Stop Being Weird. Be New Testament Normal

Turning the Church Right-Side Up

David O. Harrison

Stop Being Weird

Be New Testament Normal

Turning the Church Right-side Up

ISBN: 979-8280233386

© David O. Harrison 2025

Published By Thrive! Books

thrivebooks.co

Citations

Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION® NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Scripture quotations marked NKJV are taken from the Holy Bible, New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked AMP are taken from the Amplified® Bible, Copyright © 2015 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. www.Lockman.org

Contents

Citations

Introduction

Whatever Happened to Normal?

Chapter 1

Lemonade—When the Church Forgot to Thrive

Chapter 2

Sue

Chapter 3

If and Listen—Are You Really Listening?

Chapter 4

If and Hear—Spiritual Taste Buds

Chapter 5

If and Voice—Recognizing the Voice That Calls You by Name

Chapter 6

If and Faith—When Trust Outruns Emotion

Chapter 7

If and Believe—The Kind of Belief That Sees Glory

Chapter 8

If and Words—Scripture as Presence, Not Just Principle

Chapter 9

If and Jesus—Do You Believe What He Said?

Chapter 10

If You Obey from the Heart—Obedience and the Smile of God

Chapter 11

Am I Going to Heaven—Saying Yes to the One Who’s Already Said Yes to You

Chapter 12

My Way or the Highway—When Church Becomes Our Kingdom

Chapter 13

When ‘Me’ Replaces Messiah

Chapter 14

Why Churches Fail to Thrive—The Church That Burned Down to Live Again

Chapter 15

Revival and Salvation—When the Fire Comes for Us

Chapter 16

If You Love Me—Revival is Spelled D-E-V-O-T-I-O-N

Chapter 17

Turning the Church Right-Side Up—When Jesus Pastors the Church

Chapter 18

Worship—With Bricks

Chapter 19

Paradigm Changing Prayer

Chapter 20

Dreaming—Dare to Ask, “What’s Your Dream.”

Chapter 21

If and Thrive—A Sparkling Church in Dusty Places

Chapter 22

If and Religion—When Religion Smells Like Mercy

Chapter 23

Go, Invite, Gather—When the Banquet isn’t Full Yet

Chapter 24

Non-Conformism: It’s in My Genes

Chapter 25

Leadership Part 1: What’s in a Name

Chapter 26

Leadership Part 2: A Character Study

Chapter 27

Leadership Part 3: A Look in the Mirror

Chapter 28

So, You Want to Be a Good Leader—The Gospel in a Towel and Basin

Chapter 29

Elders and Deacons—Character Over Title

Chapter 30

Women in Leadership—God’s Daughters Still Prophesy

Chapter 31

Gifts in the Body—The Church Wakes Up

Chapter 32

Repeatable, Avoidable Mistakes—The Cycle of Quiet Collapse

Chapter 33

The Loving Intolerance of God

Chapter 34

Tattoos, Hats, and the Joy of the Vine

Chapter 35

Choosing Sides—The Cost of Fence Sitting

Chapter 36

Don’t Worry—Be Happy!

Chapter 37

The 49 Commands of Jesus

Chapter 38

Epilogue—Whooping, Hollering and Dancing

Chapter 39

Where do we go from here?—A Roadmap for Renewal

Also by David O. Harrison

Group Study Guides

To Sue and all those with a heart like hers.

And to Derek, who encouraged me to “stop being weird”—I’m still working on that one.

Introduction

Whatever Happened to Normal?

I’ve often wondered how we’d respond if Acts chapter 2 showed up in our church bulletin.

“Everyone was filled with awe... All the believers were together and had everything in common... They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts... And the Lord added to their number daily…”

Sounds like the stuff of legend, doesn’t it?

We read those verses with a kind of wistful admiration, as if the early Church belonged to another dimension—some untouchable golden age when miracles were common, generosity was instinctive, and believers lived with a singleness of purpose we can barely imagine. Today, that kind of unity feels almost foreign. We’re more likely to associate “normal” church with budget meetings, parking lot politics, and a desperate scramble to stay “relevant.”

But what if we’ve gotten it backward?

What if that—the Spirit-soaked, radically generous, deeply devoted community of Acts—wasn’t the exception at all? What if it was God’s design from the beginning? Not as a fairy tale, but as a blueprint?

This book grew out of that question. I’ve come to believe we don’t need to invent a new kind of Church. We need to rediscover an ancient one.

Now, don’t get me wrong. The Church in Acts wasn’t perfect. Read a few more chapters, and you’ll see hypocrisy, conflict, and blind spots—just like in our churches today. But underneath the flaws was a stunning clarity. A center that held. A Spirit that moved not just around them, but within them. They didn’t gather for performance—they gathered because something (or Someone) was compelling them forward. Together.

That’s what I mean by “New Testament Normal.”

It’s not about replicating first-century hairstyles or synagogue seating charts. It’s about recovering first-century priorities. A faith that breathes. A people who don’t just believe in Jesus, but follow Him—into the margins, into the mystery, into the messy business of loving the world He died to save.

Along the way, we’ve made church weird—not weird in the holy, countercultural sense, but weird in the bureaucratic, over-programmed, spiritually anemic kind of way. We’ve created systems that hum along without prayer, calendars full of activity but light on obedience. Somehow, we’ve traded incarnation for institution—and called it progress.

This book is not a guilt trip. It’s an invitation.

An invitation to imagine again. To remember what Jesus intended. To return—not with rose-colored glasses or nostalgic sighs, but with a fresh hunger for the life He promised.

You'll find no formulas here, only possibilities. “If” statements, really. Gentle conditionalities, the kind the Bible is full of:

If you seek Me with all your heart…

If you remain in Me…

If you hear My voice and open the door…

If we listen.

If we believe.

If we obey.

If we gather.

If we go.

Then—perhaps—our churches will not only survive.

They will thrive.

They will become what they were meant to be all along: living proof of a living God.

In the perpetual wonder of grace,

Chapter 1

Lemonade—When the Church Forgot to Thrive

The instructions of the Lord are perfect, reviving the soul.

The decrees of the Lord are trustworthy, making wise the simple.

The commandments of the Lord are right, bringing joy to the heart.

The commands of the Lord are clear, giving insight for living.

Psalm 19:7-8

She said it with a straight face: “When they switched from coffee to lemonade, that was the final straw.”

It sounded absurd at first—almost comic. A woman leaves her church over the choice of beverage? But beneath her words lay something deeper, more sorrowful. A slow erosion had been happening for years, perhaps decades. Coffee was the last marker of vitality in a church already withering on the vine. The shift to lemonade merely made it undeniable.

I’ve come to believe that much of faith lives in the tension between the trivial and the transcendent. We look for signs of life—a warm welcome, meaningful community, reverent worship—and sometimes we find only lukewarm lemonade and plastic smiles. The tragedy isn’t the beverage. It’s what the beverage reveals: a church that forgot how to thrive.

The modern Church is enamored with programs, often forgetting the foundation. Strategies abound for attracting people, but the question few dare ask is: What are we attracting them to? If we do not anchor ourselves in the promises and principles of Scripture, we risk becoming a place of entertainment, not transformation.

This book does not aim to condemn. God knows we’ve had enough judgment. Instead, it is meant as a hand extended in hope. The picture painted by Luke in Acts 2 is not merely historical; it’s aspirational. People breaking bread, sharing hearts, praising God, seeing lives changed. What if that were not an ancient memory but a present reality?

In the Hebrew Scriptures, the word “thrive” takes on many forms—to blossom, to multiply, to bear fruit. These are not the metrics of attendance charts, but of spiritual life. They are, in a sense, God’s own language for what a healthy soul and a vibrant Church look like.

And that curious little word: IF. It holds both promise and peril. Scripture is full of if-then statements—not as bargains, but as invitations. IF you walk humbly, IF you give generously, IF you forgive, THEN your life will mirror the heart of God. IF you neglect justice or hoard blessings, THEN the rot sets in. Conditional logic, yes. But also covenantal love.

Jesus never offered a formula for success. He promised a cross and resurrection. He promised that if we followed Him, we’d lose our lives to find them. In a world of self-help and motivational slogans, His words still sting with unsettling clarity.

I once read that there are over a thousand commands and exhortations in the New Testament. Yet, many of them go unread, unpreached, unpracticed. We affirm the Bible with our lips while disregarding its words with our lives. James warned us of this very thing: those who hear and do nothing are like people who forget their own reflection.

Thriving, then, begins not with applause or prosperity but with obedience. Simple, quiet, often unnoticed obedience. It means honouring the Sabbath, even when your calendar mocks you. It means sharing your table with the hungry and your prayers with the forgotten. It means asking hard questions—not of others first, but of ourselves.

Once, long before smartphones and streaming screens, we told our stories through Kodachrome slides. The kind you held up to the light or loaded into a projector with a satisfying click. Each slide captured a moment—a smile frozen in time, a mountain drenched in sunset, a child caught mid-laughter. But as anyone who’s used a slide projector knows, there were eight possible ways to load a slide, and only one of them would yield the intended image. The rest turned your memory upside down, backwards, or inside out.

I sometimes wonder if God feels that way when He looks at the Church.

Consider the alphabet: even letters like G, Q, and R can be flipped in multiple directions—eight, in fact—and only one reads as intended. The rest are disorienting, puzzling, even unreadable. It’s a curious reflection on how easily we can distort what was meant to be beautiful, how easily we can turn something sacred into something confusing.

Galileo, brilliant mind that he was, had the unusual gift of mirror-writing—his words legible only in reflection. An intriguing skill, but one that would make most books unreadable to the average eye. And perhaps, without realizing it, we sometimes do the same in church life: writing a story no one can follow, flipping the image of Christ upside down through our practices, our politics, our priorities.

It’s not enough for the Church to merely show up with images and stories. The story we tell must be clear, coherent, and compelling. A slideshow filled with blurry or repeated frames won’t move the soul. Nor will a novel where every chapter says the same thing, or worse, speaks in code. Yet, isn’t that how some congregations feel—either chaotic or painfully monotonous?

Could it be that some churches are operating on orientations two through eight, when only one aligns with the story God is telling?

Scripture does not give us every detail on church structure or leadership style, but it gives us something far more essential: a way. A way of humility. A way of truth. A way of love that does not boast, a mercy that does not manipulate. That path is narrow—not because God enjoys restricting us, but because clarity matters when the world is watching.

A thriving church is like a masterfully told story—full of wonder, unexpected beauty, and breathtaking grace. But it only thrives when we orient our lives and our leadership to the Author’s intent. Otherwise, we risk projecting a faith upside down—still visible, perhaps, but confusing, distant, and easy to walk away from

The gospel is too precious for that. And God’s people too deeply loved.

I was grocery shopping the other day, and, as is often my habit, I prayed before I went in. Nothing fancy—just, “Lord, please bless me as I shop.” Then I added, almost as a postscript, “In Jesus’ name,” because somehow that seals the hope with expectation. I had about twenty items on my list, and as I moved down the aisles, one after another bore the cheerful label of ‘SPECIAL!’

At first, I chalked it up to coincidence. But after the fifth or sixth marked-down item, I found myself grinning, half-suspicious that the King of the Universe was having a bit of fun with me. Then came the last item on my list—avocados. The display towered high, each bag holding five perfectly ripe specimens. But there was no price. No sign. No hint. It felt like a small test. Was I willing to trust God even in the checkout line?

I placed the bag in my cart. It was the last item to be rung through, and I watched the screen with the exaggerated suspense of someone waiting for lottery numbers. “Avocado, bag, $3.44. Saving $2.55.”

And there it was—provision with a wink.

A small thing, really. But grace often hides in the small things. A discount. A ripe avocado. A God who notices and delights to surprise. We thrive not because everything goes right, but because even in grocery aisles, we are not alone.

Grace has always been found in the ordinary.

Think of these early chapters as a trail of devotions—small cairns along a much longer journey. They exist not to lecture, but to orient. To remind us what we believe and, perhaps more crucially, why we believe it. You may find yourself raising an eyebrow from time to time, and if that happens, I invite you to go back. Reread. Let the IFs talk to each other.

These aren’t airtight arguments. I don’t pretend to have all the answers. But I welcome the dialogue. Correction, even. I’ve always found Proverbs right: iron sharpens iron.

And while this book leans toward encouragement, the Bible is candid—often painfully so. God’s voice includes the tender and the terrifying. The warnings, the rebukes, the hard truths are all part of the same love story. A holy God who will not settle for our halfheartedness.

Some of what follows may feel provocative or even uncomfortable. Not because it’s intentionally confrontational, but because Scripture often is. Jesus didn’t hesitate to overturn tables—or assumptions. And so, if you disagree with something here, I ask only that you wrestle honestly. Search the Scriptures. Test it with context. Can your counterpoint be rooted in not just one verse, but three that agree?

Leaders in the Church often ask hard questions about their people: Why don’t they stay? Why don’t they serve? Why don’t they give? But perhaps the more urgent question is not “What’s wrong with them?”—it’s “What are we missing?” “What have we forgotten?” “What are we offering that’s worth staying for?”

It’s not that God has been silent. He has spoken, and clearly. Take Isaiah 58. You’ll find twenty conditional phrases woven through, like a liturgy of IF and THEN:

“IF you do away with the yoke of oppression, with the pointing finger and malicious talk, AND IF you spend yourselves on behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, THEN your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday.

The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame.

[THEN] You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.

[THEN] Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins and will raise up the age-old foundations; [THEN] you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.

“IF you keep your feet from breaking the Sabbath and from doing as you please on my holy day, IF you call the Sabbath a delight and the Lord’s holy day honourable, AND IF you honour it by not going your own way and not doing as you please or speaking idle words, THEN you will find your joy in the Lord, and I will cause you to ride in triumph on the heights of the land and to feast on the inheritance of your father Jacob.”

For the mouth of the Lord has spoken. (Isaiah 58:9a–14 NIV)

IF, THEN.

Again and again, we see the pattern. Not a formula, but a heartbeat. A whisper that says: there is a way to thrive. Not through striving or spectacle, but through humility, justice, and Sabbath rest. Through the kind of faith that rearranges priorities and remembers the poor.

And perhaps, above all, through remembering that God’s most enduring miracles often begin with IF.

If this book challenges you, I hope it does so not with guilt, but with invitation. Let it be a mirror, a flashlight, a friend.

Because in a world that idolizes relevance, perhaps the Church’s greatest gift is resilience. Not a polished image, but a living Body.

And when the Body thrives, even lemonade tastes like grace—refreshment on a summer’s day.

Chapter 2

Sue

“You are citizens along with all of God’s holy people. You are members of God’s family. Together, we are his house, built on the foundation of the apostles and the prophets. And the cornerstone is Christ Jesus himself. We are carefully joined together in him, becoming a holy temple for the Lord.” Ephesians 2:19-21 (NLT)

The Church, at its best, surprises us. It slips past the guarded fronts we wear to Sunday services and confronts us with real, raw grace in the unlikeliest of places. In people like Sue.

Sue, a longtime friend of our family, has lived a life full of service. She worked as a girls’ camp director and youth leader, then unexpectedly switched gears, starting a landscaping business that flourished. But her greatest act of faith, in my view, has nothing to do with platforms or projects. It lies in her quiet, daily sacrifices.

Sue now cares full-time for her mother, Marj, who is slipping away due to Alzheimer’s disease. With only a few hours off each week, Sue lives tethered to a woman she deeply loves—and sometimes can hardly recognize. “I’ve come to hate my mom,” she once said, eyes glistening. Then, after a breath: “I love her with all my heart. I just hate what this awful disease has made her become.”

I’ve often wondered why God permits such suffering in the lives of those who give so much. But what I’ve learned from people like Sue is that faith is not the absence of sorrow. It is sorrow lived in the presence of God.

One evening, Sue took a rare break and sat by the lake near her home. Guitar in hand, she sang “How Great Thou Art” to the water, the trees, and perhaps to her own weary soul. Then, something extraordinary happened: others joined in. Their voices carried across the lake. Strangers drawn by a hymn. By fall, over a hundred people gathered weekly, hungry for something no church bulletin could have orchestrated.

It was beautiful, and it was messy. A group of LGBTQ hecklers tried to derail the gathering. Others, well-meaning pastors, attempted to formalize it, and in doing so, nearly squelched it. But when Sue returned, the group came alive again.

What struck me most was not just the resilience of this lakeside congregation, but the way it sparked unexpected ministries. One group reached out to people living in tents, helping reconnect them with family. Another offered gourmet meals to the homebound. In each case, it was less about strategy and more about love incarnate—a picture of the Acts 2 church lived out under open skies.

Sue once led worship, under lights and applause. She loved it, she admits. But now God is asking something quieter, something harder. She struggles with it, and I think that’s okay. We often confuse God’s call with clarity. But in my experience, His voice is more like a whisper in the dark—inviting, not insisting.

Jesus said in John 4:23-24,

“Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in the Spirit and in truth.”

James echoed this in his blunt way:

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress.”

I think of Sue and see someone like King David—flawed, passionate, deeply beloved. And perhaps heaven says of her: “I have found Sue, daughter of Marj, a woman after my own heart; she will do everything I want her to do.”

It is not in the spotlight but in the shadows that Sue is shaping the Church. And in that, there is more glory than we often dare imagine. I, for one, am watching, wondering, and quietly giving thanks.

Chapter 3

If and Listen—Are You Really Listening?

In the final book of the Bible, amid apocalyptic visions and cryptic beasts, there’s a refrain that echoes like a persistent whisper: “Whoever has ears, let them hear.” It’s not just poetic phrasing. Eugene Peterson’s The Message puts it more pointedly: “Are you listening? Are you really listening?” I remember when I first heard that rendering. It stopped me cold. Not because it was novel, but because it struck too close to home. How often had I heard—but not really listened?

There’s a difference, you see. Hearing is passive; sound waves striking the eardrum. Listening, on the other hand, is an act of intention, of attentiveness. Imagine a blind person at a busy intersection. They don’t simply hear the chaos—they listen for cues: the rhythm of traffic, the voice of a crossing guard, the silence that signals safety. Their life depends on the ability to distinguish noise from guidance.

In spiritual terms, so does ours.

Deuteronomy frames it in startling clarity:

“The Lord will make you the head, not the tail—if you pay attention to His commands… if you carefully follow them…” (Deuteronomy 28:13).

That word—if—hangs like a hinge between promise and peril. It implies possibility, but also responsibility. Listening is not a guarantee. It’s an invitation. And it’s conditional.

Malachi offers the other side of the coin: “If you do not listen… I will curse your blessings.” (Mal. 2:2). A chilling thought. That something once meant for good can be turned into burden if we refuse to hear the One who gave it.

Jesus, too, used the same hinge word—if—to teach how we approach one another in truth and correction: “If your brother or sister listens, you have won them over…” (Matthew 18:15). But if not, the pathway narrows, each ignored invitation to listen leading further away from restoration.

Listening is always relational. God does not shout from a mountaintop to terrify us into obedience. More often, He speaks in the stillness, in what Elijah called the “gentle whisper.” And in that whisper is the power to reshape our lives—if we truly listen.

Isaiah says it with the simplicity of someone who has tried everything else and come back to the core: “Come to me with your ears wide open. Listen, and you will find life.” (Isa. 55:3). Not religion. Not rules. Life.

The question remains: are we listening?

Chapter 4

If and Hear—Spiritual Taste Buds

Jesus once said—briefly, almost in passing—“If anyone has ears to hear, let them hear.” (Mark 4:23). It’s one of those deceptively simple lines we might skim over, assuming we understand. But then, just a few chapters later, He asks a deeper question: “Do you have eyes but fail to see, and ears but fail to hear?” (Mark 8:18). It’s less a rebuke and more a diagnosis.

