Sometimes God Has to Heal Us Before He Changes It

There are some things in our lives we can blame on other people. Someone hurt us. Someone betrayed us. Someone made a decision that affected us. Someone walked away. Someone failed us. Someone lied on us. Someone stole from us. But if we are going to grow, there comes a moment when we have to stop examining everybody else and have the courage to examine ourselves.

Psalm 107:17–22 is uncomfortable because the people in the passage are not suffering because of what somebody did to them. They are suffering because of decisions they made themselves. The Psalmist calls them “fools.” That sounds harsh until we understand what foolishness means biblically. Foolishness is more than making a mistake. A mistake is something you did. Foolishness can become a pattern—something you keep doing even after you know better.

That is where this Psalm becomes painfully personal. Because sometimes God has brought me out of something, but something from what He brought me out of is still living inside of me. Here is what I am saying – God brought Israel out of Egypt, but there was still some Egypt inside Israel. And maybe that is true for us too.

We can leave the place without the place leaving us. You can leave a toxic relationship and still carry toxic relationship patterns. You can survive a painful childhood and still make adult decisions from childhood wounds. You can come out of poverty and still live with a scarcity mentality. You can leave the dysfunction and still reproduce the dysfunction. You can even come to church, love God, worship faithfully—and still carry some Egypt inside of you.

And here is my point, sometimes healing requires more than changing our surroundings. Sometimes God has to change us.

When You Lose Your Appetite

Psalm 107 says their rebellion eventually caught up with them. They became so distressed that they “loathed all food and came near the gates of death.” Their choices finally became consequences. But strangely enough, their consequences became the place where they rediscovered God. “They cried out to the Lord in their trouble.”

I know that sometimes God allows life to bring us to a place where we lose our appetite for everything but Him. I am in a season when what once excited me doesn’t excite you anymore. The trip doesn’t do it. The purchase doesn’t do it. The relationship doesn’t do it. The applause doesn’t do it. The promotion doesn’t do it. The crowd doesn’t do it. Even success doesn’t do it. Because I am discovering that what I really need cannot be purchased, achieved, posted, driven, worn, or deposited. I need God.

There are moments when the most spiritual thing we can finally admit is:

I need more of Him.

Here is the line in Psalm 107 that captured me: “He sent his word and healed them.” Notice what the Psalmist does not say. He doesn’t say God healed their circumstances. He says God healed them. To me, that distinction matters. We spend so much time asking God to touch that. God, fix that situation. Change that person. Open that door. Remove that problem. Restore that relationship. Change that environment. But sometimes God looks at what we are pointing toward and says, Before I touch that, I need to touch you. Because sometimes the storm around us cannot be settled until God deals with the storm within us.

Maybe what you need most isn’t a change of circumstances. Maybe you need peace. Maybe you need healing. Maybe you need hope. Maybe you need strength. Maybe you need mercy. Maybe you need forgiveness. Maybe you need restoration. Maybe you need deliverance.

The Psalmist never tells us exactly what word God sent. He simply says: “He sent His word.” But centuries later, John opens his Gospel with these words: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Then John says: “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

Psalm 107 says God sent His word.

John tells us God ultimately sent the Word.

Jesus is God’s answer to humanity’s deepest sickness. The Word walked among broken people. The Word touched people everybody else avoided. The Word forgave sinners. The Word restored the rejected. The Word raised the dead. The Word went to Calvary. The Word was placed in a borrowed tomb. And early Sunday morning, the Word got up.

That’s why our worst decision doesn’t have to become our final destination. That’s why our worst season doesn’t get to write the last chapter. That’s why the consequences of yesterday do not cancel the possibilities of tomorrow. Grace is greater than the consequences of our rebellion.

Maybe Healing Starts With Honesty

Healing doesn’t always begin when circumstances change. Sometimes healing begins when we finally tell the truth. I did it. I chose it. I stayed too long. I ignored the warning. I knew better. I kept repeating the pattern. I contributed to the problem. That’s not condemnation. That’s confession. And confession opens the door for grace.

