should be “Believing the Bible as the Word of God.” But here’s the radical part—what if we actually lived like we believed it?

Love Without Borders

When Jesus said “love your enemies,” He wasn’t speaking metaphorically or offering a gentle suggestion for our consideration. He was laying down a revolutionary principle that should make the church the most confounding institution on earth. Imagine if we actually loved everybody—even our enemies—to such an extent that our enemies would look at the church and say, “Wow, those crazy people love me!”

This isn’t the sanitized, comfortable love we often practice within our church walls. This is the kind of love that crosses political lines, racial boundaries, and ideological divides. It’s the love that makes people scratch their heads and wonder what on earth has gotten into us.

A Consistent Respect for Life

If we truly held a radical respect for life, our witness would become beautifully consistent. We’d fight as vehemently against the death penalty as we do against abortion. We’d recognize that being pro-life means protecting life at every stage, in every circumstance, without the convenient exceptions that align with our political preferences.

This consistent ethic of life would make us uncomfortable allies to many and perfect allies to none—which is exactly where the church should be when it’s truly following Christ rather than partisan politics.

Listening Like Jesus

Too often, we have become known more for winning debates than for loving people. But what if we listened to people the way Jesus listened to them? Instead of feeling compelled to win arguments and exclude those with opposing viewpoints, what if we created spaces where people felt heard, valued, and welcomed?

Jesus had this remarkable ability to make people feel seen and understood, even when He disagreed with their choices. He listened first, loved always, and let transformation happen naturally through relationship rather than through rhetorical conquest.

Seeing Christ in the Poor

The Bible is crystal clear about how we should treat poor people—as human representations of Christ Himself. Yet somehow we’ve managed to create elaborate theological justifications for why this doesn’t apply to our economic policies or personal generosity.

What if we actually believed that when we encounter someone in need, we’re encountering Jesus? How would that change our budget priorities, our voting patterns, our daily interactions with those society has pushed to the margins?

Going Instead of Staying

We’ve become remarkably comfortable with staying put, building bigger buildings, and creating more programs for ourselves. But Jesus called His followers to “go.” We should be more compelled to move toward the world’s pain than to retreat into our sanctuaries.

This doesn’t mean everyone needs to become a missionary, but it does mean the church should be fundamentally oriented outward rather than inward. We should be known more for what we’re bringing to the world than for what we’re protecting ourselves from.

Cleansing the Temple

Jesus didn’t just teach about spiritual purity—He grabbed a whip and drove the money changers out of the temple. Maybe it’s time for some serious temple self-cleansing programs to purge the church of widespread commercialism and politics.

What would it look like if our denominational leaders were seen more often with mops and wrenches than with microphones and marketing materials? What if they were known for their service rather than their strategies, their humility rather than their platforms?

New Heroes

Our heroes should once again be found in mud huts and rice fields half a world away instead of in corner offices and television studios. The people we celebrate should be those who are sacrificially loving the world rather than those who are successfully managing religious enterprises.

This isn’t to diminish the importance of leadership and organization, but rather to remember what we’re organizing toward and who we’re leading people to become.

A Little Holy Rebellion

And here’s where things get fun: for every preacher who tries to turn the church into a political organization, they should be fair game for wedgies. (Okay, maybe that’s taking it too far, but you get the point.)

The church loses its prophetic voice when it becomes an extension of any political party. We’re called to be a peculiar people, not a predictable voting bloc.

The Challenge

This vision might sound impossible, naive, or even dangerous to some. Good. The gospel has always been a little dangerous to the status quo. It’s always challenged comfortable arrangements and safe assumptions.

The question isn’t whether this kind of radical faith is practical or politically expedient. The question is whether it’s biblical. And if it is—if this is what it actually means to believe the Bible as the Word of God—then maybe it’s time to stop making excuses and start making changes.

What would your church look like if it actually believed? What would your life look like? What would the world think of a church that loved this radically, served this consistently, and believed this authentically?

Maybe it’s time to find out.

Remember the movie “A Bug’s Life”? If you have kids, you’ve probably watched it countless times—children love repeating their favorite films over and over. In that animated classic, a colony of ants lives in constant terror of the grasshoppers who swoop in like a plague, devouring everything in sight. The ants cower and hide, always wondering when the next attack will come, living their lives in fear of when the enemy will return.

This vivid picture perfectly captures the situation we find in Judges 6, where the Israelites faced their own version of grasshoppers—the Midianites. Just like those animated ants, God’s people were hiding in caves and strongholds, paralyzed by fear, never knowing when their enemies would strike next.

Fear has a way of making us feel small. Whether it’s that uncomfortable meeting with the boss or facing circumstances that seem insurmountable, we all know what it’s like to feel overwhelmed and inadequate. Yet within each of us—regardless of our perceived weaknesses—lies a warrior that God sees and wants to use.

The story of Gideon in Judges 6-7 reveals a profound truth: God doesn’t see us the way we see ourselves. He sees the warrior within, even when we’re cowering in fear, much like those frightened ants who would eventually discover their own courage.