What does it really mean to hear?

Elihu, one of Job’s companions, once made this curious statement: “For the ear tests words as the tongue tastes food.” (Job 34:3). I’ve thought about that often. Just as we instinctively know when something tastes off—too bitter, too salty, too spoiled—do we also have an inner discernment for truth? Can our ears become spiritual taste buds, alerting us when a word is empty or life-giving?

Elihu certainly tried to be helpful. He and the others had stayed with Job through long, silent suffering. They had good intentions, and sometimes even good theology. But God, in the end, made a distinction: “You have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has.” (Job 42:8). Job, the one who protested, who doubted, who dared to raise questions—he is commended. And the others? Not so much.

We are reminded, then, to test not only what we hear, but also the spirit behind it. As my father-in-law used to say, “Always listen for the witness of the Spirit.” That quiet confirmation—the inner nod of truth or the uneasy pause—may be more trustworthy than even the most well-meaning friend.

In Psalm 81, there’s a haunting line, spoken not by a prophet or poet, but by God Himself: “Hear me, my people, and I will warn you—if you would only listen to me...” (v. 8). Can you feel the ache in that plea? Not a demand, but a yearning. Like a parent calling to a child who’s wandered too close to traffic. If only...

The Psalms return to this theme often. “Today, if only you would hear his voice, do not harden your hearts.” (Psalm 95:7–8). There’s that word again—if. It’s the conditional heartbeat of faith. God’s voice never forces; it invites.

Have you heard it?

Not thunder from Sinai. Not booming from pulpits. But that quiet nudge during prayer, that unexpected word during a conversation, that restlessness in your spirit that won’t go away.

Maybe you’ve heard it and shrugged it off. Maybe you’ve told yourself it was just imagination. But what if it wasn’t?

What if God is still whispering? Still pleading? Still saying:

“If you would just hear me—really hear me—then I will remove your burden, loosen your grip on the basket, and lead you to freedom.”

What if all He asks is that we listen?

Chapter 5

If and Voice—Recognizing the Voice That Calls You by Name

A friend from church, Chris, once paid me a compliment I’ve not forgotten. He had been reading one of my earlier books and said, “As I was reading, I could hear your voice.” He wasn’t being poetic—just honest. He knew me well enough to recognize my speech in my writing. The cadence. The tone. The small quirks of personality that carry over onto the page.

That’s what struck me. We recognize voices not just by their sound, but by the person behind them.

Which makes me wonder—when you read God’s book, do you hear His voice? Not just words on a page. Not doctrine, or moral lessons. But voice. The living, breathing whisper of the One who knows your name.

The Israelites once heard that voice. They were standing at the foot of Sinai when God delivered the Ten Commandments in a voice “like fire.” And their reaction? Fascinating. At first awe, even wonder:

“We have heard His voice from the fire… and lived.” (Deuteronomy 5:24)

But then, the very next breath:

“If we keep hearing it, we’re going to die!” (Deuteronomy 5:25)

That tension—the beauty and the terror of divine proximity—is something I think we all understand. We long for God’s voice, and yet… we fear what it might demand of us. What it might expose in us.

When God heard the people’s plea, He didn’t rebuke them. Instead, He sighed with longing:

“Oh, that their hearts would be inclined to fear me and keep my commands always, so that it might go well with them…” (Deuteronomy 5:29)

It’s one of those moments in Scripture where God seems heartbreakingly human. You can almost hear the ache in His voice. If only...

Samuel heard that voice one night—a voice so real he assumed it was Eli calling from the other room. “Speak, for your servant is listening,” he finally said (1 Samuel 3:10). That prayer has become a kind of spiritual reflex for me. I find myself whispering it even now: “Speak, Lord.” Not always because I expect an answer—but because I want to be the kind of person who listens.

I’ve heard God’s voice—at least three times that I’m sure of. Not in thunder or visions, but in ways so personal, so unmistakably divine, that I can’t explain them any other way.

Once, He said: “If I want you to have that job, there’s nothing anyone can do about it.” He was right.

Another time, driving down Highway 401 after a painful conversation, He simply said, “You and Wendy will be married.” Again, He was right.

The third time came through my friend Mike—a Catholic brother in Christ, devoted and prayerful. Just after grace at a simple meal, Mike looked at me, visibly shaken, and said: “I think God wants me to tell you something... He says, ‘I will bless you whichever way you go.’” The words came from Mike’s mouth, but the voice? I knew whose it was.

Each of those moments could fill a book, but here’s what I’ve come to believe: even when God doesn’t speak audibly, His sheep still know His voice.

Jesus painted a picture of that kind of relationship in John 10. “He calls His own sheep by name… and they follow Him because they know His voice.” (John 10:3–4) This isn’t abstract theology—it’s intimacy. Jesus leads not by force, but by familiarity.

I sometimes ask myself, When others hear me speak—do they hear a faint echo of that voice? The voice that calls by name, that leads through love, that sometimes breaks through the static of life with just one line—and it’s enough.

Moses once spoke, and God answered with a voice like thunder (Exodus 19:19). Ezekiel described the voice of God as the roar of cherubim wings in flight—too vast, too overwhelming to capture in words (Ezekial 10:5). And yet, the same God who spoke from fire also whispers to the brokenhearted. The same God who thundered from Sinai called Mary by name in a garden.

I don’t pretend to understand that paradox. But I’m learning to listen for it.

So I ask you:

➤ Do you hear His voice—not just in sermons or songs, but in the quiet places, the still ones?

➤ And if He were to speak, would you recognize Him?

Because in the end, the most important if might be this:

If you know His voice, you will follow Him.

And if you follow… you will find life.

Chapter 6

If and Faith—When Trust Outruns Emotion

Faith, real faith, is not bravado. It’s not swagger. And it’s certainly not certainty. At least, not in the way we usually define it. Faith, as Scripture reveals it, is our human response to divine persuasion. It’s what happens when we allow God’s voice to cut through the noise and stir something inside us—something that chooses to trust, even when trusting seems irrational.

I’ve long believed that faith is my primary spiritual gift. Not faith in myself or in some vague cosmic optimism, but faith in the God who keeps His word. The kind of faith that Joshua and Caleb carried when others shrank back in fear. The kind that says, “If God said it, you can take it to the bank.”

And yet, I’ll admit—there have been moments when that very gift has made me seem… disconnected. Distant, even. Not because I don’t feel, but because faith often means choosing hope before the feelings catch up. I’ve asked myself more than once, “If I could trade this gift for another, would I?” And truthfully, apart from love, I wouldn’t. Paul was right—“If I have not love, I have nothing.” Faith without love is just spiritual noise, impressive maybe, but hollow.

I remember one night during a crisis in my business. I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts raced ahead of me, painting worst-case scenarios with the skill of a seasoned artist. So I went downstairs, opened my Bible at random, and read these words:

“But my righteous one will live by faith. And if he shrinks back, I will not be pleased with him.” (Hebrews 10:38)

That verse didn’t scold me so much as offer a choice: shrink back—or lean in. Panic—or rest. I chose the latter. Not because I felt strong, but because I believed God was.

Jesus had a way of framing faith that was both humbling and empowering. Over and over, He repeated a line—one that still unsettles and inspires:

“If you have faith as small as a mustard seed…” (Matthew 17:20; 21:21; Luke 17:6)

A mustard seed. Barely visible. And yet, with that much faith, He said, mountains move. Trees obey. Seas swallow barriers. Why the repetition? Perhaps because Jesus knew how fragile faith can feel. He didn’t demand giants. He asked for a seed.

That seed of faith, though—planted in the soil of God’s Word—can accomplish more than we imagine. Not because of the faith itself, but because of the One we place it in.

But faith, Scripture reminds us, isn’t an excuse for inaction. It’s not a substitute for love, or a license to neglect, or a reason to coast.

Paul writes,

“If I have faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.” (1 Corinthians 13:2)

James adds,

“Faith by itself isn’t enough. Unless it produces good deeds, it is dead and useless.” (James 2:17)

Timothy warns,

“Anyone who does not provide for their relatives… has denied the faith.” (1 Timothy 5:8)

So faith, though powerful, is also deeply practical. It should change how we live—how we give, serve, forgive. It shows up not just in mountain-moving prayers, but in quiet acts of love.

Paul pushes us further: “Examine yourselves to see whether you are in the faith.” (2 Corinthians 13:5) Not to induce fear, but to provoke honesty. Faith can’t be inherited. It must be lived.

And still, it’s impossible to please God without it. That’s what Hebrews tells us: “Without faith, it is impossible to please God.” (Hebrews 11:6) Not difficult. Not unlikely. Impossible. Because faith is how we come to Him, how we believe He exists, how we trust that He rewards those who seek Him—even when answers feel distant.

Finally, there is faith when we pray.

“And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well… If they have sinned, they will be forgiven.” (James 5:15)

That’s the kind of faith I long for—not flashy, but faithful. The kind that shows up in midnight prayers, in mustard seeds, in meals shared with the broken, in words spoken over the uncertain. The kind that clings to God even when everything else shakes.

Because in the end, faith is not just believing that God exists. It’s trusting who He is.

And if we have that—just that—He says… it’s enough.

Chapter 7

If and Believe—The Kind of Belief That Sees Glory

We throw around the word belief as if it’s obvious—settled, clean, measurable. But belief, at least the kind that matters, rarely fits into neat categories. It’s not the stuff of slogans or bumper stickers. It’s something deeper, often forged in the fire of questions and quiet obedience.

I’ve had conversations with atheists who speak of “God” with such certainty—the God they do not believe in. But how does one describe a being whose existence they deny? In most cases, what they reject is not the God I know, but a caricature—an absentee landlord, a divine tyrant, or some celestial magician who failed to meet their expectations. The god they mock is not the God I love.

From their vantage point, belief is blind. Faith is foolishness. But to a Christian, belief is not a leap into the dark. It is a response to light. It is not mere hope, not fingers-crossed optimism. It is conviction. Not just that God exists, but that He is who He says He is—and will do what He says He will do.

I remember the moment vividly. God said to me, “You and Wendy will be married.” I didn’t doubt His existence. That wasn’t the question. The real step of faith was believing what He said. Trusting His voice. Acting on His promise before any evidence arrived.

Jesus once said, “If you believed Moses, then you would believe me, for he wrote about me.” (John 5:46) Belief, in Jesus’ eyes, was not abstract—it was relational. It was about accepting the testimony of God through His messengers, trusting that what was written points beyond the page to a Person.

Faith allows for degrees, for struggle, for that fragile, “I believe; help my unbelief.” But belief—when it comes to the words of God—is binary. You either believe Him or you don’t.

Jesus once said to Martha, standing outside her brother’s tomb:

“Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?” (John 11:40)

The resurrection was still hours away. Grief clung to the air. But the invitation stood: Believe—and you will see.

Paul echoed the same principle in his letter to Rome:

“If we died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with Him.” (Romans 6:8)

And again, more pointedly:

“If you declare with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved.” (Romans 10:9)

That’s it. Two requirements. Neither involve good works. Neither call for theological precision. But both demand surrender.

To declare “Jesus is Lord” is not to mouth a creed—it’s to abdicate the throne of your own life. It’s to admit He’s in charge, not you. And to believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead? That requires something no human can muster alone. It requires the quiet witness of the Spirit—the kind that stirs something unshakable inside you.

Paul says it again to the church in Thessalonica:

“We believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in Him.” (1 Thessalonians 4:14)

To believe in resurrection is to trust that death doesn’t get the final word. That somehow, impossibly, our own stories will follow the arc of His.

So belief, then, is not merely assent. It’s allegiance. Not mental agreement, but relational trust.

➤ Do you believe what He has said about you?

➤ Do you believe He is for you, even when circumstances whisper otherwise?

Because if you believe—not perfectly, not without questions, but with an honest heart—then Jesus says you will see the glory of God.

And I, for one, don’t want to miss that.

Chapter 8

If and Words—Scripture as Presence, Not Just Principle

Words matter.

We know this intuitively. A careless phrase can wound for years. A single sentence can end a relationship—or save one. Words are never just syllables; they’re vessels of meaning, loaded with motive. And when God speaks, the stakes rise exponentially.

Scripture doesn’t merely tell us what God says. It shows us who He is through His words. If God tells us not to break our word, it’s not just a command—it’s a reflection of His character. He keeps His promises because He is truth.

“When a man makes a vow to the Lord… he must not break his word but must do everything he said.” (Numbers 30:2)

God leads by example. His Word binds Him to His people. And our response to that Word—whether we hold it lightly or live by it—says more about us than it does about Him.

There’s a jarring “if” buried in the book of Deuteronomy, one that exposes how seriously God takes His Word:

“If you do not carefully follow all the words of this law… the Lord will send fearful plagues on you and your descendants.” (Deuteronomy 28:58–59)

That’s hard to read. It clashes with our image of a gentle, smiling Saviour. But these warnings are not God’s way of scaring us into submission. They are His desperate pleas to keep us from destruction. Because words—especially His words—shape reality.

But alongside the warnings come promises. Grace-filled, hope-laced, freedom-giving promises.

Jesus once said to those leaning in to listen:

“If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:31–32)

Freedom doesn’t begin with rebellion—it begins with surrender. The kind of surrender that clings to Jesus’ words as if they’re oxygen.

Later, He says it even more clearly:

“Anyone who loves me will obey my teaching… and we will come to them and make our home with them.” (John 14:23)

Not just theology. Not just instruction. Home.

The way Jesus talks about words, you begin to realize—they’re not just information. They’re presence. God is not handing us doctrines to memorize. He’s giving us Himself.

“If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish…” (John 15:7)

His Word is not just a path to obedience. It’s a path to intimacy.

But then James brings it home with brutal honesty:

“Anyone who listens to the word but does not do what it says is like someone who looks at his face in a mirror… and immediately forgets what he looks like.” (James 1:23–24)

In other words, you can attend church, read Scripture, memorize verses—and still walk away unchanged. You can admire the mirror but ignore the reflection. You can hear the Word of God and still not recognize yourself in its light.

And if that’s the case, James seems to ask, what’s the point?

Why build churches? Why host Bible studies? Why carry Bibles in our bags or on our phones if we won’t let the words change us?

The truth is, God’s Word is not meant to decorate our lives. It’s meant to transform them.

So I return to that quiet, searching question: ➤ What do I do with the Word of God?

Do I revere it, or reduce it?

Do I treat it like poetry—or presence?

Do I obey it, even when it challenges me? Or just quote it when it’s convenient?

Because in the end, the church cannot thrive on noise or nostalgia. It thrives only when it listens—and responds—to the living Word of the living God.

Chapter 9

If and Jesus—Do You Believe What He Said?

Jesus never played to the crowd. He was not the kind of leader who softened the message to attract followers. If anything, His words often had the opposite effect. People walked away from Him, confused, offended, even angry. And yet, His words remain—unsettling in their clarity, compelling in their authority.

In the Gospels, we’re introduced to the Jesus who doesn’t merely speak truth—He is truth. The carpenter’s son who speaks as if Heaven had no secrets from Him. The Messiah who speaks in riddles and rebukes, in compassion and confrontation. The one who turns every “if” into a soul-level challenge.

“Didn’t you ever read this in the Scriptures?” He asked the religious elite, quoting from Psalm 118:

“The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone… The Kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people who will produce its fruit.” (Matthew 21:42–43)

They knew exactly what He meant. They were the builders. And He was the stone.

That passage isn’t just about ancient priests or first-century Pharisees. It’s a warning—and a call—for us. Jesus is still asking:

➤ Will you be the people who produce fruit?

➤ Or will you lose the Kingdom without even realizing it?

Leadership especially carries the weight of that question. Influence, power, authority—these are dangerous gifts in the wrong hands. In ministry, as in life, pride is a persistent thief. It creeps in through the back door, whispering that you are the one who must lead, decide, control.

But Jesus is clear: “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” (Matthew 16:24)

Following means following. He leads. We don’t negotiate the route.

I once heard someone say, “Believing in Jesus is easy. Believing Jesus is harder.” I think that’s true. Believing in Him as Saviour is only the beginning. Believing everything He says, trusting His way over our instincts—that’s the daily battle.

“If you can?” said Jesus. “Everything is possible for one who believes.” (Mark 9:23)

That “if” becomes personal when it comes from His lips. He doesn’t just ask whether we believe He exists. He asks whether we believe Him. His voice. His priorities. His commands. All 49 of them.

“If you want to be perfect,” He told the rich young man, “go, sell what you have, give to the poor, and follow me.” (Matthew 19:21)

What Jesus asked of that man wasn’t a formula—it was diagnostic. He was pointing out the one thing the man couldn’t let go of, the one thing that stood between him and the Kingdom. What’s your one thing?

Some have speculated that this man was Saul of Tarsus—Paul before his conversion. If so, he left that first encounter sad… but not untouched. Jesus got to him eventually. He always does.

And on the final day of the festival, Jesus didn’t whisper His invitation. He stood and shouted it:

“Let anyone who is thirsty come to me and drink.” (John 7:37)

That verse tells me Jesus isn’t trying to hide. He’s calling. Longing. Waiting.

The New Testament is scattered with conditional promises from Jesus—“if” statements that cut to the heart of our motives, our obedience, our openness:

• “If you knew me, you would know my Father also.” (John 8:19)

• “If God were your Father, you would love me…” (John 8:42)

• “If you believe in me… you will never die. Do you believe this?” (John 11:25)

• “If you declare, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart… you will be saved.” (Romans 10:9)

Each one is a fork in the road. A personal question. A door opened only from the inside.

➤ If you believe He is who He says He is, will you also follow?

➤ If you call Him Lord, will you surrender your life, your possessions, your pride?

Paul writes, “Examine yourselves to see whether you are in the faith… unless, of course, you fail the test.” (2 Corinthians 13:5)

That’s not judgment. It’s invitation. An invitation to walk in the light. To be purified by His blood. To know the Son—not as a doctrine, but as a friend.

“If we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship… and the blood of Jesus purifies us from all sin.” (1 John 1:7)

In the end, Jesus leaves the door open. If you will…

He won’t force you in. But He waits—with living water, with unshakable truth, with mercy that’s new every morning.

And He still asks, gently but persistently:

Do you believe Me?

Chapter 10

If You Obey from the Heart—Obedience and the Smile of God

“Now if you obey me fully and keep my covenant, then… you will be my treasured possession… a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.”—Exodus 19:5–6

Obedience. It’s a word that makes some of us wince, others bristle, and a few quietly nod, hoping no one asks too many questions. Yet Scripture places obedience not at the margins, but the very center of what it means to walk with God. And not obedience in the form of lifeless rule-keeping, but something richer—obedience that flows from the heart.

That matters. Because if obedience is merely external—habitual, inherited, or hollow—it quickly sours into legalism. But if it begins in the heart, it becomes love in motion.

God made it clear through Moses: “If you obey fully… then you will be my treasured possession.” Not because we earn His love, but because obedience aligns us with His will, His nature, His joy. Isaiah echoes it: “If you are willing and obedient, you will eat the good things of the land.” (Isaiah 1:19) Obedience is not about rule-following—it’s about relational alignment.

But here’s the tension: God isn’t just after your behaviour—He’s after your heart.

“People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”— (1 Samuel 16:7)

The heart is where our decisions are born. Where our hidden motives live. And where obedience either springs to life or slowly dies.

Moses told the Israelites, “If from there you seek the Lord with all your heart and soul, you will find Him.” (Deuteronomy. 4:29). The promise was never about perfect performance—it was about whole-hearted pursuit.