Psalm 107 doesn’t end with God standing over foolish people reminding them of everything they did wrong. It ends with healed people giving thanks. “Let them give thanks to the Lord for his faithful love and his wondrous works.” That may be the most beautiful part of the story. God doesn’t just expose what is broken. God heals what is broken.

And sometimes God’s greatest work isn’t changing what happened around us. It is healing what happened within us. So perhaps the prayer today isn’t simply:

“Lord, change it.”

Maybe the deeper prayer is:

“Lord, heal me.”

Heal what I keep hiding. Heal what I keep repeating. Heal what I keep blaming on everybody else. Heal the part of Egypt that followed me out of Egypt. Heal the wounds beneath my decisions. Heal the desires that keep pulling me backward. Heal the guilt that keeps reminding me of who I used to be.And when God does, don’t be ashamed of your story. Tell somebody. Give thanks. Because your testimony isn’t that you always got it right.Your testimony is that when you got it wrong, grace was still greater.

And perhaps that is what it really means to say:

I am healed.

Finding Your Safe Place

God is our refuge and strength, a helper who is always found in times of trouble. Psalms 46:1

My wife and her sister are away on a ten-day retreat in Bali. One of my responsibilities while they find rest is to help watch our niece, Amira. She is an active two-year-old. I watched the other day as my youngest son, Brennon, was chasing her around our home. She instinctively ran into the room where I was, jumped into my arms, and wrapped her arms tightly around me. She knew that in my arms, she was safe from Brennon. She instinctively knew where her safe place was.

There is something inside every one of us that longs for a safe place.

Not simply a physical location with locked doors and security cameras, but a place where our hearts can finally exhale. A place where anxiety loosens its grip, where fear no longer dictates our decisions, and where our souls remember what peace feels like.

The problem is that we often seek safety in places that were never designed to bear the weight of our security.

Some look for safety in a paycheck. Others find it in relationships, titles, achievements, or carefully constructed plans. We convince ourselves that if we can just save a little more money, earn one more promotion, fix one more relationship, or control one more outcome, then we’ll finally be at peace.

But life has a way of reminding us that everything built by human hands can be shaken.

Jobs disappear.
Health changes.
Relationships disappoint.
Economies fluctuate.
Dreams take unexpected detours.

Psalm 46 speaks directly into that reality. It does not deny that the earth shakes or that mountains crumble. In fact, it assumes they will.

“The earth gives way… the mountains fall into the heart of the sea… the waters roar and foam.”

This is not poetic exaggeration. It is a vivid picture of life’s instability. The psalmist is saying, “Even when everything you thought was permanent begins to collapse, there is still one place that remains secure.”

That place is God Himself.

Notice that Scripture does not merely say God gives refuge.

It says God is our refuge.

Our refuge is not an answer.
Our refuge is not an explanation.
Our refuge is not an escape.

Our refuge is a Person.

There is profound comfort in knowing that God’s presence is not dependent upon our circumstances. His faithfulness does not rise and fall with the stock market. His love is not determined by our successes or failures. His strength is not diminished by our weakness. He remains. That is why the psalm can boldly declare that we “will not fear.” It isn’t because trouble has disappeared.

It is because God has drawn near. One of my favorite verses in this psalm is found in verse 10: “Be still, and know that I am God.” We often hear these words as an invitation to relax, but they are much stronger than that. They are God’s call to stop striving, stop panicking, stop believing that everything depends upon us. Stillness is not passivity. It is surrender.

It is choosing trust over turmoil. It is allowing God’s sovereignty to speak louder than our fears.

Many of us are exhausted because we’ve spent so much energy trying to control what only God can handle. We replay conversations. We rehearse worst-case scenarios. We carry burdens that were never ours to bear. Psalm 46 gently reminds us that peace is not found in having all the answers. Peace is found in knowing the One who holds all things together.