When Fear Takes Hold

The Israelites found themselves in a desperate cycle that feels all too familiar. They had rebelled against God, leading to isolation, then bondage under their enemies, the Midianites. Like locusts, these enemies would swoop in and destroy everything the Israelites had worked for, leaving them hiding in caves and strongholds.

This cycle—rebellion, isolation, bondage—mirrors patterns we see in our own lives. When we distance ourselves from God, we often find ourselves isolated from others as well. That isolation creates a void we try to fill with other things: alcohol, drugs, pornography, or countless other substitutes for the soul connection that only Jesus can provide.

But there’s hope in this cycle. When we reach the end of ourselves, when we cry out to the Lord in our helplessness, He is faithful to respond with deliverance.

The Unlikely Warrior

Enter Gideon—hardly the picture of a mighty warrior. We find him threshing wheat in a winepress, hiding from the very enemies God would soon call him to defeat. Yet when the angel of the Lord appeared to him, the greeting was startling: “The Lord is with you, you mighty man of valor.”

This reminds me of a personal experience that perfectly captures how God sees us differently than we see ourselves. During seminary, I worked as a jailer—a job I was completely unsuited for. I wasn’t tough, didn’t have the “spiritual gift” of being a jailer, and dreaded the day I had to get certified on the rifle range.

I’d never really shot a rifle before, except for hunting squirrels with my grandfather in Louisiana. Standing on that windy day in Fort Worth, Texas, watching these burly, experienced marksmen struggle to hit even one or two clay targets, I felt like Don Knotts—shaking with fear and nerves. I needed to hit seven out of twelve to get certified, but I just prayed to hit one so I wouldn’t be completely humiliated.

They called me “preacher boy” and saved me for last. As I stood there, rifle trembling in my hands, I whispered one more prayer: “Lord, just let me hit one.” The first clay target flew out, and somehow—boom—I hit it. Then the second. By the end, I was the only one to get certified that day, hitting eight out of twelve while seasoned marksmen looked on in amazement.

In that moment, I understood Gideon. I was the unlikely candidate, shaking in fear, yet God saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself. Just as the angel called Gideon “mighty man of valor” while he cowered in a winepress, God sees the warrior in us even when we feel most inadequate.

Gideon’s response reveals his mindset: doubt, questions, and complaints about God’s apparent absence. “If the Lord is with us, why has all this happened to us?” he asked. Sound familiar? We often get stuck asking “why” when God wants to move us to “what”—what He’s calling us to do next.

Despite Gideon’s protests about being from the weakest clan and the least in his family, God’s response was simple and powerful: “Surely I will be with you.” This phrase—”I will be with you”—might be the most powerful promise we can cling to. As the psalmist wrote, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.”

God’s Unconventional Strategy

When Gideon finally assembled an army, he gathered 32,000 men. But God said it was too many. After allowing the fearful to leave, 22,000 departed. Then, through an unusual test involving how the men drank water, God whittled the army down to just 300 men—less than 1% of the original force.

Why would God do this? Because when we rely on our own strength and resources, we get the glory. But when God uses the small, the broken, and the unlikely, everyone knows it had to be divine intervention.

God equipped these 300 men not with swords and shields, but with trumpets, empty jars, and torches. Hardly conventional weapons of war, yet they contained profound spiritual symbolism that would later be echoed by the apostle Paul.

Three Symbols of Spiritual Warfare

The Trumpet represents proclamation. Every time we speak the name of Jesus, we’re wielding the most powerful trumpet imaginable. Our testimony, our witness, our proclamation of Christ’s lordship—these are weapons that confuse and defeat the enemy.

The Jar symbolizes brokenness. Just as the men had to break their jars to reveal the light within, God must break us to use us effectively. Like bread broken to feed thousands, our brokenness becomes the means through which God’s power flows.

The Torch represents God’s glory. Hidden within the clay jars until the moment of revelation, the light points to the glory of God shining through fragile human vessels.

Centuries later, Paul would write in 2 Corinthians 4:5-7 about how we carry this treasure in jars of clay, making it clear that the power comes from God, not ourselves. Gideon lived this truth before Paul wrote it.

The Power of Unified Minority

Here’s a crucial principle: a unified minority always confuses the enemy. Satan thrives on division, schisms, and clicks within the church. But when a small group of people agrees together in the Lord, amazing things happen.

Those 300 men, following Gideon’s lead, surrounded the enemy camp. At the signal, they blew their trumpets, broke their jars, and revealed their torches, shouting “The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!” The resulting confusion caused the Midianite army to turn on itself.

Your Warrior Calling

What does this mean for us today? First, recognize that God sees the warrior in you, regardless of how inadequate you feel. You might be hiding in your own version of a winepress, but God is calling you a “mighty man [or woman] of valor.”

Second, remember that Jesus is with you. This simple truth can transform any situation. You may have lost your job, but Jesus is with you. You may be facing illness, but Jesus is with you. You don’t need anything else beyond this assurance.

Third, be willing to let God break you. Our brokenness isn’t something to hide from—it’s the very thing God uses to shine His light through us to a dark world.