Jesus picked up this thread and pulled it tighter. His commands weren’t burdensome—they were clarifying. Forty-nine distinct imperatives, not as hoops to jump through but as signposts of love. “If you love me,” He said, “you will obey what I command.” Not, “Obey to prove you love me.” But, “If love is real, it will look like something.”

Obedience isn’t passive. It’s a living yes.

It means forgiving before we feel like it. Giving when it’s inconvenient. Honouring the Sabbath in a culture that prizes productivity. It means saying, “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening,” even when we’d rather plug our ears.

It’s never just about doing the right thing—it’s about becoming the right kind of person. A person whose “yes” means “yes.” A person whose heart doesn’t harden when God whispers, “Will you?”

That’s the essence of Deuteronomy 30:

“Today I have set before you life and death… Now choose life, so that you and your children may live, and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to His voice, and hold fast to Him.”

So, let me ask:

• Do you obey when no one is watching?

• Is your heart still tender to His voice?

• When He says, “If you will…”—do you?

Because real obedience is never coerced. It’s invited. It’s chosen. And when it flows from a heart fully given, it leads not to drudgery—but to joy.

“If you obey… then your joy will be full.”— (John 15:10–11, paraphrased)

Chapter 11

Am I Going to Heaven—Saying Yes to the One Who’s Already Said Yes to You

A question as old as time, yet as urgent as this very moment: Am I going to heaven?

It’s a question we don’t often say aloud, at least not in polite company. It tends to stay buried beneath the surface—quiet, haunting, persistent. We busy ourselves with doctrines, with church, with good intentions, yet the question waits, quietly thumping in the background of the soul.

The Gospel of John offers a startling simplicity in its answer:

“To all who did receive Him, to those who believed in His name, He gave the right to become children of God…” (John 1:12)

No pedigree required. No spiritual résumé. No religious perfection. Just an open heart. A willingness to receive. A trust in the One who calls your name.

I never assume that everyone who picks up one of my books has crossed that line of trust. Maybe you’ve read this far and sensed a stirring—a nagging feeling that God has been drawing you near. Maybe you’re tired of going through the motions. Or perhaps, like I once was, you’ve hit bottom and have no more places left to run.

Whatever brought you here, you’re not here by accident.

Could it be that God is whispering your name even now?

The beauty of the gospel is not in its complexity, but in its breathtaking accessibility. Paul put it this way:

“If you declare with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved.” (Romans 10:9)

Simple? Yes. Easy? Not always. But accessible? Absolutely.

God doesn’t require theological precision or polished prayers. What He wants is you. He listens not for eloquence, but honesty. He’s not waiting for perfection—just permission to step into the brokenness and begin making you new.

If you feel drawn to respond—whether in desperation or in quiet realization—you don’t need to craft the perfect prayer. You simply need to say “yes.” Yes to Jesus. Yes to grace. Yes to life.

If it helps, you might pray something like this:

Lord Jesus, I’ve spent too long keeping You at arm’s length. I’ve tried life my own way, and I’m tired. I know I need You. I believe You came, died for my sins, and rose again. I trust You. I give You my life, not because I’m strong, but because You are. Take what’s broken and make it whole. Come into my life and be my Lord and Saviour. Amen.

If you prayed something like that, not as ritual but from the heart, I believe heaven is rejoicing—even now. And you are now, in the truest and most enduring sense, a child of God.

Maybe today becomes more than just another day.

Maybe today becomes the day everything changed.

You might even want to write it down—not for God’s sake, but for yours:

Today, I said “yes” to Jesus. I am His, and I am Heaven-bound.

Chapter 12

My Way or the Highway—When Church Becomes Our Kingdom

Greg Paul once made this unsettling observation:

“The evil one has devised an enduring and effective strategy to diminish the power of the gospel… encourage Christians to grab just a piece of the gospel instead of the whole, and then argue about which piece is more important.”

We don’t often think of disobedience as suicide. But in spiritual terms—especially for the Church—it might be the most accurate word we have.

The phrase “my way or the highway” evokes a kind of hard-nosed stubbornness. It’s credited to football coaches and CEOs, the kind of leaders who equate dissent with weakness. In our culture, it’s often admired. But in the Kingdom of God, this mindset isn’t strength—it’s foolishness.

King David, with his hard-won wisdom, wrote:

“The fool says in his heart, ‘There is no God.’” (Psalm 14:1)

But maybe the more dangerous fool is the one who believes in God—yet insists on going their own way.

Let’s be honest: foolishness isn’t always loud or defiant. Sometimes it looks like pride, or self-preservation, or simply refusing to change course when you know you’re heading the wrong way. I’ve been there. I’ve made decisions rooted not in prayer or discernment, but in ego, greed, or fatigue. And the consequences—while not always immediate—eventually arrive. They always do.

Take, for example, the Israelites and their daily portion of manna. In Exodus 16, Moses gives a clear instruction: Don’t store any of it overnight. But some ignored it. The next morning, their disobedience smelled of rot—and was full of maggots. (Ex. 16:19–20)

The metaphor practically writes itself: When we hoard what God gives for today, when we think our way is better than His, we end up with spiritual decay. Whether it’s a spoiled provision, a withered conscience, or a church that’s lost its prophetic voice—disobedience always carries a cost.

The cost isn’t always punishment. Often, it’s the absence of blessing. The loss of thriving. And for the Church, that may be the deepest tragedy of all.

Not all our missteps are acts of rebellion. Sometimes, they’re simply mistakes—caused by ignorance, fear, or a failure to seek wisdom. Thankfully, Scripture offers a remedy. In fact, it offers an entire genre devoted to it: wisdom literature.

The Book of Proverbs, like a father speaking to his son, whispers advice that’s both practical and divine. It’s where theology meets daily life. And then there’s the Book of James—Proverbs’ New Testament cousin—blunt, unvarnished, relentlessly actionable.

“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God… and it will be given.” (James 1:5)

That’s the invitation. The catch? You must want it. You must apply it.

As someone who has spent a lifetime learning the hard way, I can testify: wisdom is always cheaper than regret.

And yet, I don’t write this as a voice from the mountaintop. I write from the middle of the journey—stumbling, confessing, praying for grace. I write because I believe the Church can thrive again. But not by doing more of the same. Not by arguing over fragments of truth or branding ourselves with cultural relevance. It begins, as it always has, with the heart.

A few truths I’ve learned along the way:

• God wants your heart. Everything else—time, talent, money—is secondary.

• God disciplines those He loves. I must be very loved.

• God keeps His promises. Every single one.

• Salvation is by grace—period.

• No one is disqualified from purpose. Not because of failure. Not because of age. Not even because of doubt.

➤ Have you ever asked someone why they go to church?

➤ Have you asked yourself?

We often answer, “To worship God.” And yet, too often, we sing songs about us. About our needs, our identity, our desires. These aren’t bad songs. But they’re not worship—not in the biblical sense.

Worship, at its core, is about ascribing worth. It’s about turning the lens outward, upward, away from self. Worship says, “You are holy, You are worthy.” It begins where we end.

Matt Redman said it best in his now-classic song:

“I’m sorry, Lord, for the thing I’ve made it, when it’s all about You.”

Because it is.

It’s all about Him.

Not us. Not our church growth strategies. Not our branding.

Him.

So maybe the Church doesn’t need more programs. Maybe we don’t need better lighting or louder sermons. Maybe we need what we’ve always needed—obedience.

Not obedience as rule-following. But as surrender.

As trust.

As the gentle refusal to do it my way.

Because there’s only one road that leads to thriving. And it’s not a highway paved with pride.

It’s a narrow path. Walked in humility.

And it always, always begins with Jesus.

Chapter 13

When ‘Me’ Replaces Messiah

When Jesus said, “If you love me, obey my commands,” He wasn’t issuing a cold directive. He was giving us a relational compass. He was saying, “If you love me—really love me—then trust that I know the way.”

But something has shifted. Somewhere along the way, a different voice crept in—subtle, persuasive, very modern. It whispers, “Do what feels right. Protect your truth. Defend your rights. Assert your value.” At first, it sounds empowering. Even noble. But peel it back and what you find is an old temptation dressed in new clothes.

Me-ism.

It’s the oldest story in Scripture—“You will be like God.” That lie, first whispered in a garden, now echoes through sanctuary walls. Only now, it sounds like, “Follow your heart,” or “Live your truth,” or “God wants you to be happy.”

I’m not saying God doesn’t care about our happiness. But we must remember: joy in God’s Kingdom never begins with me. It begins with Him.

The modern Church—especially in the West—has not been immune. We’ve become fluent in the language of self: My body. My feelings. My truth. My choice. It’s no longer just the world speaking this way. It’s us. The body of Christ. The people called to be holy—set apart—are increasingly indistinguishable from the culture they were meant to serve.

And when that happens, when “me” becomes the center of our worship, our mission, even our theology, we’ve lost something far more serious than relevance—we’ve lost our reason for being.

If me is the message, then there’s no longer any need for a cross.

My friend Bernd once joked that the narcissist’s prayer must go like this:

“My, mine, me—God bless us three.”

It’s funny, but it cuts. Because we’ve all prayed something like that at one time or another.

In Exodus, God began the Ten Commandments not with a suggestion, but with a line that slices through the noise:

“You shall have no other gods before me.” (Exodus 20:3)

It’s not hard to imagine God saying the same to us today—but not about foreign idols or carved statues. About ourselves. No other gods—including the one in the mirror.

If God’s people are indistinguishable from everyone else—if our priorities, language, habits, and worldview mirror the self-centeredness we see outside—why bother with church at all? Let the government legislate the good works. Let the community center provide the companionship. Let the TED Talks offer inspiration.

But God’s Church was never meant to be a reflection of the world. It was meant to be a contradiction to it. A light. A witness. You will be my witnesses, Jesus said—not of your feelings or your truth, but of Me.

I sometimes think about God’s rainbows—those majestic arcs of color that stretch across the sky after a storm. They’re stunning. Alive. Infinite in variation. And then I compare them with the world’s six simple painted stripes—rigid, repetitive, easily replicated. One is divine and breathtaking. The other is merely symbolic.

Isn’t that what the Church should be too? Something radiant. Unreplicable. Not because we’re morally superior or culturally savvy, but because grace has touched us. Because we’ve been forgiven. Because we’ve laid down our “me” and picked up our cross.

That’s what attracts people. Not polished performances or trendy branding—but the sight of broken people made whole, of ordinary lives filled with inexplicable joy, of self-centered hearts transformed into instruments of love.

That’s the kind of Church people don’t just attend. It’s the kind they fall into, sometimes quite literally—on their knees, in worship.

So I ask again:

➤ Is Christ the center?

➤ Or have we replaced Him with something far more manageable—ourselves?

The Church doesn’t need more marketing. It needs more surrender.

Less “my will be done.”

More “Your Kingdom come.”

Because me-ism makes a poor god.

But Jesus—He still saves.

Even from ourselves.

Chapter 14

Why Churches Fail to Thrive—The Church That Burned Down to Live Again

“Tell us why we need to change. Yes, give us the tough news; we need to hear it. But also give us hope.”—Anonymous

Anyone who’s read the Old Testament has likely noticed the pattern. A godly leader rises, and the people flourish. A weak or corrupt leader follows, and the refrain returns—“Again the Israelites did evil in the eyes of the Lord…” It’s not poetic repetition. It’s a tragic rhythm. You’ll find it 66 times in Scripture. More if you expand your search terms.

But tucked away in Isaiah is a different note—a glimpse of what could be:

“All the lands are at rest and at peace; they break into singing.” (Isaiah 14:7)

What would it take for our churches today to become places of rest and peace and song?

Years ago, my wife and I attended a small, amateur play that’s never left me. It opened in a struggling inner-city church—just a handful of characters bickering about budgets and pews, personalities and programs. Then, in the second act, something drastic happened: an arsonist burned the church to the ground.

You’d think that was the end. But no. In the ashes, the Holy Spirit showed up.

One by one, the characters began to awaken—not to loss, but to purpose. The bookkeeper offered to bring folding chairs. The janitor offered to run Sunday school. Everyone pitched in—not because of obligation, but because of gifting. Because they wanted to.

In the final scene, the parking lot had become a sanctuary. Worship spilled out into the streets. Neighbors leaned out of apartment balconies to listen. The dead church had caught fire—literally—and was now very much alive.

The message was clear: if God finds a faithful remnant, He will burn down whatever He needs to in order to breathe life again. And He will begin, as He always does, with the heart.

“A bruised reed He will not break, and a smouldering wick He will not snuff out, until He brings justice through to victory.” (Matthew 12:20)

I’m convinced of this: the primary reason churches fail to thrive is not external pressure, doctrinal drift, or even declining attendance. It’s this—we insist on doing things our way.

We claim the name of Jesus, but run our churches like corporations. We talk about surrender but grip the steering wheel with white knuckles. It shows up in leadership structures, personality-driven ministries, theology without context, and culture wars disguised as orthodoxy.

The second reason is more subtle, but just as deadly: we mishandle the Word of God. Not out of malice—but out of habit. We forget to ask the first and most important question: What’s the context?

Context keeps us honest. It humbles us. And it saves us from turning truth into weapons.

Somewhere between legalism and relativism lies what Jesus actually taught—a path marked by grace and wisdom. Not loopholes. Not law. Life.

I know how easy it is to veer off course. I’ve done it. Repeatedly. Sometimes out of pride. Sometimes out of exhaustion. But Scripture is painfully clear: disobedience rarely looks dramatic—it just looks like business as usual. Until, slowly, the blessings dry up.

Did you know that not one of the seven churches Jesus addressed in Revelation still exists? At the dawn of the 20th century, two were hanging on—Smyrna and Philadelphia. Not coincidentally, they were the only ones Jesus didn’t rebuke.

The others? Gone. Swallowed by history and conquest. Cities turned to ruins. The churches that once received divine messages now live only in the pages of Scripture.

And yet Jesus’ promise to Philadelphia still echoes:

“Since you have kept my command to endure patiently, I will also keep you from the hour of trial that is going to come on the whole world…” (Revelation 3:10)

It’s tempting in today’s climate to go soft—to avoid offense, to be “seeker-friendly.” But here’s the question:

➤ Was Jesus seeker-friendly?

He spoke about sin more than 270 times in the New Testament. Not to shame—but to save.

Sin is why the Cross was necessary. And grace is why it was enough.

Without repentance, there is no gospel. Without gospel, there is no hope.

If your church has drifted from that message, it’s time to turn back.

In Revelation, Jesus doesn’t just address churches in the first century. He speaks to types of churches—ones we can recognize today. The smug church. The weary church. The faithful church barely holding on.

Seven times He says, “Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches.”

Not to a denomination. Not to a network. But to churches. Plural. Local. Real.

I believe that if you stripped away the names—Ephesus, Laodicea, Pergamum—you could match each one with a church on your block.

Some still burn with love.

Others are snuffed out.

Some are lukewarm. And Jesus doesn’t mince words—He says He will spit them out.

If you want to know why churches fail, read Revelation 2–3. The answers are already there.

So here’s a simple exercise. Print those two chapters. Remove the verse numbers. Ask the Holy Spirit to speak. Highlight in pink everything your church is tolerating that it shouldn’t. In yellow, the things you should be doing but aren’t. And in green, the things you’re doing well.

Take the pink list to your elders—today.

Give the yellow list to your deacons and create a plan.

And celebrate the green list with joy. Let it fuel your worship team—not just with songs, but with stories of faithfulness.

Because when Jesus walks among the lampstands, He’s not grading performance. He’s looking for faith. And obedience. And love.

And when He finds even a flickering flame, He tends it gently. Until it becomes fire again.

Chapter 15

Revival and Salvation—When the Fire Comes for Us

A quote I once heard stuck with me:

“Revive that which is sick or dying, and you won’t have to worry about being seeker friendly.”

No author was credited, which somehow makes it all the more haunting.

Since moving to Muskoka in 2017, I’ve had dozens of conversations with local pastors and church leaders. Time and again, the refrain is the same: “I sense revival is coming to Muskoka!” Eyes shine with hope. Hearts lean forward. It’s a beautiful thing to witness. And yet, eight years later, that promised revival still lingers somewhere on the horizon—close enough to stir longing, far enough to remain out of reach.

So I ask myself: what exactly are we waiting for?

Could it be that we’ve mistaken salvation for revival?

Salvation is the joy of watching someone walk out of darkness and into the light—an addict set free, a skeptic softened, a broken man or woman whispering the name of Jesus for the first time. It is fresh birth. A miracle.

But revival… revival is different. Revival is not for the world—it is for the Church. It’s for the ones already born, but barely breathing. It’s for those of us who know the lyrics but have forgotten the melody. It’s for the ones still gathering on Sundays, but quietly wondering where the fire went.

The psalmist pleads,

“Will you not revive us again, that your people may rejoice in you?” (Psalm 85:6)

And again,

“In your faithful love, O Lord, hear my cry; let me be revived by following your regulations.” (Psalm 119:149)

Notice the connection: joy and revival. Obedience and revival. Not better music, not flashier programming—but a heart turned back to God.

I wonder, would we even recognize revival if it came? Would we mistake it for a spiritual high, or something more subtle—more sobering? Times of refreshing, Acts says, follow repentance (Acts 3:19). And that word—repent—feels almost antique in our era. But it was the first word of Jesus’ public ministry. It was the spark of every great awakening in church history.

Maybe the revival we await won’t begin in the pews but in the quiet corners of our own hearts.

Throughout Scripture, devotion shows up again and again—not as a spiritual suggestion, but as the foundation of renewed life:

– “You cannot serve both God and money,” Jesus says. That’s not a warning. That’s a diagnosis. Our devotion will always lean one way or the other (Luke 16:13).

– The early church “devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer.” They didn’t accidentally stumble into revival—it was built on devotion (Acts 2:42).

– Paul, after receiving help from Silas and Timothy, “devoted himself exclusively to preaching.” (Acts 18:5) It wasn’t casual. It was all-consuming.

– Love itself, the mark of the disciple, is tied to devotion: “Be devoted to one another in love. Honour one another above yourselves.” (Romans 12:10)

– The household of Stephanas? They “devoted themselves to the service of the Lord’s people.” And Paul urges the Church to follow their lead (1 Corinthians 16:15-16).

– Prayer, Scripture, teaching, doing good—all wrapped in the same language of deep, sustained commitment (Colossians 4:2; 1 Timothy 4:13; Titus 3:14).

These aren’t boxes to tick. They’re lifelines.

Revival is not a windfall—it’s a response. A response to God’s invitation. And that response, if it’s real, must be marked by obedience. Not a begrudging compliance, but the kind that flows out of love. As Dallas Willard once put it, “Grace is not opposed to effort; it is opposed to earning.”

If we long for revival, we must be willing to do what revival demands. Not because God needs it—but because we do.

And if we walk that road—if we return, repent, and devote ourselves to His ways—Scripture offers this breathtaking promise:

“And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.” (Acts 2:47)

Salvation follows revival. Always has. Always will.

Chapter 16

If You Love Me—Revival is Spelled D-E-V-O-T-I-O-N

I’ve come to believe there is a fine line between two people sitting in the same church pew—one living out love, the other laboring under law.

Jesus once said something that has haunted me ever since I took it seriously:

“If you love me, keep my commands.” (John 14:15)

He didn’t say, “If you’re afraid of me, follow the rules.” Nor did He suggest that we strive for approval. No. He tethered obedience to love, not fear. To intimacy, not enforcement.

But what does that mean? Really mean?

Legalism—let’s call it what it is—is obedience gone cold. It’s the skeletal framework of faith without breath or blood, a system that thrives on control and thrives best where love is absent. Legalism smells of duty. Of performance reviews. It carries a clipboard, tallies infractions, and, more often than not, turns humans into Pharisees. It appeals to those who want to be right more than they want to be holy.