The safest place in the world is not where life is easiest. It is where God’s presence is nearest.

That safe place can be found in a hospital waiting room.
It can be found in the middle of grief.
It can be found after a difficult diagnosis.
It can be found when your family is struggling.
It can be found when your future feels uncertain.

Because God’s presence is not confined to peaceful seasons. He walks into storms.

Martin Luther is said to have loved this psalm so deeply that it inspired the hymn, A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. He understood what generations of believers have discovered: when everything around us is changing, God remains our unshakable fortress.

Perhaps today your world feels unsettled. Perhaps today your foundations are feeling shaky. Maybe you’re carrying burdens no one else knows about. Maybe you’ve been trying to hold everything together, only to discover that your strength has limits. You don’t have to carry it alone.

Run to the refuge. Rest in the fortress. Find your safe place—not in perfect circumstances, but in the unwavering presence of God. The storms may continue. But the God who stands in the middle of them has never lost anyone who has trusted Him.

Today, choose to be still, and discover once again that your safest place has never been a destination. It has always been the presence of God.

The Gift of Presence

There is a tendency in life to celebrate people only when they can do something big for us. We honor those who can open doors, write checks, solve problems, remove obstacles, or change outcomes. But Mark 15:40-41 challenges that way of thinking. The women at the cross could not remove the nails from Jesus’ hands. They could not silence the mocking crowds. They could not stop the soldiers, overturn the sentence, or erase the suffering. All they could do was remain present.

And yet, Scripture remembers them.

That says something powerful about what God values. Presence matters. Faithfulness matters. Staying matters.

Too often, we overlook the people whose contributions are quiet because they are not dramatic. We dismiss those who cannot “fix” our situation financially, politically, or strategically. But there are people in our lives who may not have the power to change the outcome, yet they refuse to abandon us in the middle of it. They sit in hospital waiting rooms. They answer late-night phone calls. They pray quietly. They listen when they cannot solve. They remain when others leave.

The women at the cross teach us that love is not always measured by what someone can remove from your life. Sometimes love is measured by who is willing to stand near your pain without walking away from it.

That kind of presence is holy.

In a culture that often values performance over presence, we have forgotten how powerful it is for someone to simply stay. We have become so conditioned to asking, “What did they give me?” that we overlook the deeper question: “Who stayed with me when life became heavy?”

And if we tell the truth, some of the people who carried us the most were not the people with the most resources. They were the people with the most consistency. They may not have had money to give, influence to leverage, or solutions to offer. But they gave what they had. Time. Presence. Encouragement. Prayer. Loyalty.

That matters more than we sometimes realize.

Maybe that is why Mark names the women. In a moment where many of the louder and more visible disciples disappeared, these women remained. Watching from a distance. Unable to stop the suffering. Yet unwilling to leave the Savior.

There is a word in that for all of us. Stop overlooking the people who stay near your struggle simply because they cannot remove it. Stop measuring loyalty only by financial contribution or visible impact. Some people love you deeply even when all they can offer is presence.

And perhaps we should ask ourselves another question too: Are we only showing up for people when we have something impressive to offer? Or are we willing to be present even when all we have is ourselves?

Because sometimes the greatest gift you can give another person is not a solution.

Sometimes the greatest gift is simply staying.

Don’t Make Your Worst Moment Your Last Moment

There is something haunting and holy about the words surrounding the crucifixion of Jesus. Mark tells us that after the suffering, after the rejection, after the nails, after the darkness, “He breathed out His last.”

One breath.
One final exhale.
One last moment.

Even Jesus, wrapped in humanity, had a last day. A final breath. A closing chapter to His earthly journey. The One who turned water into wine, opened blinded eyes, and spoke peace to storms still experienced the reality every human being must face: there comes a last moment. That truth ought to humble us.

What are you doing with your time? There is a dangerous kind of generosity that many of us practice that nobody talks about. We give people permission to waste our time. We give problems permission to waste our peace. We give distractions permission to interrupt our purpose.