Finally, don’t be overwhelmed by the size of the opposition. God doesn’t need an army of thousands when He has a few faithful people willing to follow His unconventional methods.

The same God who gave Gideon victory with 300 men and clay pots is ready to work through you today. The question isn’t whether you’re qualified—it’s whether you’re willing to let the warrior within step forward in faith, knowing that Jesus is with you.

Your winepress moment might just be the beginning of your greatest victory.

The grocery cart announced Jed’s arrival long before he came into view. The front-left wheel squealed with each rotation, a metallic protest that had become his signature sound in Legalville.

Jed didn’t notice the town’s pitiful glances. After fifteen years of collecting cans and bottles, he had perfected the art of being simultaneously visible and invisible. Visible enough that people would set aside their recyclables for him. Invisible enough that they wouldn’t feel obligated to engage.

His cardboard refrigerator box stood in the narrow alley between First National Bank and Trust and Renaldo’s Bar and Grill—another of life’s ironies that was lost on no one but Jed himself. Each night, he would carefully maneuver through the flap he’d cut as a door, settle onto his frayed sleeping bag, and count the day’s earnings. On good days, it might be enough for a can of generic dog food. On exceptional days, he might splurge on a dented can of beans from the discount shelf. This had been Jed’s life for so long that he couldn’t remember anything else. Legalville’s boundaries were the boundaries of his world, and the daily rhythm of collection and survival was the only song he knew.

Until Tuesday.

The man in the charcoal suit looked comically out of place standing before Jed’s cardboard home, his polished shoes reflecting the afternoon sun. He held a leather briefcase in one hand and a document in the other.

“Mr. Jedidiah Lawrence?” the man asked, squinting at the paper.

Jed froze, his cart half-filled with the morning’s findings. Nobody had called him by his full name in years. Most folks in town didn’t even know he had a last name.

“That’s me,” he answered cautiously.

“My name is Thomas Blackwell, attorney-at-law.” The man extended his hand, then awkwardly retracted it when Jed didn’t reciprocate. “I have some news that I believe will be of great interest to you.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jed sat on an overturned milk crate, staring at the document in his dirty hands. The words blurred before his eyes, but the number remained crystal clear: $2,000,000.

“Your uncle, Gerald Lawrence, passed away last month. Having no children of his own, he left his considerable estate to your father. Since your father passed away last year, you are the sole heir.”

“Two million dollars,” Jed whispered.

“Indeed,” Thomas nodded. “The funds have already been transferred to an account in your name. This card,” he produced a shiny black rectangle, “gives you immediate access to your inheritance.”

The next few hours passed in a blur. Someone from the local newspaper got wind of the story, and suddenly Jed’s alley was filled with cameras and microphones. People who had walked past him for years were now hanging on his every word.

“What will you do with the money, Jed?” a reporter shouted over the crowd.

“Are you going to move out of Legalville?” asked another.

Jed looked at the eager faces surrounding him, then at his cardboard home. A slow grin spread across his face, revealing the three remaining teeth he possessed.

“I’ve got it all planned out,” he announced.

The crowd leaned in.

“First thing, I’m gonna buy some new cardboard. The good kind, thick and sturdy. Gonna rebuild this place proper-like.”

Confused murmurs rippled through the crowd.

“Then,” Jed continued, warming to his subject, “no more generic dog food. I’m upgrading to the name brands! And Spam! Do you know how long it’s been since I had fried Spam for breakfast?”

A reporter stepped forward, microphone extended. “Jed, you understand you have two million dollars, right? You could buy a mansion. Travel the world. Never work another day in your life.”

Jed nodded enthusiastically. “That’s why I’m not stopping there. I’m getting plastic plates instead of paper ones! And the grocery store manager will sell me one of those big carts if I offer enough. Think of all the cans I could collect with a cart twice this size!”

The crowd fell silent.

“He doesn’t get it,” a woman whispered to her companion. “He just doesn’t get it.”

---

Jed’s story sounds absurd, doesn’t it? And yet many of us do exactly that.”

We have been given an inheritance beyond calculation. We are not distant relatives of royalty—we are children of the King himself. We have been transferred from one kingdom to another, from darkness to light. But how many of us are still pushing squeaky spiritual grocery carts through life? How many of us are settling for slightly better versions of our old existence rather than embracing the completely new life we’ve been given? The inheritance is already yours. The declaration has been made. But like Jed, many of us can’t look beyond our slum life into our new reality.

Your inheritance in Christ isn’t something you have to earn or deserve. It’s already yours—not because of anything you’ve done, but because of everything He has done.

The Father has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the kingdom of light. He has rescued you from the dominion of darkness and brought you into the kingdom of His Son.

Today, you can choose to step out of your spiritual cardboard box. You can leave behind the dog food of the world. You can embrace your true identity and the unfathomable riches that are already yours in Christ.

Not because you’ve earned it.
Not because you deserve it.
But because you are loved.
And that makes all the difference.

“Giving thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the kingdom of light. For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves.” Colossians 1:12-13