Obedience, by contrast, is relational. It grows not from rules, but from roots—roots sunk deep into trust. It whispers, “I want to live in a way that brings God joy, because I’ve tasted His love and I’ve never been the same.”

Paul, in Galatians, reminds us: “If you are led by the Spirit, you are not under the law” (Galatians 5:18). That’s not an invitation to lawlessness—it’s a call to love that has learned how to walk.

So much of the gospel is about reorientation. Not the scrapping of truth, but the softening of it in the hands of the Saviour. Jesus didn’t cancel the Law; He fulfilled it. Every “thou shalt not” was wrapped in the new and living way: “Come, follow me.”

And follow we must, but not as conscripts marching behind a general. No, this is the following of friends. Of lovers. Of children eager to walk like their Father.

But here’s where it gets uncomfortable. Jesus never dodged the hard stuff. “Do not think I’ve come to abolish the Law,” He said. “Not the smallest letter will disappear until all is accomplished” (Matthew 5:17-18).

The temptation is to divide Scripture into “before Jesus” and “after Jesus,” as though God had two personalities. But Jesus saw continuity—Scripture as a single thread running from Eden to eternity. He quoted from Deuteronomy when fighting temptation, prayed the Psalms in anguish, and reaffirmed the justice and mercy of the prophets. The Old Testament was His Bible.

I think about the Sabbath. Remember that? One of God’s “top ten,” a rhythm of rest stamped into creation itself. Today we treat it as a lifestyle suggestion—like drinking more water or getting in our 10,000 steps. But God didn’t call them “My suggestions.” He called them “My Sabbaths.”

The Sabbath was never just a rule—it was a gift. But gifts must be received. When was the last time you said “no” to work, email, shopping, cleaning, striving, just to say “yes” to delight, wonder, rest?

I think of Chick-fil-A—closed on Sundays.⁠* By any marketing logic, that’s foolish. But maybe honouring the Sabbath doesn’t make sense in dollars. Maybe it never did. Maybe it’s not supposed to.

I once heard about a church that took this radical idea and turned it into a movement. They told the congregation to come early one Sunday. No hint why. Just “Don’t be late.” When people arrived, parking attendants ushered them in, but after just one worship song and a short message, the pastor said, “Today, we’re going shopping.”

Shopping? On the Sabbath?

Yes. But not for themselves.

Every church member went to local grocery stores to stock up for the food bank, the men’s shelter, the pregnancy resource center. The stores had been prepped. Extra baggers. Extra cashiers. The community was stunned. “What kind of church is this?” they asked.

One answer: the kind that takes Jesus at His word. “You will be my witnesses.”

I imagine God smiling that day. Not because people obeyed a command, but because they understood the heart behind it.

Jesus healed on the Sabbath. Picked grain. He defended His disciples when the legalists came calling. But He also loved the Sabbath. He didn’t dismiss it—He redefined it. Not as a burden, but as a blessing.

So what if we started there? Not with laws to enforce, but with love to embody?

We talk about grace so often, we forget it has shape. Grace obeys—not to earn, but to express. It worships—not to impress, but to respond. It rests—not out of laziness, but because we know who holds the world in His hands.

“If you love me, keep my commands.”

The longer I walk with Jesus, the more I realize—this isn’t a threat. It’s an invitation. To live not by obligation, but by adoration.

Not legalism. But love.

And that changes everything.

* Chick-fil-A grossed an average of $8.6 million per restaurant in 2022 (the average revenue for a McDonalds restaurant is $2.6 million), this despite opening only 6 days a week, the highest per-restaurant sales of all fast-food restaurants in the United States, as well as having the lowest staff turnover (among hourly workers, annual turnover is 60%, compared with 107% for the industry.)

  en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chick-fil-A

Chapter 17

Turning the Church Right-Side Up—When Jesus Pastors the Church

Thom Rainer puts it plainly:

“Church leaders and members who embrace the reality of the Great Commission and the Great Commandment in their lives will belong to churches that not only survive but also thrive and grow.”

We don’t talk much about thriving in church anymore. At least not in the way the New Testament describes it. Growth has become a numbers game, a branding exercise. But in the early Church, thriving looked like boldness, healing, shared bread, tears, and joy. It looked like people interrupting their lives to follow the One who redefined what “normal” actually meant.

Years ago, I wrote a chapter called Stop Being Weird—Be New Testament Normal. This book is a return to that theme.

I was sitting in a local church when a guest preacher named Derek stood to speak. A humble man with a heart for First Nations communities, Derek wasn’t flashy. But the fire in him was real. He’d spent years planting house churches around the Great Lakes and walking with women caught in prostitution in downtown Toronto—many of them Indigenous. His journey, as he described it, was less about implementing strategies and more about unlearning habits. The Church, he said, had become “weird.”

By “weird,” he didn’t mean eccentric music or outdated bulletins. He meant a disconnect—a Church that bears little resemblance to the one we see in Acts. A Church where the Holy Spirit is more theory than presence. A Church where Jesus’ own ministry has become inspirational rather than imitable.

What if we stopped being weird, and simply got back to New Testament normal?

Derek laid it out plainly:

The life Jesus lived—that is our model.

• He proclaimed the good news with clarity and courage.

• He healed the sick.

• He cast out demons.

• He offered comfort to the broken.

• He rebuked the religious proud.

• He touched the untouchable.

And He sent His disciples to do the same.

“When Jesus had called the Twelve together, he gave them power and authority to drive out all demons and to cure diseases… so they went from village to village, proclaiming the good news and healing people everywhere.” (Luke 9:1–6)

Later, seventy-two more were sent. Ordinary people. No titles. No seminary degrees. And they came back breathless: “Lord, even the demons submit to us in your name!”

We read these stories with admiration. But do we read them with expectation?

When Peter preached on Pentecost, three thousand came to faith. That’s not a formula—it’s a window into what can happen when the Spirit moves freely among people who obey.

So why don’t we expect it?

Maybe we’ve become too accustomed to our way of doing church. We rely on clever teaching, polished music, careful programming. None of these are inherently wrong. But they can become a substitute for power.

Jesus didn’t promise slick production. He promised the Spirit.

“Teach them to obey everything I have commanded you,” Jesus said. (Matthew 28:20) Not just the gentle parts. All of it.

But obedience can feel antiquated in a culture allergic to authority. And yet, obedience is love in action. It is the very fabric of faith. As John put it: “Those who say they live in God should live their lives as Jesus did.” (1 John 2:6)

That includes healing. Proclaiming. Delivering. Loving. Risking.

And it includes believing. Even mustard-seed believing.

The disciples once tried—and failed—to cast out a demon. Bewildered, they asked Jesus why. His response was blunt:

“Because you have so little faith.” (Matthew 17:20)

So often, we substitute strategy for surrender.

Systems for Spirit.

Efficiency for expectation.

But the Kingdom of God never runs on autopilot.

“As the Father has sent me, I am sending you,” Jesus said. Then He breathed on them. “Receive the Holy Spirit.” (John 20:21–22)

The Church, if it is to be the Church, must breathe the same breath.

At the end of his message, Derek said something that lodged deep in my heart:

“Do not quench the Spirit.” (1 Thessalonians 5:19)

He wasn’t accusing. He was pleading. The Church, he said, needs more than clever sermons and clean coffee bars. It needs power. Humility. Dependence. Obedience.

It needs to trust the Bible again—not just as truth, but as a pathway. Not just as inspiration, but as instruction. Scripture isn’t just for study. It’s for living.

Jesus offers healing, forgiveness, peace, freedom. These are not abstract ideals. They are real promises for real people—if we are willing to receive and respond.

But what happens when leadership doesn’t love the Word? What if our shepherds don’t trust the text? What chance does the flock have?

A former pastor of ours once returned from sabbatical with tears in his eyes. God had led him through dark valleys, he said. But there, God began to restore him. At the end of his message, he simply said, “Going forward, I hope you see less of me and more of Jesus.”

That’s when a church begins to turn right-side up.

A pastor named Otha Thurnbough once asked this of a room full of ministers:

“If you had to leave your church, and Jesus Himself pastored it for three months, what would be different when you came back?”

The answer: “Everything.”

So then he asked: “If Jesus would change everything… why aren’t you changing anything?”

The room was silent.

There’s a weight many churches carry—an invisible pressure to protect traditions, preserve systems, maintain predictability. And over time, that pressure hardens into paralysis.

But the Spirit is not tame.

The Spirit is not predictable.

The Spirit longs to breathe fire again.

So here’s the question:

➤ Is your church locked down?

➤ Or is it being turned right-side up?

We’ve tried “business as usual.” Maybe it’s time we returned to the Jesus way.

The one where the Holy Spirit is not a doctrine, but a Presence.

The one where obedience is not optional, but joyful.

The one where the Gospel is not a story we tell—but a life we live.

Maybe the only way forward is the way we’ve forgotten.

Stop being weird. Be New Testament normal.

That’s where life begins again.

Chapter 18

Worship—With Bricks

“Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Go back to Pharaoh and announce to him, This is what the Lord says: Let my people go, so they can worship me.’”—Exodus 8:1

Worship was never an afterthought for God. Long before programs, buildings, or committees, there was this simple, primal invitation: “Let them go… so they can worship Me.” Not to gain influence. Not to form a nation. Not even to escape slavery for its own sake—but to worship.

From the beginning, God has been calling people out of captivity—not just to freedom, but to adoration. To love. To return.

Matt Redman, in his now-beloved song, captures that returning spirit with disarming honesty:

“I’m sorry, Lord,

for the thing I’ve made it,

when it’s all about You.

It’s all about You, Jesus.”

And perhaps that’s the invitation again: to ask ourselves—what, exactly, have we made it?

There’s a story that’s made its rounds in leadership circles, one with multiple tellings and slight variations. But the essence stays the same. After the Great Fire of 1666 reduced much of London to ashes, Sir Christopher Wren was commissioned to rebuild St. Paul’s Cathedral.

Years into the project, Wren observed three bricklayers on a scaffold. Each one was working hard, heads down. He asked the first man, “What are you doing?”

The reply: “I’m laying bricks to feed my family.”

The second: “I’m building a wall.”

The third man stood a little straighter, eyes brighter. “I’m building a great cathedral to the glory of Almighty God.”

Same task. Three different perspectives. But only one saw worship in his work.

➤ What are you building?

➤ And when you come to church, what do you come to see?

If we’re honest, worship today has often been reduced to music style, stage lighting, or preference. We crank up the sound not always out of passion, but out of the belief that volume might produce spirit. We rehearse performance more than posture.

And somewhere in the middle of our best intentions, we may have forgotten that worship isn’t about being moved. It’s about moving toward God.

I watched a video recently asking a simple question: “Why don’t we dress up for church anymore?” Coaches wear suits on the sidelines. Newscasters wear ties. Would we show up to a royal banquet in flip-flops and hoodies?

Of course, God isn’t offended by denim. He looks at the heart. But maybe the deeper question is this:

➤ Has our effort to be “seeker-friendly” dulled the sense of reverence seekers are actually seeking?

Do they walk into church and say, “Surely God is in this place…” or do they wonder if they’ve just entered another social gathering with better coffee?

The third bricklayer had it right. He wasn’t just laying bricks—he was building something transcendent. Worship is like that. It takes the ordinary and lifts it heavenward.

In her book Out of the Saltshaker, Becky Pippert tells the story of a new believer named Bob. Curly-haired, barefoot, wearing cut-offs and a T-shirt, Bob wandered into a well-dressed, well-mannered church one Sunday. Seeing no open seats, he walked straight to the front and sat cross-legged on the floor.

The air grew tense.

Then, an elderly deacon in a three-piece suit slowly made his way down the aisle. Some assumed he’d remove the boy. But when he reached Bob, the man lowered himself—awkwardly, painfully—to the floor. And sat beside him.

There, they worshiped together.

The preacher, moved by what he’d seen, said something few would forget:

“What I’m about to say, you’ll probably forget by next week. But what you just saw—you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”

That’s worship.

Not the performance. Not the precision. But the posture—the kind that says, “It’s all about You, Jesus.”

The Bible lists ten different instruments used in worship: from tambourines to trumpets, harps to horns. It even makes room for the cymbal crash and the low notes of the lyre. Worship has always been diverse—noisy, yes—but never casual.

What matters isn’t the method. It’s the motive.

Worship has never been about what we bring, but why we bring it.

I have sat in a church service where no instruments were allowed—by conviction. In another, a drum kit dominated the platform. Both, I believe, please God—when the hearts of His people are aligned with His presence.

Worship can happen in a cathedral or a living room. On a platform or the floor. With an organ or a whisper. What matters most is that God is the audience—not us.

So maybe the real question is not whether our church has good music, or formal attire, or contemporary style. The real question is this:

➤ When the music fades, and all is stripped away—do we still come?

Because in the end, worship is not a sound we make. It’s a posture we take.

A bowed head.

A broken heart.

An open hand.

And all of it whispers the same thing:

It’s all about You, Jesus.

Chapter 19

Paradigm Changing Prayer

Not long ago, I stumbled across the definition of a word that, until recently, I had only used casually: paradigm. Merriam-Webster defines it as “a clear or typical example… a philosophical or theoretical framework.” Fair enough. But when that paradigm shifts—especially in the realm of faith—it rarely happens subtly. Sometimes it overturns the tables we’ve grown comfortable setting.

I’ve had more than a few paradigm shifts in my life. But none more radical than moving from atheism to faith. From not believing in God to being convinced that God not only exists but cares—that He speaks, that He calls. Nothing flips your internal compass more thoroughly than that.

And so I wonder—have we gotten it backwards when it comes to church? Somewhere along the line, have we exchanged the architecture of God’s design for something more… domesticated? More manageable? We sing songs about a wild, untamable Spirit but build institutions that leave little room for His unpredictability.

Perhaps that’s why so many churches today limp instead of leap.

Let’s name the symptoms of a church losing vitality:

• Shrinking attendance.

• Members who spectate rather than serve.

• Worship that lacks wonder—or else feels manipulated.

• A mission statement few can remember.

• Gray heads with no younger disciples beside them.

• Sermons polished, but baptisms rare.

• Shepherds no one knows by name.

• Small groups in name only.

• A growing detachment from the immediate community outside the sanctuary walls.

In short, churches are aging without mentoring, organized without discipling, and generous without trust.

We say we want to thrive. But what if thriving doesn’t mean what we’ve assumed? What if it requires more than a new program, a rebrand, or a high-energy worship set?

What if it demands a total reorientation?

The Apostle Paul gives us a framework in Ephesians 4: apostles, prophets, evangelists, pastors, and teachers—working together to equip the church for ministry. He doesn’t single out a lead pastor or elevate one role above the others. And yet, many churches place the entire weight of thriving on the shoulders of one person. The result? Burnout for the shepherd, disengagement for the flock.

I think back to that Christmas Eve scene in Luke’s Gospel. The shepherds—plural—watching over a single flock. Working in tandem. Protecting, alert, united. Could that not serve as a model for us?

What would it look like if each person in your congregation had a shepherd who actually knew their name, knew their needs, prayed with them, and was willing to leave the 99 to find them when they strayed?

That’s not just organizational theory. That’s Jesus’ own blueprint.

And while we’re considering new paradigms, here’s another thought: What if we stopped treating prayer as the appetizer and made it the main course?

In Isaiah 56 and again in Matthew 21, God says, “My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations.” Not a house of strategy. Not a house of perfect theology. Prayer. Because prayer is what reminds us that we are not the ones in control.

Churches like the Brooklyn Tabernacle discovered this truth. Their mid-week prayer meeting became the heartbeat of the congregation. Not the Sunday service. Not the staff meeting. The prayer meeting. And revival followed—not just in numbers, but in transformed lives.

Maybe we’ve misunderstood what tithing is too. In a culture that prizes comfort, the widow who gave her last coin stands in stark contrast. She didn’t just give from abundance; she gave “out of her want.” Her love for God, and her trust, eclipsed her fear.

I wonder what became of her. Jesus noticed her. That alone is enough for most of us. But I can’t help but imagine that God, who notices sparrows, didn’t leave her story unfinished.

All of this brings me back to one central conviction: real change doesn’t happen with institutional reform alone. It begins with a return to the first things. It starts when we admit the old model isn’t working, when we repent for trying to do the work of God without the Spirit of God, and when we trade in our assumptions for something closer to Jesus’ vision of church.

He didn’t die to launch a program. He died to build a body.

So, what would it take for your church to become a place where people rearrange their schedules, skip the fishing trip, and change vacation plans just to gather on Sunday—not out of duty, but delight?

When We Pray Boldly

Prayer, I’ve found, is often more daring than we give it credit for. We think of it as folded hands and hushed tones, a whispered ritual at bedtime or before meals. But in the Bible, prayer is more like a wrestling match, a courtroom plea, a desperate cry in the wilderness.

Consider Moses, standing on the edge of divine wrath. God has had enough—He’s ready to start over, to wipe the slate clean after Israel’s rebellion. And Moses, of all people, steps in between.

“Why should the Egyptians say, ‘It was with evil intent that He brought them out’?” he pleads. “Turn from your fierce anger; relent.”

It’s not just intercession—it’s bold defiance laced with reverence. And the unthinkable happens: God relents.

Then there’s Hannah, praying from the depths of barrenness. She doesn’t bargain so much as bare her soul.

“If You give me a son,” she whispers, “I’ll give him back to You.”

No fanfare. Just raw, aching surrender. And from that quiet moment of trust, the prophet Samuel is born.

Joshua goes even further. He doesn’t ask for victory—he asks for time itself to stand still.

“Sun, stand still over Gibeon!”

And it does. Time bends to the cry of a man bold enough to ask the impossible.

Elijah, too, risks everything. Surrounded by prophets of Baal, with nothing to lean on but a prayer and a drenched altar, he calls out:

“Answer me, Lord, so these people will know…”

And fire falls—flames licking up water and stones, pride and doubt alike.

Abraham, the friend of God, dares to haggle. Not rudely, but persistently.

“What if there are fifty righteous people? Forty-five? Thirty? Twenty? Ten?”

He presses God, not to win an argument, but to save a city. He believes that justice and mercy can coexist—and God listens.

And then there’s Jabez, tucked into a genealogical list most of us skip. But his simple cry still echoes:

“Oh, that You would bless me… enlarge my territory… keep me from harm.”

No backstory. No grand gesture. Just a heart asking for more of God’s presence—and God grants it.

These prayers are not timid. They are dangerous in the best way. They change history. They shape the future. They move the heart of God.

Maybe it’s time—past time—for a shift in how we pray. Not prayers of obligation but prayers of courage. Prayers that name what’s broken. Prayers that hope for what seems impossible.

Maybe it begins—not with polished words—but with an honest heart. And maybe, just maybe, it starts with Jesus.

Chapter 20

Dreaming—Dare to Ask, “What’s Your Dream.”

When God gives a dream, He also gives the grace to grow into it.

In our small group study, we’ve been reading Just Walk Across the Room by Bill Hybels. The premise is simple enough: take a few steps across a room, reach out your hand, and introduce yourself. Trust that God will do the rest. A few feet of obedience, and eternity might shift.

One night, the conversation turned. One woman observed how so many in our town seem stuck—unmotivated, aimless. “What do we say to them?” she asked. “How do we reach people who’ve given up?”

That’s when I shared a question I often use in conversation, usually after a bit of small talk has paved the way:

“Do you have a dream?”