One day, all of us will experience a final conversation, a final opportunity, a final sunrise, a final embrace. There will be a last moment to forgive. A last moment to give. A last moment to love. A last moment to laugh with the people who matter most. A last moment to obey God in the thing He has been pressing upon our hearts. And the tragedy of life is that many people keep postponing what matters most as though tomorrow has been guaranteed. But none of us know when we are breathing borrowed air for the final time.

That is why bitterness is dangerous. Pride is dangerous. Delay is dangerous. Unforgiveness is dangerous. Living distracted is dangerous. We waste precious moments on temporary frustrations while eternal things sit neglected on the shelf of our souls.

Some people are one apology away from healing.
One act of obedience away from breakthrough.
One conversation away from reconciliation.
One surrender away from peace.
Yet we keep waiting.

The cross reminds us that life is fragile, but also that final moments hold power. Even in His dying moments, Jesus was still forgiving, still loving, still fulfilling purpose.

That is the challenge for us.
Do not allow your worst moment to become your final moment.
Don’t let your last chapter be consumed by anger.
Don’t let your final testimony be regret.
Don’t let your closing scene be disobedience.
Don’t spend your life majoring in things that will not matter when your final breath arrives.

Because when life grows quiet, and the applause fades, what will matter most is not how much you accumulated, but how deeply you loved. Not how loudly you were seen, but how faithfully you obeyed. Not how many people knew your name, but whether your life reflected the heart of God.
Jesus breathed His last—but He did not die empty. He died having fulfilled His assignment.

And maybe that is the real prayer for all of us:
Lord, when my last breath comes, let me leave this world having loved well, forgiven fully, given freely, and obeyed faithfully.

When You Feel Distant From God

Mark only records one of the last seven sayings of Christ from the Cross. And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (v.34) Jesus, in his humanity, feels abadoned by the Father and he questions Him.

There are moments in life when God feels painfully distant. Not absent in theory. Absent in experience.
You pray, but the ceiling feels low. You worship, but your heart feels numb. You open Scripture, but the words feel dry. You show up to church, smile at people, lift your hands when everyone else does, and yet deep inside you carry the haunting question: “God, where are You?”

We have been made to believe that distance from God is always the result of sin, rebellion, or spiritual laziness. Sometimes that is true. But there are other moments when the distance is born from grief, trauma, injustice, disappointment, exhaustion, or suffering so deep that language itself collapses. There are times when the distance is due to you being human.

When Jesus cries out from the cross, He is quoting Psalm 22. That matters because Psalm 22 begins in anguish but ends in trust. Jesus is not pretending. He is revealing. The Son of God enters fully into the human experience of feeling forsaken. This means that when you feel distant from God, you are not alone in that feeling. Even Jesus walked through the dark valley where heaven felt silent.

That realization is liberating. Because too many people suffer in silence, thinking mature faith means never struggling. But biblical faith has always included lament. David lamented. Jeremiah lamented. Job lamented. The prophets lamented. Jesus lamented. Lament is not weak faith. Lament is wounded faith still reaching toward God.

Today, many people feel distant from God for reasons that go beyond personal morality. Some are exhausted by racial injustice. Some are overwhelmed by political division. Some have watched churches preach nationalism louder than the Gospel. Some have survived abuse, betrayal, divorce, depression, anxiety, or church hurt. Some are carrying grief nobody notices. And if we are honest, there are moments when life itself becomes a kind of cross. Not literally. But emotionally. Spiritually. Psychologically. Moments where shame hangs you. Moments where rejection exposes you. Moments where loneliness suffocates you. Moments where systems crush your dignity.

Yet the cross declares something radical: God is closest to the broken. Not because suffering is good. But because God refuses to abandon people in suffering.

One of the hardest truths I have come to accept is that silence does not always mean absence. Sometimes God is working in places we cannot yet perceive. The disciples thought Friday was the end. They did not understand that resurrection was already moving beneath the soil of despair.