Sometimes I have to follow up: “Is there something you’ve always longed to do—something buried deep, but never realized?” What’s remarkable is how quickly the question peels back layers. I’ve never had someone answer, “I want to be rich.” Dreams run deeper than bank accounts.

I’ll never forget one young woman’s response. She was working at a children’s camp when I posed the question. Without missing a beat, she answered, “Yes. I want to be a mom.”

I knew her story. She had been bruised by life—literally and emotionally. Neglected by her mother, abused by her father, she was now the guardian of her younger sister, nursing more than just physical wounds. Yet somehow, in all that brokenness, she carried a mother’s heart—a gift, I believe, planted by God Himself.

Only a Dream Giver could turn pain into compassion that powerful.

Why share this story in a chapter about leadership? Because dreaming is central to calling.

Many people serve faithfully in churches, even in leadership roles, but feel vaguely off-course—useful, but not alive. They’re the right people, but in the wrong job. I’ve been there. You probably have, too.

I once dreamed of starting an audiovisual company. A bold idea for a young Christian with a fiancée and more courage than sense. I laid a fleece before God—one of those Gideon-style moments—and He confirmed it. That company became my livelihood for twenty-three years.

Then came another whisper: use public transit ads to share Scripture. Who does that? It took six years to get started, but in time, God opened doors in cities across Canada. I told Him I’d do it only if He funded it. He did. Every dollar.

Wendy and I also dreamed of hosting a bed and breakfast—sharing our home and hearts. God gave us that dream too. Twice, Airbnb named us the most hospitable hosts in Ontario. Not because of spreadsheets or smart marketing, but because, in every dish of French toast and every fresh towel, we tried to offer love.

And then came a pandemic. With it, a new dream: to write. That dream became a blog. The blog became books. This is number eight.

None of this was part of a master plan. It’s just what happens when you ask the Dream Giver to lead—and you’re willing to follow, even if it’s only ten feet across a room.

“Trust and obey,” the old hymn says, “for there’s no other way to be happy in Jesus.”

And perhaps, no other way to truly live out the dream He planted in you.

Interlude

Turning the Church Right-Side Up

What happens when the dream begins to fade?

Maybe you’re a pastor or elder—or someone who once believed the Church could change the world. But now you find yourself quietly wondering if it’s all coming undone. Attendance is down. Enthusiasm is thin. Volunteers are exhausted. Maybe you are exhausted. And though you would never say it out loud, there are days when giving up doesn’t just feel tempting—it feels merciful.

I’ve spoken to enough leaders to know this truth: more than a few churches are teetering on the edge of collapse. Not because of heresy or scandal. But because of discouragement. Quiet erosion. Hearts worn down by years of doing ministry in a culture that seems increasingly indifferent.

If that’s where you are, I want to say something simple—but true: It doesn’t have to be that way.

God has not abandoned His Church.

He has not given up on you.

In fact, He wants you—and your church—to thrive. Not in some shallow, success-driven way, but in the deep, soul-restoring sense that comes from being aligned with His Spirit, His purposes, His grace.

God does offer us a path forward. Not a quick fix or a church-growth program. But a promise—and a pattern.

He says, in effect: “Listen to me. Walk with me. Obey what I’ve already given you.”

It’s not easy. But it is simple.

And it starts here:

➤ Return to His Word.

➤ Return to your first love.

➤ Return to the forgotten corners of the Kingdom—where the poor, the overlooked, and the spiritually hungry still gather, waiting to be seen.

Thriving is not a matter of strategy.

It is a matter of willful surrender.

And grace will meet you there.

Chapter 21

If and Thrive—A Sparkling Church in Dusty Places

We use the word thrive as if it’s obvious what it means—growth, strength, success, momentum. Churches love to speak of thriving. Books are written about it. Strategies are built around it. But what if thriving, in God’s economy, looks very different than we imagine?

God certainly intends His people to flourish. That’s not in question. The problem lies in how quickly we forget the why behind the blessing. In Deuteronomy, God delivers a sobering prediction:

“When I have brought them into the land flowing with milk and honey… and when they eat their fill and thrive, they will turn to other gods…” (Deuteronomy 31:20)

In other words, the very moment of thriving can become the moment of forgetting.

The caution isn’t against flourishing—it’s against complacency. And leaders, especially, must keep their eyes on the deeper calling beneath the surface success.

I once spoke with a dear friend who hadn’t returned to church after COVID. When I asked why, her answer lingered long after the conversation ended: “I just don’t want to go back to the same-old, same-old—perpetual fundraising and programming.” Underneath the frustration was a deeper longing—not to escape church, but to see it come alive again. To thrive in a way that felt real.

Proverbs reminds us:

“Those who trust in their riches will fall, but the righteous will thrive like a green leaf.” (Proverbs 11:28)

Thriving, it seems, isn’t about resources or relevance. It’s about righteousness. It’s about staying rooted in something deeper than trend or comfort.

Another friend shared a disheartening observation. After attending a church for several years—one I myself had known and loved—he noted, “Not once have I heard the word ‘sin’ mentioned from the pulpit.” That struck me. Not because I believe churches should dwell on guilt, but because true thriving begins in honesty. If we can’t name what’s broken, how will we recognize the Healer?

And yes, I long to see that church rise again. But not just that church. Many churches. Churches that once pulsed with Spirit and now feel adrift in polite religion.

The Bible speaks often about evil—far more than it speaks about thriving. Perhaps because thriving is meant to be a byproduct of something else: faithfulness. Obedience. Humility. Leadership, after all, can become the problem when it loses sight of the One we follow.

“When the wicked rise, people hide; but when the wicked perish, the righteous thrive.” (Proverbs 28:28)

“When the righteous thrive, the people rejoice…” (Proverbs 29:2)

Thriving, then, is communal. It brings joy. It spreads. But only when it’s righteous at the root.

Zechariah gives us a glimpse of God’s vision:

“They will sparkle in His land like jewels in a crown… Grain will make the young men thrive, and new wine the young women.” (Zecharia 9:16–17)

That’s the kind of thriving we’re meant for—not just numerical growth or social relevance, but beauty, vibrancy, resilience. A church that sparkles not because it’s trendy, but because it’s holy.

Still, Scripture is honest:

“Will it thrive? Will it not be uprooted… Will it not wither when the east wind strikes it?” (Ezekial 17:9–10)

Yes, even something once planted by God can falter. The question isn’t whether God desires thriving, but whether we’ve cultivated the kind of soil that allows it.

And yet, even here, there’s a surprise.

If you want to see the Church truly thrive—look to China. Iran. North Korea. Places where meeting together risks your freedom, your family, even your life. They have lost much. They have no buildings, no budgets, no branded ministries. And yet… they are thriving. Spiritually, fervently, beautifully.

The writer of Hebrews says of them:

“You suffered along with those in prison and joyfully accepted the confiscation of your property, because you knew that you had better and lasting possessions.” (Hebrews 10:34)

What they have lost in material comfort, they have gained in eternal perspective.

So perhaps that’s the paradox:

➤ We thrive not when we accumulate, but when we abide.

➤ Not when we seek growth, but when we seek God.

And if we do—if we hold fast, repent, stay rooted in the Word, stay honest with ourselves and one another—then yes, we will thrive. Like a green leaf. Like jewels in His crown.

Chapter 22

If and Religion—When Religion Smells Like Mercy

“The poor people so disrespected and dismissed by our world are the very people who are smack-dab in the middle of God’s world. The Kingdom of Heaven is organized around them.”

—Greg Paul, Resurrecting Religion

Writing a book like this is a bit like opening the Bible with a flashlight and then realizing the light is pointing right back at you. You begin with the assumption that you’re here to explain something—to teach, even. But soon enough, the text turns its gaze on you. Religion, it turns out, is one of those words that surprises you. Not because it’s absent from the Bible—but because of how little it actually shows up.

In the Old Testament, religion doesn’t appear at all—not once. The New Testament gives it a mere five appearances. And yet, we use the word constantly. We fill out boxes on surveys. We fight wars over it. We associate it with rules, systems, structures—sometimes even shame.

But when the Bible uses the word religion—threskeia in Greek—it doesn’t mean what we often assume. It doesn’t refer to institutions or denominations or creeds. It means reverent worship, spiritual discipline. The root idea isn’t doctrine—it’s devotion.

James gives perhaps the clearest definition we have:

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” (James 1:27)

In other words, true religion smells like nard. It moves like mercy. It reaches out, not up. And it always lands at the feet of those who are easy to overlook.

James doesn’t tell us what religion is. He tells us what it does. It comforts the motherless child. It visits the lonely widow. It swims upstream against a polluted culture.

If we’re honest, most of us wouldn’t define religion that way. We’ve inherited other definitions—cold ones, institutional ones. But James is turning the noun into a verb. He’s saying: You want to know what religion looks like? Watch what it does.

King David once said,

“Feed the hungry, and help those in trouble. Then your light will shine out from the darkness.” (Isaiah 58, paraphrased)

So let me ask:

➤ Does your church do that?

➤ Do you have programs for orphans and vulnerable kids—some form of mentoring, spiritual parenting?

➤ Do your widows and widowers have regular companionship, someone to pray with them, listen to them, walk beside them?

➤ Do you have a plan—not a vague hope, but a plan—for keeping the next generation from being swept downstream by the cultural current?

And more to the point:

➤ Does your religion look like Jesus?

The early apostles understood. Paul, Barnabas, Peter, James—they gathered to agree on doctrine, yes, but their singular instruction boiled down to this: “Keep helping the poor.” (Galatians 2:10)

It’s astonishing how simple Jesus made it, and how complicated we’ve made it since.

My friend Greg Paul, who spends his days with the homeless and addicted at Toronto’s Sanctuary community, says it best:

“Righteousness,” he writes, “means behaving rightly toward other people: justice in the context of relationships.”

When Jesus said, “Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness” (Matthew 6:33), He wasn’t talking about avoiding rated-R movies. He was telling us to stop worrying about what we wear or eat—and to get busy doing the things that truly matter.

Feed the hungry.

Shelter the stranger.

Love the widow.

Walk with the broken.

And trust God to handle the rest.

What if we took Him at His word? What if every church allocated 20%—not the leftover scraps, but a stretch offering—the cream off the top—to directly serve the vulnerable? Not just to cut a check, but to show up, week after week, in real relationship.

Yes, I said 20%. That’s not a typo. It’s not crazy, either. It’s Kingdom math. I serve an outrageously generous God. If He calls us to care for the widow and the orphan, will He not also supply what we need to do it?

Jesus once said to a rich young man, “If you want to be perfect, go, sell everything… give to the poor… then come, follow me.” The man walked away sad.

We still do.

We have a choice:

To walk away with our possessions—or walk forward with Jesus.

I recently came across a line from the English Chronicle (circa 1137 AD):

“In those days, it was said that Christ and His saints slept.”

May it never be said of our generation.

I think often about where Jesus would be on a Sunday morning in Toronto. If He appeared bodily—where would He go? I suspect it wouldn’t be the cathedral. I suspect He’d be at Sanctuary, sitting on the floor beside the man who talks too loud, the woman whose wrist is still healing from a boyfriend’s rage.

Greg Paul tells of a Sunday when a woman burst into their gathering, clutching her arm, shouting for protection. She ran straight to the pastor, wrapping herself around him in panic. Others from the congregation instinctively formed a human shield around them. Later, Greg wrote, “An object lesson is a powerful teaching tool—especially when you’re the subject.”

He also wondered aloud: “How do we also hold the abuser?”

That, too, is religion.

Not the easy, domesticated kind. But the raw, uncomfortable kind that Jesus practiced. The kind that doesn’t just rescue the hurting—but reaches out to the hurter.

When Jesus returns, He won’t hand out certificates of church attendance. He’ll say:

“I was hungry… you fed me. I was thirsty… you gave me something to drink. I was in prison… and you visited me.” (Matthew 25)

The ones who get it right won’t even realize they were doing anything special. They were just living out their faith with sleeves rolled up.

That’s what religion looks like when it breathes.

So I ask again:

➤ If Jesus showed up at your church this Sunday, would He find His fragrance there?

➤ Would He see the Kingdom organized around the poor, the lonely, the forgotten?

Try it. You might like it.

And more importantly, He might, too.

Chapter 23

Go, Invite, Gather—When the Banquet isn’t Full Yet

Jesus once told a story about a king who prepared a wedding feast—a celebration brimming with joy, food, beauty, and meaning. But when the invitations went out, the expected guests didn’t come. Some were indifferent. Others were hostile. So the king sent his servants out again—not to the elite, but to anyone they could find. “The bad as well as the good,” the text says. And in the end, “the wedding hall was filled with guests.” (Matthew 22:8–10)

It’s easy to read that story as ancient allegory. But make no mistake—those servants? That’s us.

“Go into the streets…”

“Go and make disciples…”

“Go into all the world…”

Again and again, Jesus used that one word: Go.

Not sit. Not wait. Not build a beautiful space and hope people come. Go.

If we claim to follow Jesus, we must learn not only His teachings but also His movement. And the Gospels show a Jesus in motion. Thirty-two times, the writers tell us that “Jesus went.” He didn’t wait for people to find Him. He found them first.

In our modern churches, it’s tempting to think outreach means a new building or a better program. Surely if we just fine-tune the worship set or invest in better signage, the people will come.

But they don’t. Not because they’re uninterested. But because no one invited them.

When I was growing up in England, church wasn’t a mystery. It was the hub of the community. Fêtes, bake sales, youth clubs, and nativity plays—all revolved around the local parish. Even those who didn’t attend regularly knew where they belonged when Christmas and Easter came around.

That sense of shared spiritual space has faded. But perhaps it can be recovered—if we rethink what Go means.

Start local. Jesus did.

When He said, “Go into all the world,” He didn’t mean to overlook the family next door or the elderly man across the street. Maybe your “world” starts with a four-mile radius.

In our town, the welcome sign boasts, “Home to 800 nice families and one old grouch.” It’s a joke, of course—but also a reminder that everyone, even the grouch, belongs somewhere. They deserve to know there’s a church nearby that prays for them, reaches out when they suffer loss, and stands ready to serve.

We are not called to impress. We are called to invite.

A couple of years ago, our church made a decision. Small as we are, tucked in a rural corner of the country, we committed that ten percent of everything we receive would go directly into missions and outreach. No exceptions. If God trusted us with a dollar, a dime would go to serve someone else.

This is not grand strategy. It’s simple obedience. Malachi obedience.

That decision eventually led five members of our church to a slum in Costa Rica, where they delivered 100 pairs of small black shoes—enough to help dozens of children walk into school with dignity. The trip cost us something, yes. But what we received was immeasurable. The team came home changed. Expanded. Humbled. Re-centered.

And we’re not finished. Right now, we’re praying for $3,500 to repair a ministry van. A simple vehicle with a holy purpose.

Because the Gospel is still on the move.

Because “Go” is still the command.

And because the banquet is not yet full.

In the end, this chapter is not about travel. It’s about posture.

It’s about readiness.

Are we waiting for people to find us? Or are we going out, like the servants in the story, into the streets and alleyways?

Jesus’ final words on earth weren’t complex.

They weren’t optional.

They were, and still are, beautifully simple:

“Go, invite, gather.”

And when we do, the wedding hall begins to fill.

Chapter 24

Non-Conformism: It’s in My Genes

I didn’t set out to be a non-conformist. In fact, until recently, I couldn’t have defined the term with much clarity. But looking back, I suspect I’ve worn the label for most of my Christian life—even if I didn’t know it.

The revelation came through family, of all things.

My cousin Catherine and my sister Patricia are avid students of genealogy. They dig into archives the way some people dig into garden beds—patiently, thoroughly, expecting something to bloom. And one day, something did. Catherine stumbled upon a branch of our family tree that traces back to a man named Nicholas Ridley, a 16th-century bishop, reformer, and, as I would come to understand, a textbook example of a biblical non-conformist. He was my cousin—twelve generations removed.

Nicholas’s story reads like a chapter torn from Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. A scholar at Cambridge, a friend of William Tyndale, a co-laborer with Thomas Cranmer. He read the Gospels in Greek, resisted papal authority, and pleaded with the king to care for widows and orphans. Eventually, he would be burned at the stake for refusing to recant his belief in justification by faith and the symbolic nature of the Lord’s Supper.

He died with conviction in his mouth and fire at his feet.

And that legacy—a quiet defiance rooted in Scripture—seems to have trickled down through the generations.

So what is non-conformism, really?

It’s not rebellion for rebellion’s sake. It’s not iconoclasm disguised as piety. Biblical non-conformism is the stubborn conviction that God’s truth, revealed in Scripture and lived out in love, must take precedence over the customs, assumptions, and institutional comforts of the world around us—even when those pressures are wearing clerical collars.

In Ridley’s day, it meant exchanging ornate altars for simple tables. It meant translating Latin liturgies into common English. It meant questioning long-standing traditions not out of arrogance, but out of devotion. It meant insisting that the heart of the Church should look more like the Last Supper than a royal court.

And today?

Maybe non-conformism looks like refusing to idolize titles. In the early church, there were apostles, prophets, and teachers, yes—but they were Paul, Peter, and John. There was no “Reverend So-and-So” or “The Most Esteemed Bishop.” Even Phoebe, whom Paul commends in Romans, is simply “our sister Phoebe, a deacon of the church in Cenchreae.”

We’re all heirs, co-workers, disciples. There’s an unspoken democracy in the Kingdom of God—not flattening everyone into sameness, but dignifying everyone with worth. Jesus didn’t distribute robes of authority. He handed out towels for washing feet.

I attended a small prayer meeting not long ago. A few of us gathered to send off a mission team headed to Costa Rica. Someone read from Matthew 28—The Great Commission. A passage so familiar it risks becoming invisible.

And yet, this time, a line jumped out:

“When they saw Him, they worshiped—but some doubted.”

They’d walked with Jesus. Watched Him die. Seen Him alive again. And still—some doubted.

The honesty of that sentence struck me. If the Eleven could waver in His physical presence, what grace there must be for us—those of us who follow at a distance, guided not by sight but by faith.

Still, Jesus didn’t exclude them. He didn’t separate the faithful from the uncertain. He looked at all of them—worshippers and doubters alike—and said, “Go. Make disciples.”

Not, “Wait until you’ve got it all figured out.” Not, “Once your theology is airtight.” Just—go.

Make disciples.

Baptize them.

Teach them to obey.

No mention of seminary. No prerequisites of gender, age, or giftedness. No requirement to wear robes or hold titles.

Just an ordinary call to ordinary people.

I once heard a woman share her story at a church service. Born into a family entangled in the occult, she eventually rose to the role of a satanic high priestess. Her past was filled with shadows I can’t pretend to understand. One day, a co-worker invited her to church. She came. She heard the gospel. She believed.

But her story didn’t end with conversion. It became more difficult. The friend who brought her to faith disappeared. Her past haunted her. And without anyone to disciple her, she was left spiritually adrift.

Jesus didn’t say, “Go and make converts.”

He said, “Make disciples.”

That means walking with people long after the altar call. It means baptizing—not just with water, but into community. It means teaching—not as an expert, but as a fellow pilgrim, still learning how to obey.

The responsibility isn’t just for pastors. It’s for all of us. Disciples make disciples. That’s how the Kingdom grows—not in rows of pews, but in relationships.

Non-conformism today might mean resisting the urge to leave discipleship to professionals. It might mean rethinking evangelism not as a scripted pitch but as a life lived visibly. It might mean rejecting the idea that church only happens between 10 and noon on Sundays.

And it definitely means refusing to walk away from new believers, even when their stories are messy.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus didn’t give us 612 rules to follow. He offered a vision—a way of being. Pay your taxes. Love your enemies. Don’t worry. Do to others… It’s less about avoiding sin and more about embodying grace.

The Kingdom, Jesus seemed to say, is surprisingly simple.

So maybe non-conformism today looks like returning to that simplicity. Not a watered-down gospel, but a distilled one. The kind that heals. Restores. Saves.

The kind Nicholas Ridley died for.

The kind Jesus rose for.

The kind we’ve been called to go and give.

Chapter 25

Leadership Part 1: What’s in a Name

“So Christ himself gave the apostles, the prophets, the evangelists, the pastors and teachers, to equip his people for works of service, so that the body of Christ may be built up until we all reach unity in the faith and in the knowledge of the Son of God and become mature, attaining to the whole measure of the fullness of Christ.”—Ephesians 4:11–13

I’ve always been a list-maker. Something about the practice helps me see more clearly what otherwise gets lost in a tangle of words. So when I come across a rich passage like Ephesians 4, I break it down—not to reduce its meaning, but to make sure I don’t miss any of it.

Here’s what Paul gives us:

Christ gave some…

1. As apostles

2. As prophets

3. As evangelists

4. As pastors (literally: shepherds)

5. As teachers

…so that…

a. His people would be equipped for service

b. The Body would be built up

c. Unity in faith would be achieved

d. We would grow in the knowledge of Christ

e. Maturity would take shape

f. And we would reflect the fullness of Christ Himself

It’s a beautiful list, really. Not just for its content, but for its structure. We often forget that the Church is Christ’s design, not ours. These roles aren’t human job titles; they’re divine appointments, each one carefully given “so that…” the people of God might flourish. Might grow up. Might look a little more like Jesus.

And yet somewhere along the way, we’ve bundled, fused, and redefined these roles in a way that’s left many in the Church confused—or exhausted.

In most North American churches, we have a Lead Pastor. Maybe a Teaching Pastor. A Worship Pastor. A Family Pastor. An Executive Pastor. But here’s the catch: “pastor” appears just once in the entire English New Testament—in Ephesians 4:11. And even there, it comes from the Greek word poimēn, which simply means “shepherd.”

That same word shows up in Luke 2—“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby…” They weren’t theologians or administrators. They were caretakers. Watchers. Protectors of sheep.

And so perhaps the better question isn’t how many kinds of pastors we need, but how many shepherds we actually have.

In Isaiah 61, we find one of the most hopeful, sweeping visions in all of Scripture:

“The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is upon me…”

These are the words Jesus Himself claimed in Luke 4 as He launched His public ministry. And by implication, they are the words we inherit as His followers—those called to bind up the brokenhearted, comfort those who mourn, and trade ashes for beauty.

But if that’s the calling, we must ask: What sort of people are we raising to fulfill it?

Jeremiah gives us another image of pastors—also translated shepherds—those who “feed you with knowledge and understanding.” (Jeremiah 3:15 KJV) The word used here, ra’ah, carries the sense of tending, grazing, nurturing. It’s agricultural, not institutional.

And here’s something else worth noting: in the New Testament, shepherds are almost always plural. There’s no “Senior Shepherd” holding the whole thing together. Leadership, as God designed it, was meant to be shared—carried together.

The single-pastor model we’ve normalized today is not wrong so much as it is incomplete. It risks isolating individuals in roles too weighty for one person to bear. Burnout is not just a hazard—it’s a near guarantee.

Saint Augustine once described the pastoral calling with painstaking detail:

“Disturbers are to be rebuked, the low-spirited encouraged, the infirm supported, the treacherous guarded against, the unskilled taught, the lazy aroused, the contentious restrained…”

And so on.

It’s an exhausting list.

And I wonder—how many pastors are quietly crumbling under the weight of this ancient expectation, believing they must do it all, be it all, for everyone?

Leadership is indeed a spiritual gift. But not everyone who can speak well or organize a calendar has it. And not every shepherd is called to be a leader.

I learned this the hard way. In my younger years, I worked in retail—sales came naturally. So I was promoted: Assistant Manager. Then Manager. But something shifted. What once brought me energy began to drain it. I realized: I could assist, but I didn’t flourish when placed at the helm.

It takes wisdom to recognize the difference between skill and calling. Between what we can do and what we’re meant to do.

Leadership in the Church isn’t about control. It’s about calling. It isn’t about ambition. It’s about anointing.

As Paul reminds us in Ephesians 4, these roles—apostle, prophet, evangelist, shepherd, teacher—are given by Christ Himself. They are not self-assumed. They are stewarded.

We might do well to return to the image of the shepherd. A good one doesn’t manage from a distance. He lives among the sheep. He smells like lanolin. He carries their weight on his shoulders.

➤ Do you smell like the sheep?

That may be the most telling test of pastoral authenticity.

And what of elders?

The New Testament describes a plurality of elders—those responsible not only for leadership, but also for spiritual care. James tells us that when someone is sick, they should:

“call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord.” (James 5:14)

But what happens when a church has no plurality—just one overburdened pastor? What then?

We rob the sick of their opportunity to be made well. We interrupt the ordinary flow of grace that God intended to come through community. We reduce the body of Christ to a bottleneck.

And so, in all humility, I offer this:

➤ If your church has no functioning elders, perhaps it’s time to reconsider your structure.

➤ If you are leading alone, perhaps it’s time to ask—Am I thriving? Is my flock?

➤ If you are leading without the gift of leadership, perhaps it’s time to release the pressure, and embrace instead the calling you do have—to teach, to tend, to comfort.

Jesus never asked one person to do it all. Even He, surrounded by crowds, sent His disciples out two by two. Even He withdrew to pray.

So if He needed partnership, why would we expect less of ourselves?

Chapter 26

Leadership Part 2: A Character Study

It’s often the unlikely ones that God chooses. That’s not just a comforting sentiment—it’s a pattern we see again and again in Scripture. And perhaps nowhere more vividly than in the life of Moses.

When we meet him at the beginning of Exodus, he’s a paradox in motion. Hebrew by birth, Egyptian by upbringing. Privileged yet rootless. Educated in Pharaoh’s palace, but drawn to the cries of the oppressed. His first recorded act as an adult is an impulsive one—he kills an Egyptian overseer and flees into exile.

Not exactly a résumé you’d submit for a leadership position.

And yet, God saw something. Not polished talent. Not confidence. Certainly not eloquence. But something deeper. A man who, over time, would become broken enough to be useful, humble enough to be strong, reluctant enough to hear, and tender enough to weep.

Let’s be honest—Moses didn’t exactly leap at the opportunity.

At the burning bush, he doesn’t say, “Here am I, send me.” Instead, he offers a series of increasingly desperate objections:

“I’m not qualified.”

“They won’t listen to me.”

“I don’t speak well.”

“Please—just send someone else.”

And if we’re being honest, don’t we often do the same?

I’ve found myself in that conversation—standing before some task too large, some invitation too daunting, quietly asking God to reconsider. To pick someone more talented. More articulate. More… confident.

And yet, God insists: “Now go.”

He didn’t choose Moses because he was ready. He chose him because he was willing. Eventually.

Scripture tells us that the Lord’s anger burned against Moses. At one point, He even seems poised to end the story before it starts:

“The Lord met Moses and was about to kill him…” (Exodus 4:24)

What do we do with a moment like that?

Sometimes I wonder if Moses, like many of us, had let his internal excuses grow louder than God’s external calling. He didn’t feel holy enough. Or equipped. Or worthy. But leadership in God’s Kingdom doesn’t begin with résumé or reputation. It begins with surrender.

Years later, Numbers 12:3 offers this startling statement:

Moses was very humble—more humble than anyone else on the face of the earth.

That’s the same Moses who once argued with God, panicked before Pharaoh, and lashed out in frustration.

How does such a man become the most humble on earth?

The answer, I think, lies in who did the shaping.

God doesn’t erase our flaws when He calls us. He often leaves them visible, like cracks in clay pots, so the light of His work can shine through. Moses didn’t lead because he was impressive. He led because he listened—eventually. Because he returned again and again to the mountain, the tent, the presence of God.

He led not from above but from beside. Not from pride but from prayer.

Jesus would later say it in His own words:

“The greatest among you will be your servant. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” (Matthew 23:11–12)

We might call it the great reversal. In God’s economy, down is the way up. The least becomes the greatest. The last becomes first.

Moses never built a palace. But he learned how to build a people.

He didn’t have a title carved into stone. But he had his name written in heaven.

Centuries later, the apostle Paul would reflect on another flawed leader—Saul, the first king of Israel. A man chosen for his stature but undone by his disobedience.

“You have not kept the command the Lord your God gave you,” Samuel told Saul. “The Lord has sought out a man after His own heart.” (1 Samuel 13:13–14)

And that man, of course, was David.

Not perfect. But responsive.

Not polished. But pliable.

“He will do everything I want him to do,” God said. (Acts 13:22)

That may be the most compelling description of leadership I’ve ever heard.

Not “He’ll always get it right.”

Not “He’ll impress the crowds.”

But simply—He’ll listen. He’ll follow.

So what about us?

➤ Do we argue with God when He calls?

➤ Do we measure ourselves by our limitations rather than by His promises?

➤ Do we wait for competence when He’s asking only for surrender?

God never demanded that Moses be fearless—only that he be faithful. He didn’t require eloquence—only trust. He didn’t expect perfection—only obedience.

That’s what leadership in the Kingdom looks like.

It’s messy, yes. And often misunderstood. But in the end, it’s not about charisma. Or credentials. It’s about saying yes—even through trembling lips.

God isn’t looking for heroes. He’s looking for hearts.

Chapter 27

Leadership Part 3: A Look in the Mirror

Leadership is never about the spotlight, though we often make it so. In fact, when Scripture introduces the first leaders of God’s people, the image is not of someone holding a microphone or issuing commands. It’s a tired man sitting under the weight of too much responsibility, worn thin by good intentions.

That man was Moses.

Exodus gives us a scene both poignant and painfully familiar: Moses seated from morning till evening, serving as judge for a restless, broken people—alone.

It takes his father-in-law, Jethro, to say what no one else will: “What you are doing is not good.”

And with that, comes the most ancient lesson of leadership we still forget today: You can’t carry the burden alone. Not even if God called you. Especially not then.

I’ve walked alongside churches that struggled. I’ve sat in the back pews of congregations where the weight of ministry fell on one pair of shoulders—too narrow for the load. What I’ve observed is rarely a failure of doctrine. It’s a failure of leadership—and not from a lack of effort or heart.

More often, it’s a failure of structure, of assumptions, of misplaced roles and unrealistic expectations. Sometimes, the very gifts that make someone a compelling preacher or wise counselor can blind them—or us—to the reality that they were never called to lead.

Leadership, like every other spiritual gift, is just that—a gift. And gifts are given, not grabbed. They are distributed by the Spirit as He wills, not assigned by default or vacancy.

Paul, writing to the believers in Corinth, offers a picture of the Church that is both anatomical and theological:

“All of you together are Christ’s body, and each of you is a part of it.” (1 Corinthians 12:27, NLT)

Each part—not all.

We do damage when we ask one part of the body to do it all. And we forget that no part can claim the right to function alone.

Let’s take another look at Paul’s list in Romans 12:

“If your gift is to lead, do it diligently.”

“If it’s to encourage, encourage.”

“If it’s to teach, teach.”

“If it’s to give, then give.”

One gift. One purpose. One body. Many roles.

But here’s what gets lost in translation: leadership is not the apex of the pyramid. It’s just one limb among many. And curiously, in every list of spiritual gifts Paul gives, leadership always appears near the bottom—not out of disrespect, but perhaps as a quiet commentary on how God views strength.

In the Kingdom of God, strength is often hidden beneath humility.

Somewhere along the way, the Church began to mimic the corporate world. Titles multiplied. Hierarchies solidified. We invented ordination rituals and chain-of-command structures that Jesus never mandated.

I wonder if Jethro would walk into some of our churches today and say, “This is not good.”

Because instead of teams, we build pedestals. Instead of mutual submission, we expect singular authority. And so, burnout festers, vision narrows, and community shrivels into bureaucracy.

Yet the New Testament gives us a different model entirely: plurality. Plurality of elders. Shared leadership. Mutual accountability. A spiritual ecosystem built not around charisma, but character. Not control, but calling.

Even the apostle Paul—arguably the most influential church planter in history—never refers to himself as a pastor. His own description of his role? Preacher. Teacher. Apostle. And, as we read earlier, he “devoted himself exclusively to preaching.”

That’s it.

And when Paul wrote of church structure, he spoke in plural terms: elders, deacons, servants. No senior pastors. No bishops overseeing a network of franchises. Just communities of believers, shepherded by a group of spiritually mature men and women who served because Christ served first.

It’s striking that the first official role in the early Church wasn’t preacher or bishop—it was deacon. Servant.

When a dispute broke out over food distribution in Acts 6, the apostles didn’t tighten their grip—they delegated. They appointed seven others to take on the practical work so that they could focus on prayer and teaching.

Imagine that. Authority released, not hoarded.

And when Paul describes the Church in later epistles, he continues to honour that pattern. When a financial gift is sent to Jerusalem, it is entrusted not to a single leader, but “to the elders.” (Acts 11:30)

Which raises a vital question: If the New Testament is so consistent about shared leadership, why have so many churches built pyramids instead?

Some traditions point to ordination, as if the laying on of hands elevates one above another. But in Scripture, it seems more an act of affirmation than hierarchy. A recognition of gifting, not a coronation.

Others rely on Church Fathers or centuries-old tradition. But Jesus was never a fan of institutional drift. His harshest rebukes were reserved not for Rome but for the religious leaders who had turned God’s commands into burdens—building scaffolding of man-made rules around the law, until grace was buried beneath it.

Even the word bishop, now often associated with status and oversight, is simply the Greek word episkopos, meaning “overseer”—a practical, not positional, term. The same word translated as elder.

If the New Testament model is so clear, what’s stopping us?

Often, it’s fear.

Fear that if we let go, things will fall apart. That no one else will rise up. That no one else is ready. That without hierarchy, there will be chaos.

But if the Church belongs to Christ—and it does—then maybe it’s okay to step back and let the Spirit breathe again. Maybe we need less hierarchy and more humanity. Less structure and more soul.

Maybe leadership is not about climbing to the top, but kneeling at the bottom.

One more thing.

Peter once called us “a royal priesthood.” Not some of us. Not just the clergy. All of us.

We are all priests now—not to offer sacrifices, but to proclaim good news. To extend mercy. To serve one another. To carry the presence of Christ into the world.

What if that was our starting point?

What if leadership began not with a title, but with a towel? Not with a platform, but with a basin of water?

What if we looked in the mirror and saw not position, but posture?

Not ambition, but anointing?

Then maybe—just maybe—the Church would begin to look less like a corporation and more like Christ.

And maybe the world would notice.

Chapter 28

So, You Want to Be a Good Leader—The Gospel in a Towel and Basin

I have never quite known what to make of feet. They’re practical, certainly. Essential, absolutely. But beautiful? Rarely. There’s something about them—maybe the vulnerability, maybe the wear-and-tear of life pressed into calluses—that’s always made me pull away just a little. My wife knows this about me. I’ll cheerfully vacuum the entire house, fix the leaking sink, even do our taxes—but ask me to offer a foot massage and I become Peter all over again: “Lord, not feet!”

And yet, it was the feet that Jesus chose.

On the eve of His death, the One who had all things under His power—who came from God and was returning to God—picked up a towel, poured water into a basin, and knelt to perform the task reserved for the lowest of household servants.

He washed feet.

Not just any feet. Fisherman’s feet. Tax collector’s feet. The feet of doubters and betrayers, of men who would scatter at His arrest. He loved them to the end, John tells us—and then, He stooped.

Leadership, Jesus-style, begins not with strategy but surrender. Not with vision casting, but basin filling. “I have set you an example,” He said, “that you should do as I have done for you.”

And this is where things become uncomfortable.

Imagine the King of England kneeling beside your recliner, loosening the dirt from between your toes. Or picture yourself in a leper colony in India, face to face with someone the world calls untouchable, gently cleansing the very feet no one else will touch. That is the image Jesus leaves us with—not to shame us, but to shape us.

Because here’s the thing: you cannot lead people you do not love. And love, in Jesus’ vocabulary, is rarely abstract. It is action. It is interruption. It is humility made visible.

Peter balked at first. I think I would have too. “Never,” he said, horrified at the reversal. But Jesus’ answer still echoes down the centuries: “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.”

Unless you let Me serve you, unless you allow Me to turn your expectations upside down—unless you understand that My kingdom starts at floor level—you will miss what leadership truly is.

So I ask myself, and I invite you to ask with me:

Have I washed the feet of the people God has entrusted to me? Not in ceremony, but in sacrifice?

Have I knelt in the dust of another’s weariness and met them there with compassion?

Do I serve the way Jesus served?

If I’m honest, I’ve spent much of my life looking for the loophole. Surely Jesus meant this metaphorically. Surely there’s a spiritual “footnote” that lets me off the hook.

But there it is again:

“I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.”

If we want to be good leaders—really good leaders—we must lose our taste for platforms and microphones and instead pick up the towel. Because in the upside-down economy of the kingdom, greatness always begins on its knees.

And yes, even with feet.

Chapter 29

Elders and Deacons—Character Over Title

If the Church is the body of Christ, then surely its leaders are more than managers, more than figureheads. They are soul-tenders—people charged with a sacred trust. And yet, when I look back over the church bulletin boards of my life—elders, deacons, board chairs—I sometimes wonder: Do we grasp the weight and grace of these roles? Or have we reduced them to titles, to lines on an organizational chart?

Paul did not think in such terms.

In one of the most poignant farewell speeches in Scripture, Paul addresses the elders of Ephesus—not with corporate strategies or growth targets, but with tears. He doesn’t issue a strategic vision; he offers a burdened heart.

“Keep watch over yourselves and all the flock of which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers. Be shepherds of the church of God, which he bought with his own blood.” – Acts 20:28

To be an elder, Paul says, is to be caught up in something divine. Not a platform for authority, but a posture of humility. The word Paul uses—episkopos—means overseer. And the action? Poimaino. To tend, to feed, to shepherd.

If you’re hoping for a performance checklist, Paul gives you something better: a portrait of character. In Titus 1:6–9, he lays it out—not as a résumé of completed tasks, but as a vision to aspire toward:

• Blameless in conduct.

• Faithful in marriage.

• Steady in the home.

• Not quick to temper, or greedy for gain.

• Hospitable, upright, disciplined, a lover of what is good.

• Rooted in the Word, and able to teach it clearly.

• A defender of the truth when it’s challenged.

I remember when I first looked at that list. My heart sank. It felt unreachable. Then the man mentoring me said something that still echoes in my ears: “You’re not expected to perfect the list. But you are called to chase after it.”

That changed everything.

And lest we think that elders are only teachers or preachers, Paul quickly reminds Timothy that those who govern well are worthy of double honour—especially those who teach, yes, but not only. There are elders called to lead quietly, to pray faithfully, to counsel patiently.

Likewise, deacons.

In Philippians 1:1, Paul greets not just the “holy people” of the church, but “the overseers and deacons.” They are not ornamental. They are essential.

What do deacons do? Paul answers with the same rhythm he uses for elders—character first, then calling:

• Worthy of respect.

• Not greedy, nor addicted to drink.

• Anchored in truth, with a clear conscience.

• Tested and proven.

• Faithful in marriage and trustworthy at home.

The word for deacon—diakonos—literally means servant. They are the ones who carry burdens, often unseen, often without applause. In Acts 6, the apostles appoint seven such men—not to preach, but to serve tables, to ensure fairness, to meet tangible needs. And the Spirit anoints them for the task.

So, what’s the big picture?