And maybe that is where some people are right now. You are interpreting silence as abandonment. But heaven may still be working. The cross teaches us that God can be present even when circumstances scream otherwise. That does not erase pain. It does not make suffering easier. It does not remove grief overnight. But it means darkness does not get the final word.

Stay In Your Own Clothes

Stay in Your Own Clothes
Mark 15:20

There’s something I’ve had to confront about myself, especially in seasons of travel, gatherings, and group settings. One of my quiet anxieties is the feeling that I might be forced into something I didn’t choose—to participate, to perform, to be “on” in a way that doesn’t feel true to who I am in that moment. And if I’m honest, one of my deepest hurts has been being misunderstood because of my reactions or my mood when I don’t feel the freedom to just be… Breonus.

Sometimes people read distance when it’s really discernment.
They read attitude when it’s really internal tension.
They read withdrawal when it’s really a man trying not to betray himself.

And at 53, I’ve made a decision that feels both simple and sacred: I am going to live my life in my own clothes. Because I know this much—I’ll never become who God has called me to be, and I’ll never truly enjoy the life God has given me, if I keep trying to live it dressed in someone else’s expectations. The clothes of the father they want me to be. The family member they prefer. The pastor they’re comfortable with. The version of me that fits their category but not my calling.

In Gospel of Mark 15:20, there’s a moment we often read quickly but need to sit with longer. The soldiers dressed Jesus in a robe—not to honor Him, but to mock Him. They placed something on Him that didn’t belong to Him. It was a distortion, a costume, a false narrative wrapped around His identity. But when they were finished, they took it off and put His own clothes back on Him.

They could dress Him—but they couldn’t define Him.

And that’s the tension many of us live in every day. Life has a way of placing things on you—expectations, roles, pressures—that may look right to others but feel wrong in your spirit. And if you’re not careful, you start adjusting yourself to fit what was never designed for you.

But here’s the quiet truth: what people place on you is not always what God has assigned to you.

There comes a moment when you have to return to your own clothes—your values, your convictions, your pace, your voice. Not out of rebellion, but out of alignment. Not to push people away, but to stop losing yourself.

Because performance will drain you, but authenticity will sustain you.

Jesus never confused the robe they put on Him with who He was. And neither should you.

So the question becomes: what have you been wearing that no longer fits?
What expectation have you been carrying that God never gave you?
What version of yourself have you been performing that’s costing you your peace?

Today, give yourself permission to take something off.

Release the pressure to meet every expectation.
Let go of the need to be understood by everyone.
And choose—intentionally—to live from what is true for you.

That might mean setting a boundary.
That might mean saying no without explaining everything.
That might mean showing up as yourself, even if it confuses people who are used to a different version of you.

Stay in your own clothes.

Because when you do, you don’t just protect your peace—you honor your calling.

Cleaning Out The Clutter

Yesterday, Dr. Joel Gregory preached on the Triumphant Entry. He called it A Strange Parade. I left worship, which I hope my members do after my sermons, thinking: How can I not replace my Hosanna with Crucify Him. So, instead of reading through Nehemiah 3, my devotionals this week focus on Holy Week. Why? I do not want Holy Week to be something I simply remember, reflect on, or casually read about in scripture. To be honest, it has been reduced to that. I want Holy Week to become something I actually experience. What if I allowed each day to move beyond history and become personal? What if the streets of Jerusalem became the corridors of my own heart, and the movements of Jesus through that final week became invitations for my own transformation? What if this week was not just about observing what Jesus did then, but surrendering to what He wants to do in me now? That is the question I want to carry into this week: What if I truly experienced Holy Week?

Monday gives us one of the most jarring scenes of the week. In Luke 19:45–48, Mark 11:15–19, and Matthew 21:12–13, Jesus walks into the Temple and immediately begins overturning tables. It is disruptive, uncomfortable, and deeply revealing. What hit me is that the money changers were not necessarily in the wrong location. The money changers were in the Temple, in the place where worshippers came to prepare their sacrifices. The deeper issue was that while they were in the right place, they were operating with the wrong principles and practices. What should have supported worship had started to compete with it. Sacred space had become crowded with systems that no longer served sacred purpose.