Across the New Testament, from Paul to Peter to James to John, a few common threads emerge:

• Elders shepherd, lead, and guard the flock.

• Deacons serve, support, and sustain the body.

• Both are plural, not singular—always part of a team.

• Both are spiritual, not political—called by God, affirmed by community.

• Both require humility, maturity, and faithfulness.

Peter calls himself a fellow elder, not a superior one. James tells the sick to call “the elders,” not “the pastor.” Paul tells Titus to appoint elders “in every town,” not one at the top.

And then there’s John—the beloved disciple. He introduces himself simply: “The elder.” Not “The Apostle,” not “The Leader of the Early Church.” Just… the elder.

In today’s church, we often conflate roles. We give titles that Scripture doesn’t give. We assign authority without examining character. And too often, we appoint leaders by popularity rather than prayer.

But if the Church is the hope of the world—as I believe it is—then we must return to God’s design. Not just to preserve order, but to rekindle health. To thrive, not merely survive.

We’ve inherited a divine responsibility. The Church is not a corporation. It is a people—redeemed, restored, and still being shaped. Its leaders? Not CEOs, but shepherds. Not executives, but servants. Not self-appointed, but Spirit-called.

So ask yourself: if you are leading, are you feeding the flock? Are you walking closely enough to smell like the sheep? Have you traded in pride for hospitality, and control for servanthood?

If not, maybe it’s time for a different kind of leadership meeting—the kind that starts on your knees.

Chapter 30

Women in Leadership—God’s Daughters Still Prophesy

When we come to Scripture, we must do more than read it—we must let it read us. And perhaps no subject tests our willingness to be read by Scripture more than the role of women in the church. Theologians often counsel that “Scripture interprets Scripture.” Jesus did precisely that. He quoted, clarified, and fulfilled what came before, and in doing so, he often turned assumptions on their head.

The debate around women in leadership has echoed through the halls of church history, with Paul’s words often at the center of it. But Scripture tells a bigger story. A story with Deborah. With Miriam. With Huldah. Esther. Mary. Lydia. Priscilla. Phoebe. Junia. Each woman shines like a candle held to the darkness, illuminating the overlooked, the underappreciated, and the misinterpreted.

Deborah — a judge of Israel, wise and courageous. Before Barak ever stepped onto the battlefield, Deborah was already leading, already prophesying, already obeying. She didn’t rise because a man failed. She led because God called her.

Deborah had an ear for God,

Deborah said, “This is what the Lord God of Israel commands…” Judges 4:6

Deborah was a woman of great faith,

“Get ready, this is the day the Lord will give you victory…” Judges 4:14

She was a woman of strong leadership,

And from that time on Israel became stronger and stronger… Judges 4:24

Deborah rose to the occasion,

There were few people left in the villages of Israel – until Deborah arose as a mother of Israel. Judges 5:7

Miriam, the sister of Moses and Aaron, danced with joy on the far side of the Red Sea, tambourine in hand, leading worship for a nation just born in freedom. And in Micah 6:4, God names her in the same breath as her brothers.

Huldah, when a long-forgotten scroll was discovered in the Temple rubble, spoke with authority to the king. Josiah listened. And reformation followed.

Esther, queen of Persia, risked her life not with a sword but with a petition. Her courage turned the tide for her people.

Mary of Bethany chose the place at Jesus’ feet usually reserved for men. Jesus commended her.

Mary Magdalene became the first witness to the resurrection, commissioned by Jesus to announce it. An apostle to the apostles.

Lydia, a dealer in purple cloth and the first convert in Philippi, opened her home and her heart to the gospel.

Phoebe, a deacon of the church in Cenchreae, carried Paul’s weighty letter to the Romans. Some scholars believe she may have been its first expositor.

Priscilla, alongside her husband Aquila, taught Apollos the deeper truths of God. And Paul greets her first in his letter. She risked her life for him.

And Junia? Paul calls her “outstanding among the apostles.” Apostle. Not an assistant. Not a footnote.

What then do we make of Paul’s harder sayings? The ones that have left women out of pulpits and out of decision-making rooms?

“Women should remain silent in the churches,” he says to Corinth. Yet, in that same letter, he affirms women prophesying, so long as it’s done respectfully. Was Paul contradicting himself? Or was he addressing chaos in a troubled church?⁠*

In 1 Timothy, he writes, “I do not permit a woman to teach or have authority over a man.” But the Greek word for “authority” here is authentein, used only once in the Bible. Not the usual word exousia Paul uses for legitimate, Spirit-ordained authority. Authentein carries shades of domineering, even coercive authority—a kind that dishonours rather than uplifts. Male or female, such authority should be checked.

We often miss the nuance because we’re looking for rules, not relationships. But Scripture was not meant to be a rulebook frozen in time. It is a living story, unfolding God’s heart for His people.

Pentecost reminds us that God pours His Spirit on all flesh—sons and daughters prophesy. And in Christ, Paul declares, “there is neither Jew nor Gentile, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one.”

If God entrusted women to lead nations, deliver prophetic messages, bear witness to resurrection, and shepherd churches, what does that say about His intent?

I sometimes wonder what Paul might say if he sat down not with the Corinthians, but with Deborah, Miriam, Huldah, Mary, Phoebe, Priscilla, and Junia. Would he not affirm their faith? Would he not tell them to press on?

A pastor friend recently reminded me of Jesus’ words when questioned about healing on the Sabbath: “How much more valuable is a person than a sheep! Therefore it is lawful to do good on the Sabbath.”

Too often, the church has followed the Pharisees, binding burdens with rules rather than freeing lives with grace. We worry about roles instead of gifts, gender instead of calling.

And so I ask: if you had the choice between hearing a lifeless sermon from a man or a Spirit-filled, biblically grounded message from a gifted woman, which would you choose?

God speaks through donkeys, prophets, fishermen, scholars, tax collectors—and yes, through women.

Let us not miss His voice because it sounds like hers.

* As we delve into this crucial topic, it’s important to acknowledge that Paul addressed 1 Corinthians 14:34 to a church that was in a state of utter disorder:

“Women should remain silent in the churches. They are not allowed to speak but must be in submission, as the law says.”

Paul mentions “the law,” yet no Old Testament law, Talmudic law or Mishna law, mandating women remain silent exists. Does this align with Paul’s usual high regard for the Law? Could Paul be referencing Pharisaical traditions, as previously discussed? This seems unlikely since no Jewish law or tradition enforces women’s silence in church.

Chapter 31

Gifts in the Body—The Church Wakes Up

Paul’s metaphor of the body of Christ is more than a clever literary device. It is a living theology, pulsing with both beauty and challenge:

“Just as our bodies have many parts and each part has a special function, so it is with Christ’s body. We are many parts of one body, and we all belong to each other.” —Romans 12:4–5

In the Greek, Paul uses the word charis—grace—to describe what we’ve come to call spiritual gifts. It’s where we get the word charismata, and it reminds us: these are not rewards for effort or prizes for personality. They are grace-gifts—unearned, undeserved, and divinely distributed. Maybe we ought to start calling them what they are: grace gifts.

But what happens when the body forgets to function? What happens when parts go missing?

Imagine your own body, functioning without a leg, or without vision, or without the ability to speak. You could survive, perhaps, but you would not thrive. And yet, in churches across the world, we tolerate limbless bodies. We say we believe in the power of the Spirit, but ignore or suppress the very gifts that make His presence visible.

Worse, many churches make little effort to help people discover their grace gifts. Leadership rarely teaches on them, and members often assume that spiritual gifts are reserved for the extraordinary—the “super spiritual”—rather than for the everyday soul trying to follow Jesus.

And so the body limps along, half-awake.

Let me ask you a question that may make you squirm a bit: Is there someone in your church who has been given the gift of healing… and doesn’t know it? What would it take for that gift to be discovered, cultivated, and unleashed?

What if your church, your fellowship, your family of believers began functioning like a whole, healthy body—each part doing what it was made to do, not just occasionally, but consistently and joyfully?

We sometimes divide gifts into categories—“charismatic” and “non-charismatic,” spectacular and mundane. But Scripture doesn’t make such distinctions. In God’s economy, preaching and hospitality come from the same grace. Healing and administration are both Spirit-driven. Discernment and giving, mercy and leadership—all are signs of the same divine generosity.

We may not all have the gift of healing or prophecy, but we are all grace-gifted. And in a healthy church, every part is both valued and vital.

I once heard someone say, “The right person in the wrong job is still in the wrong job.” Leadership is not about plugging people into convenient holes; it’s about cultivating their calling. What would happen if we, as church leaders, knew the gifts of each member? What if, when a need arose, we didn’t have to beg for help during Sunday announcements but instead called on someone already prepared and equipped?

Paul’s letters to the Romans and Corinthians don’t present us with a single list of spiritual gifts—they offer glimpses. The implication is clear: these gifts are varied and many, and probably more expansive than we imagine.

Take a moment—literally—and reflect. Can you identify someone in your church who lives out each of the grace gifts Paul describes? Not hypothetically, but by name? Could you write them down?

Here’s just a few:

• Exhortation—that person who shows up when your world falls apart and somehow helps you breathe again.

• Faith—someone who prays as if they are already thanking God for the answer.

• Mercy—the one who cries when others do, even when they’ve carried pain of their own.

• Teaching, prophecy, giving, administration, hospitality… each is a glimpse of God’s character, refracted through human hands and hearts.

Paul’s image of the church is not just functional—it is relational. The body doesn’t operate on obligation but on interdependence. We belong to each other.

When one part fails, the whole suffers.

When one part flourishes, the whole rejoices.

This isn’t a call to guilt. It’s a call to imagination—to ask, “What might be possible if we actually trusted the gifts God has already given us?”

I’ve met too many believers whose gifts were never called forth—people with a quiet ability to see truth, or a gentle heart that brings healing, or a strength of leadership they never believed they had. They sat in pews, quietly waiting to be needed, often told—sometimes subtly—that their gifts didn’t quite “fit.”

And the church? The church missed out.

But when the body wakes up—when the arm stretches, the eye sees, the tongue speaks truth in love—something beautiful happens. The church becomes what she was meant to be.

Alive. Responsive. Holy.

Some people hesitate at the word tithe. It feels like a command that competes with their freedom. But maybe it’s more like this: a trust exercise. A test, not of obedience alone, but of God’s character.

In Malachi 3, God offers a rare invitation: “Test me in this.” Bring the whole tithe, He says. See what I will do.

Eight promises follow. Eight!

If even one were fulfilled in your church, wouldn’t it be worth the risk?

One Last Challenge. Read this slowly:

“And he did not do many miracles there because of their lack of faith.” —Matthew 13:58

Now this:

“The seventy-two returned with joy and said, ‘Lord, even the demons submit to us in your name!’” —Luke 10:17

Which story do you want your church to tell?

Do we really believe what we say we believe?

Do we expect God to act?

Do we trust Him with our time, our gifts, our finances, our dreams?

If not, why not?

Chapter 32

Repeatable, Avoidable Mistakes—The Cycle of Quiet Collapse

Years ago, I sat across the table from a friend whose counsel I had come to cherish. He was wise, seasoned, and kind—the sort of elder whose hands still bore the scent of sheep, not just ink from church board reports. He had faithfully served in a congregation of about five hundred and was, at the time, walking through the all-too-familiar cycle of yet another pastoral transition.

“We’ve gone through several pastors in the last decade,” he told me. “Good, godly men. Each stayed four or five years, and then—gone.”

He wasn’t angry. He was tired. And quietly grieving.

They were back at square one, dusting off job descriptions and dreaming up the perfect candidate. This time, he asked for my thoughts.

“What kind of pastor are you hoping to find?” I asked.

He didn’t hesitate. “We’re looking for someone to lead the church and teach the Word.”

“In the same person?” I asked gently.

He nodded. “Of course.”

What I said next I tried to say with care. “I wonder,” I said, “if the problem isn’t the men you’ve hired, but the expectations placed on them.”

Scripture speaks of many spiritual gifts—teaching, shepherding, leadership, discernment, encouragement. But nowhere does it suggest that all of these should be embodied in one individual. The idea that a single person should be the visionary, the primary teacher, the administrator, the counselor, the CEO, and the spiritual compass is not only unrealistic—it’s not biblical.

My friend’s church eventually called an assistant pastor from a large church in the U.S. He was articulate, polished, and biblically grounded. But he was also domineering. His strength in the pulpit did not translate to the boardroom or the hallway. Trust frayed. Momentum stalled. And once again, within a few years, they were searching.

But this story does not end in defeat.

I checked back recently. They now have a Teaching Pastor and an Executive Pastor. They’re no longer trying to manufacture a hybrid personality that doesn’t exist. Instead, they’ve recognized the value of complementary gifts—of building a leadership team where each person thrives within their God-given lane.

Even more encouraging: they have a functioning board of twelve elders, each bringing wisdom and balance to the church’s life and direction. And this spring, they registered over 301 people for their Alpha Course, with 113 volunteers serving alongside. That’s not just a program; that’s a movement.

They are thriving—not because they found the perfect pastor, but because they stopped trying to force one person to be what only the Body of Christ, working in concert, was meant to be.

When Paul speaks of the church in his letters, he almost never writes to a single leader. He addresses the whole body. He commends the elders, plural. He instructs the deacons, plural. He reminds the saints—all of them—that they are each gifted by the Spirit and called to serve in the grace given to them.

The modern church, especially in the West, has often flipped that model. We elevate “the pastor” and build systems around the pulpit rather than the people. We unintentionally create celebrity shepherds, only to be shocked when they burn out or blow up.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.

When the church functions as a body—elders overseeing, pastors shepherding, teachers teaching, administrators organizing, prophets discerning—the load is shared. No one person bears it all. No one flame is expected to light the entire room. And the Spirit, no longer stifled by misplaced expectations, breathes life where before there was only survival.

It’s not about crafting the perfect job posting. It’s about honouring the design of the church as Christ intended. And often, that starts with one small but radical shift: Stop asking one person to be everything. Start asking every person to bring their something.

And perhaps then, like my friend’s church, you’ll discover that the path to thriving was never locked in the resume of a single pastor—but in the open hands of a whole people.

Chapter 33

The Loving Intolerance of God

I once stumbled across an article that stopped me in my tracks—not because it told me something entirely new, but because it framed a familiar tension with rare clarity. It was written by Melissa Kruger, titled “The Loving Intolerance of God.” In it, she poses a daring question: Could it be that one of the most celebrated virtues of our time—tolerance—is not, in fact, a virtue that God embraces?

In today’s world, tolerance is a warm word. It wears a kind face. It speaks in the language of inclusion, empathy, and coexistence. Classrooms, newsrooms, boardrooms—every space hums with its mantra: accept everyone as they are. Even the Church, anxious not to offend, often echoes the refrain.

And yet, as Kruger points out, “Tolerance is never encouraged in the Bible.” Not once. Scripture speaks glowingly of love, patience, kindness, mercy—but never of tolerance. Not in the way our culture defines it.

That unsettles me. I’ve long thought of tolerance as a cousin of grace. But maybe there’s a difference I hadn’t noticed. Grace meets people where they are, yes—but it never leaves them there.

Kruger reminds us of this paradox: we serve a God who is both love and fire. A God who welcomes the sinner but does not wink at the sin. A God who could not, in good conscience, merely “tolerate” evil—because to tolerate what is harmful is not kindness. It is negligence.

A loving mother doesn’t let her child play in traffic in the name of open-mindedness. A good doctor doesn’t shrug off cancer out of respect for “how the patient feels.” Love always interferes with what endangers the beloved. Always.

In this light, God’s intolerance becomes an extension of His love. Because He is good, He cannot bless what destroys. His justice is not separate from His mercy—it is the other side of the same coin. To tolerate evil would be to abandon both.

But that doesn’t mean we are free to be harsh or judgmental in God’s name. Scripture makes it clear: we are not His instruments of wrath. We are not called to police the world. We are called to represent the One who gave His life to save it.

Kruger puts it this way: “We should hate the act of stealing while showing mercy and compassion to the one who steals.” In other words, we reject sin—not people. We resist destruction, not the person caught in its grip. That is the hard, beautiful balance Jesus modelled every day of His earthly life. He spoke truth without compromise, but it was truth soaked in tears.

I often think of how Jesus handled the woman caught in adultery. He neither condemned her nor condoned her. He shielded her from shame—and then quietly called her to something higher: “Go and sin no more.”

That’s not tolerance. That’s transformation.

To love someone well, we must be willing to say what is true—even if it’s uncomfortable. But we must also say it in a way that echoes the heartbeat of God. It’s not “love versus truth.” It’s love as truth. Grace with a spine.

Kruger ends with these words:

“We love people well when we call them out of sin into a relationship with King Jesus. It may not be the world’s definition of tolerance, but it’s the truest way to love.”

Amen to that.

And perhaps, if we learn to love like that—with both compassion and conviction—we’ll find ourselves walking more closely in the way of Christ, who tolerated no sin, but welcomed every sinner.

Chapter 34

Tattoos, Hats, and the Joy of the Vine

I once visited a church where every woman wore a hat that looked as if it had come straight from a 1950s British tea party. Feathers. Lace. Ribbons. Some were so extravagant I could hardly see the preacher. As the service moved forward, I couldn’t help but ask: Are we honouring Scripture here—or just outdressing each other?

This chapter is not about hats, tattoos, or alcohol per se. Rather, it’s about what they represent: how we interpret the commands of God, and just as importantly, how we misinterpret them. It’s about the subtle line between reverence and rigidity, between conviction and compulsion.

Tattoos: The Thin Edge of the Wedge

In Leviticus 19:28, God says,

“Do not… put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the Lord.”

That’s it. No explanation. No nuance. Just… don’t.

But then again, the same chapter tells us not to lie, cheat, or oppress our neighbors. We rarely contest those. So why do we shrug at tattoos?

I’ve often thought that the deeper issue isn’t ink beneath the skin—it’s authority. Who gets to say what’s right and wrong? If we can toss aside some commands, why not others? In a culture where personal autonomy has been elevated to a spiritual virtue, the act of submission—even to God—can feel offensive.

Of course, I’ve met people who tattooed Bible verses on their arms as a declaration of faith. I’ve also met others who covered up scars with symbols of hope. And I’ve met plenty who got tattoos for reasons far less poetic. What I wonder isn’t so much what their skin says—but what their soul is trying to express.

The command in Leviticus may well reflect God’s desire to set His people apart from surrounding pagan practices. But the bigger principle may lie deeper: We were made in the image of God. How we treat that image matters. The issue isn’t ink—it’s reverence.

Hats: A Wedge

Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 11 are perhaps some of the most cryptic and culturally loaded in the New Testament. He speaks of head coverings and honour, angels and glory, hair as a veil. Scholars have spent centuries parsing these phrases. But here’s what stays with me:

“Judge for yourselves: is it proper for a woman to pray to God with her head uncovered?”

I’ve attended churches where every woman wore a covering, and others where none did. In one, hats signified reverence; in another, they symbolized repression. In both places, sincere people loved God. And in both places, they pointed fingers at the other.

When we make the symbol more sacred than the Saviour, we stray into dangerous territory. We can become so busy measuring head coverings that we fail to notice the uncovered wounds in someone’s heart.

Paul wasn’t laying down fashion law. He was urging honour and order within a worshiping body. That’s something worth preserving. But whether it looks like a lace bonnet or a quiet humility of spirit—that, I think, may depend on the culture, the context, and the conscience.

The Joy of the Vine

And then there’s the fruit of the vine—another wedge issue, but one that comes with a twist of irony.

In Deuteronomy 14, God commands the Israelites to set aside a tithe… to throw a party. A literal feast before the Lord. Food, livestock, wine, even “strong drink,” Scripture says—so that “you may learn to fear the Lord your God always.”

Imagine that. God says, “Come eat with me, laugh with me, rejoice in my presence. And yes, bring the wine.”

How did we go from that to dry sanctuaries and silent communion?

Now, don’t misunderstand me. Scripture warns plainly against drunkenness. It also calls for sensitivity to those for whom alcohol is a stumbling block. But to make abstinence a commandment where God has allowed liberty—that’s something else entirely. It’s not reverence; it’s rewriting.

The same Jesus who turned water into wine also made it His first miracle. And not just any wine, but the good stuff, the wedding-celebration-worthy kind. The kind that tells us joy is not a footnote in God’s story—it’s a headline.

What’s the Point?

Whether it’s tattoos, hats, or wine, the temptation is always the same: to mistake symbols for substance. To enforce outer conformity rather than nurture inner transformation. And yet, Jesus—who obeyed every letter of the law—seemed far more concerned with the heart behind the habit.

He rebuked the Pharisees for tithing mint and cumin while neglecting justice and mercy. He healed on the Sabbath. He dined with sinners. And at every turn, He exposed the failure of legalism to produce love.

So, where does that leave us?

Not with license. But with discernment. With the courage to call sin what it is—and the grace to recognize when we’ve mistaken our preferences for God’s prescriptions.

Ultimately, I believe Jesus invites us into a better way. Not a lighter yoke, but a purer one. One shaped not by legalistic rigidity but by relational love.

“If you love me,” He said, “you will keep my commands.” Not because we have to. But because we want to.

Chapter 35

Choosing Sides—The Cost of Fence Sitting

There’s a sobering moment in Revelation where Jesus reveals the mystery behind a symbol:

“The seven stars are the angels of the seven churches, and the seven lampstands are the seven churches.” (Revelation 1:20)

Stars and lampstands. Light bearers and messengers. And the word used for “angels”—angeloi in Greek—is the same word used to describe John the Baptist: a voice crying in the wilderness, preparing the way of the Lord. It’s an odd thought, but humbling—Jesus seems to be saying that those who carry the gospel become, in a way, his messengers. His stars.

But then comes the warning: “If you do not repent, I will come to you and remove your lampstand from its place.” The very people meant to illuminate the way can have their light extinguished.

In November 2023, the Church of England held a synod. The numbers from the final vote read like the outcome of a deeply fractured body:

Bishops: 23-10

Clergy: 100-93

Laity: 104-100

A razor-thin majority. A church split down the middle. One wonders: if the Church truly heard the same Spirit, wouldn’t there be unity? Acts 15:28 captures what consensus in the Spirit looks like:

“It seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us.”

No hand-wringing. No 51% majority. Just a quiet harmony with God’s whisper.

The question is not whether the Church is making decisions. It always is. The question is: which voice is it listening to?

Fear, as Darrell Johnson points out, is a powerful force. The fear of disapproval, of cultural backlash, of being labeled intolerant or regressive. But when fear makes our decisions, truth quietly slips out the back door. Jesus, speaking to the churches in Revelation, makes no allowance for fear as an excuse. He speaks of crowns and lampstands, of white garments and blazing eyes, of intimacy and judgment. He draws lines that demand we take a side.

Which brings us here. Which side are we on?

Timothy Keller once reflected on the deep confusion he experienced in his teen years during confirmation class—one year, a God of holiness and wrath; the next, a vague spirit of tolerance and compassion. The doctrines contradicted each other so thoroughly that he could only wonder: “Which of you is lying?” And like many thoughtful young believers, he found himself wondering whether he had to leave the church to find Christ.

That question haunts me.

Should anyone have to leave the Church to find the Jesus they read about in Scripture?

I think of my friend, a chaplain in the Canadian military. Bound by policy, limited in what he could say about faith, and yet somehow still compelled to proclaim it. When his commanding officer saw him go “too far,” he only grinned and said, “If you’re going to sin, sin boldly.” The result? Friday nights and Sunday mornings filled with searching recruits—and a gospel message that couldn’t be tamed.

Courage, it seems, often starts where permission ends.

I wasn’t sure where that fit the following story until now. Because the call to “take sides” isn’t about politics or denominations—it’s about the posture of the soul when confronted with truth. Even if that truth costs something.

Take Jeffrey Dahmer. I hesitated even to include his name. His crimes were unspeakable. And yet, in prison, after his conversion, he asked to be baptized. He requested to live among the general prison population, not in protective isolation. And there, amid the everyday routines of hardened men, he shared the difference Christ had made. He was eventually murdered by another inmate.

It’s a hard story. But it’s real. Dahmer took a side. And it cost him his life.

I don’t pretend to understand how grace could reach someone like that. But if grace can’t, what hope is there for the rest of us?

These stories matter because they remind us that taking God seriously almost always carries a cost. Sometimes, it’s subtle—the loss of reputation, the discomfort of obedience. Other times, it’s a cross.

And yet, I keep coming back to this:

When I first believed, I knew only two things: God loved me beyond reason, and He was committed to shaping me into the likeness of Christ. He hasn’t stopped proving the first, and He’s still working on the second. Thirty-five years in, and I’m still in the workshop.

So where does this leave the Church?

It leaves us with a choice.

Do we take the promises of God seriously? Do we remember that every “I will bless…” is paired with an “If you will…”?

The language of covenant is not optional. It is the rhythm of divine relationship. Not a bargain—but a bond.

And if we believe that, then maybe we can pray something like this:

O God, We Believe Your Promises

– You will cause…

– You will bless…

– You will give…

– You build the Body…

– You will do it, so that…

O God, We Accept the Conditions

– If You… then we will…

To You, O Lord, We Pledge Our Obedience

– In Your strength, we will obey all Your commands.

– We will not abandon one for the other.

– We will let go of traditions You never commanded.

– We will celebrate Your goodness with every breath.

Lord, We Will Claim Your Promises

– You will cause us to thrive.

– You will equip Your Body with every gift.

– You will provide what we lack.

– You will multiply our impact.

– You will grant favour in Your time.

And perhaps most importantly…

Together, We Will Commit

– I will trust God at all times.

– I will obey Him in all things.

– I will turn from anything God calls darkness.

– I will call on my brothers and sisters when I need strength.

– I will offer strength when they are the ones in need.

– I will not withhold my gift from the Body.

– I will honour the overseers whom God has appointed.

In a world of half-hearted devotion, of churches walking a tightrope between relevance and reverence, we are left with the question Jesus posed to every church in Revelation:

“Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says…”

Are we listening?

And if we are—will we take His side?

Chapter 36

Don’t Worry—Be Happy!

I’ve met very few people—Christian or otherwise—who didn’t want to be “blessed.” It’s a word we use often, perhaps too easily. “Bless you,” we say after a sneeze. “Feeling blessed,” someone posts on social media, often under a photo of a beach or a baby. It’s a lovely word, warm and weighty. But I sometimes wonder—do we really understand what we’re saying?

Following my conversion, I instinctively believed I was blessed. Not because of anything I did, but because, somehow, God seemed nearby. I had friends, family, food, a place to lay my head. Was that it? Was that the blessing?

Scripture gives the word much more texture. In Hebrew, we find barak—a verb often meaning to kneel, or to adore, or to offer reverence. Then there’s ‘esher, a noun closer to our modern understanding: happiness, contentment, the inner glow that comes from knowing you are right with God, even if the world is wrong with you.

Job, in the midst of loss, declared, “Blessed [‘esher] is the one whom God corrects.” That doesn’t sound like a vacation photo. David said, “Blessed is the one whose transgressions are forgiven.” That blessing is more about release—relief from guilt—than reward.

The New Testament adds its own vocabulary. Words like eulogeo, which means to invoke divine favour. Or makarios—most famously used by Jesus in the Beatitudes—often translated as “blessed,” but could just as easily be rendered “deeply happy,” even in counterintuitive places: poverty of spirit, mourning, persecution.

Paul, in his grand opening to the Ephesians, writes, “Blessed be the God… who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing…” All three variations of the word show up in one verse. It’s as though he’s trying to capture the full weight of what it means to be found in Christ. Not temporarily cheered up, but eternally favoured.

And then there’s Revelation: “Blessed is the one who reads the words of this prophecy, and blessed are those who hear and take it to heart.” That verse, too, speaks of blessing as an outcome of attention, listening, response. Not a lucky draw, but a posture.

In many ways, blessing in Scripture follows a pattern of cause and effect. Not formulaic, but faithful. If you seek, you find. If you knock, the door opens. If you bless others, God blesses you.

Which brings me to a challenge. It’s simple, really. What if your church, every Sunday, made it a point to read aloud a portion of Revelation—and to pray a blessing over Israel? I say this not to stir up political sentiment, but to honour the people God first called His own. The reader would be blessed. The listeners too, if they take the message to heart.

But the question still lingers: What does blessing look like in real life?

John, the beloved disciple, gave a clue: “Let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth.” That’s the heart of blessing. It’s not about invoking good vibes or reciting spiritual platitudes. It’s about stepping into someone’s pain. About choosing compassion when it’s inconvenient. About worshipping God with your hands as much as with your lips.

So I leave you with this:

What would it look like to stop pursuing the blessing and start becoming one?

And what if happiness—the kind Jesus spoke of—doesn’t come from being served by God, but from serving in His name?

That, I believe, is where true joy lives. Not in chasing blessing, but in becoming it.

Chapter 37

The 49 Commands of Jesus

I’ve always been struck by how Jesus handled rules. He lived in a culture saturated with them—613 laws by rabbinic count, each carefully crafted and debated by generations of teachers. Then Jesus steps into the middle of that system and reduces it all to two sentences:

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind... and love your neighbor as yourself.” (Matthew 22:37–40)

Two commands. And then, in His life and words, Jesus goes even further. He narrows the focus again—not onto external behavior but into the interior world of the heart.

I think we often forget that Jesus issued commands, not in the tone of a drill sergeant, but as a shepherd guiding beloved sheep. He wasn’t just laying out a new moral code—He was inviting us into a life that pulses with grace, sacrifice, and joy.

This chapter provides a taste of those 49 commands—yes, actual directives from Jesus, drawn from the Gospels, with deep roots in the Old Testament. But rather than approach them as rigid laws, read them as road signs on the journey of transformation. They are not burdens to carry but pathways to freedom.

Jesus’ first public word was “Repent”—not “behave,” not “conform,” but “turn around.” Reorient your life. Rethink everything. That word launches us into a Kingdom where things aren’t always as they seem: the poor are blessed, enemies are loved, the last become first.

This same Jesus says “Follow me,” not as a casual suggestion but as an invitation to walk closely behind Him—through deserts, through storms, through doubt and joy.

He tells us to forgive, not once but again and again and again.

He commands us to “let our light shine,” but also to avoid showmanship. To love with radical grace, and also to judge not. To carry our crosses, and yet lay our burdens down.

Some of His commands sting a little. “Don’t lust,” He says—not as a moral scolding but as a reminder that our gaze shapes our hearts. “Don’t store up treasures,” not because money is evil, but because it often eclipses our hunger for eternal things.

Others startle us with their gentleness. “Come to me, all you who are weary,” He says—not to fix us in an instant, but to walk with us. “Learn from me,” He adds, “for I am gentle and humble in heart.”

And then there are commands that call us into boldness: “Go into all the world… baptize… make disciples… teach them what I’ve taught you.”

What emerges is not a religion of rules, but a relationship of trust. A rabbi who walks alongside us, not above us. A Saviour who speaks with authority, but whose commands are never divorced from compassion.

Perhaps the most astonishing thing about Jesus’ commands is what He says near the end of His ministry:

“If you love me, you will keep my commandments.” (John 14:15)

Not “If you fear me…” or “If you want to earn something…”

But “If you love me…”

It’s not about rule-following for its own sake. It’s about aligning your heart with His.

So consider this list not as a legal document, but as a love letter. A framework for flourishing. A blueprint not for moral superiority but for intimacy with God and others.

In the end, Jesus doesn’t just give commands. He embodies them. He is the commandment and the fulfillment. The path and the destination.

And He says to us, simply:

Come, follow me.

Chapter 38

Epilogue—Whooping, Hollering and Dancing

When I try to name the moments when I have truly thrived—the kind of soul-deep joy that swells past words—my mind inevitably drifts to worship. Not the kind that fits neatly into a Sunday schedule or fades by the time the final chord is played, but the kind that lifts you, unbidden, into the vastness of God.

It’s a peculiar thing, that moment of being caught up in the “otherness” of God—transcendent, holy, infinite—and at the same time realizing that somehow, unbelievably, this same God calls me beloved. In that space, I forget the striving. My old self, that broken identity I once carried like a name tag, seems buried for good. Satan lies somewhere beneath my feet, and I stand—no, dance—free.

Then, there are the quieter joys. The kind that sneak in when you’re not watching. Like the day Wendy said “yes,” and I kept blinking just to make sure I hadn’t imagined it. Or our wedding day, when I smiled so much my face ached. The birth of our children. Watching them grow—not just physically, but spiritually. Seeing them serve God with delight. Walking our daughter down the aisle. Holding grandchildren who seem to carry eternity in their tiny hands.

And then there are the cottage dock moments—God and I sitting in silence, watching a sunset paint the lake in gold, neither of us saying much, but both fully present. Or those sacred whispers from Scripture that feel aimed at no one else but me. Or the times when God surprises me with laughter—yes, laughter—and I realize again that holiness and delight are not strangers.

Sometimes, it’s being invited into His work—those improbable, unmistakable miracles where I know I am merely a vessel, yet God still chooses to use me. And few things compare to the joy of standing in the water with a trembling new believer, hearing them say, “Jesus is Lord,” before being plunged into baptism’s sacred embrace.

If that isn’t thriving, I don’t know what is.

What does thriving look like to you?

Scripture often answers that question not with definitions, but with images—whooping, hollering, and dancing among them. Think of King David, tossing dignity aside to whirl with all his might before the Lord (2 Samuel 6:14). Unreserved, unedited worship. We read it and smile, but when was the last time we danced with that kind of freedom?

Jeremiah gave this word from God:

“You will again be happy and dance merrily with your tambourines.” (Jeremiah 31:4)

That’s God promising restoration with tambourines in hand.

Even Leviticus—a book not typically known for joy—has this moment of awe:

“When the people saw the fire of the Lord, they shouted with joy and fell face down.” (Leviticus 9:24)

Worship and wonder, side by side.

And then there are the loud moments. The kind where the volume rises not from performance, but from celebration.

“The celebration was so joyous and noisy that the earth shook with the sound.” (1 Kings 1:40)

Imagine that—worship that makes the ground tremble.

Or the bittersweet ones:

“Many wept aloud… others shouted for joy.” (Ezra 3:12)

A collision of grief and gratitude, mourning and music.

Even shouting can be holy.

“So rejoice in the Lord and be glad, all you who obey him! Shout for joy, all you whose hearts are pure!” (Psalm 32:11)

Sometimes, praise isn’t a whisper. It’s a cry that echoes through the soul.

Jesus seemed to expect it. When the Pharisees wanted Him to hush the joyful noise, He answered:

“If they keep quiet, the stones will burst into cheers!” (Luke 19:40)

Let that sink in. Even the rocks are waiting to celebrate. Don’t let gravel outpraise you.

If heaven is filled with rejoicing—and Jesus says it is (Luke 15:7)—maybe we should start practicing.

Paul once said, “Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say rejoice.” If I may be so bold, I’d paraphrase:

“Thrive! I say it again—thrive!”

So what now?

Maybe now’s the time to get your church together. Not for a committee meeting. Not for another plan. But to ask the question: What would it look like if we actually took joy seriously?

Not shallow happiness. But deep, rooted joy. The kind that whoops, hollers, and dances before the Lord—not because life is perfect, but because God is.

What if that’s where revival begins?

Chapter 39

Where do we go from here?—A Roadmap for Renewal

I wrote in the introduction; You'll find no formulas here, only possibilities. Yet, if you’re like me, you are still looking for direction and advice.

It’s one thing to be convicted by Scripture or stirred by a story. But real transformation needs direction. Here are a few guideposts—for individuals, for leaders, for churches that want to stop being weird and start living New Testament Normal.

For the Individual Disciple:

Start with Scripture—but obey it.

Don’t just read your Bible. Respond to it. Take Jesus’ commands seriously. Pick one each week and ask, “How can I live this out?”

Rediscover the Sabbath.

Make space. Rest with intention. Unplug long enough to hear God whisper.

Find the Sue in your life.

Someone quietly living the Gospel with integrity. Walk with them. Learn from them. Encourage them.

Pray out loud. Often. Even in grocery stores.

Ask boldly. Listen quietly. God is not distant.

For Church Leaders:

Audit your programs.

Ask: “Does this produce obedience? Devotion? Joy?” If not, simplify.

Flatten the org chart.

Elevate gifting over titles. Let elders and deacons lead as shepherds and servants—not as board members.

Teach the ‘Ifs.’

Build a sermon series around the conditional promises of God. Show your people the rhythm of grace and responsibility.

Pray like your church depends on it.

Because it does.

Give away 20%.

Of time, money, energy. Not out of surplus, but sacrifice. The cream off the top. Organize around the widow and the orphan. Jesus will recognize that.

For the Church as a Body:

Worship from the heart, not just the platform.

Encourage spontaneous praise. Welcome tears. Make room for joy.

Pursue the gifts of the Spirit—with humility.

Not for spectacle, but for edification.

Break bread like it matters.

Share real meals. Share real lives. Let communion mean more than a cracker.

Repent often.

Confess drift. Celebrate return. Humility is the soil of revival.

Invite everyone—but especially the forgotten.

The lonely. The loud. The lost. Make room for people who don’t “fit.”

We don’t need a new gospel.

We need to remember the old one, and live it with trembling joy.

Because IF we will…

IF we seek Him with our whole heart…

IF we obey from the place of love…

IF we gather in His name and go in His power…

THEN He will dwell among us.

And our churches will stop being weird.

And they will start being holy.

And the world will see what Jesus meant all along.

Also by David O. Harrison

If You Love Me - Following [the 49 commands of] Jesus

The Next 60 Seconds - The Urgency of Knowing What’s Next

Is Jesus God? What the Bible Teaches Us

C.S. Lewis - The Lion, The witch & The Wardrobe - Early Reader Version for 7 to 9 year-olds

C.S. Lewis’ - Complete Narnia Series in Everyday English - Also Available in Individual Paperback Versions

Anne of Green Gables - Early Reader Version

John Bunyan’s - The Pilgrim’s Progress in Everyday English

If God, Then… Exploring and Understanding the Attributes of a Logical God

What Does Love Require of Me?

Charles Spurgeon’s - Morning and Evening in Everyday English

C.S. Lewis’ - Mere Christianity in Everyday English

C.S. Lewis - Mere Christianity in Everyday English for Students and Young Adults - Understanding God

C.S. Lewis - The Screwtape Letters in Everyday English

C.S. Lewis - Surprised by Joy - Easy-Read Version

C.S. Lewis - The Great Divorce in Everyday English

C.S. Lewis - The Problem of Pain in Everyday English

Group Study Guides

The Next 60 Seconds - The Urgency of Knowing What’s Next - Group Study Guide Paperback (includes the book manuscript)

C.S. Lewis - Mere Christianity in Everyday English - Group Study Guide Paperback (includes book manuscript)

C.S. Lewis - Mere Christianity in Everyday English for Students and Young Adults - Group Study Guide Paperback (includes the book manuscript)

What Does Love Require of Me? Group Study Guide Paperback (includes the book manuscript)

Thrive! Turning the Church Right-side Up - Group Study Guide Paperback (includes the book manuscript)