That truth presses into my own life. Sometimes the challenge is not that something is out of place, but that something in the right place has lost its right purpose. Sermon prep can just become that, sermon prep. Morning devotionals can just become something to check off for the day. A routine can still be in place but no longer produce life. A relationship can still exist but no longer nurture peace. A responsibility can still look holy but secretly be driven by pride, fear, or performance. Holy Monday makes me ask: What in my life is occupying sacred space but no longer serving sacred purpose? There are habits, patterns, and even people that may need to be lovingly removed because they are no longer aligned with what God intended them to be.

The second thing that arrests me is this: Jesus was offended. He was not merely irritated; He was grieved by what sacred things had become. The Temple was supposed to be a house of prayer, but it had been turned into something transactional and self-serving. That forces me to look inward. What practices in my own life offend Jesus? What attitudes have I normalized that grieve His heart? Where has convenience replaced conviction? Where has image replaced intimacy? Where has routine replaced prayer?

I say all of this to say that this is why I want to experience Holy Week. I do not want to merely admire Jesus cleansing the Temple but I want to let Him walk through the rooms of my own life and overturn whatever no longer belongs. I want this week to become a lived encounter with Christ’s holy disruption. Because the grace of Jesus is not passive; it is active enough to disturb what has become normal but no longer healthy.

And here is the good news: Jesus only cleanses what He still intends to use. His disruption is not rejection, it is restoration. He overturns because He loves. He confronts because He is making room again for prayer, peace, and presence.

So my prayer for Holy Monday is this:
Lord, let this week be more than memory. Let it become experience. Walk through the Temple of my life and overturn every table, habit, and practice that no longer serves Your purpose. Disturb what needs disturbing so that my life can once again become a house of prayer.

Authentic Leadership

I have been reading Nehemiah 3 slowly for my morning devotionals. The biggest benefit of reading scripture verse by verse is that you come across names you would have never known. This morning did not disappoint me. Nehemiah 3:9 says, Next to them, Rephaiah son of Hur, ruler of half the district of Jerusalem, made repairs.

Rephaiah reminded me that I don’t get to lead from a distance and call it leadership. Titles don’t replace tools. Authority doesn’t excuse absence. Some of us have mistaken position for participation. We’ve learned how to give instructions without ever getting our hands dirty. But God never anoints spectators to rebuild broken places. He calls leaders who are willing to bend, lift, carry, and build.

Rephaiah is a different kind of leader. Not a distant official. Not a detached overseer. But a ruler: one with status, influence, and responsibility, but still shows up on the wall. He doesn’t delegate the work away. He joins it.

He was not just anybody. He governed people. He managed territory. He carried political and social weight. If anybody had an excuse to stay back, to supervise instead of serve, it was him. Yet when the work of rebuilding began, he did not hide behind his title; he stepped into the tension of the assignment. This is the kind of leadership God honors.

God does not measure leadership by how many people serve you. He measures it by how willing you are to serve alongside others. Rephaiah builds, and where he builds matters. He is responsible for “half the district,” yet he takes personal responsibility for a portion of the wall. Leadership, in this moment, becomes both corporate and personal. He doesn’t say, “My district will handle it.” He says, “I will handle my part.” And maybe that’s the tension for some of us.

We’ve learned how to oversee everything and own nothing. We’ve mastered managing people but neglected managing our own assignments. We’ve become comfortable being over areas while being absent from effort. But Nehemiah arranges the wall so that leaders cannot escape accountability. He places them in positions where their presence is required, not optional. Because real leadership is not proven in meetings—it’s proven in movement.

I think there’s another layer here. When leaders build, people follow. When leaders engage, culture shifts. When leaders show up, excuses disappear. Rephaiah’s hands on the wall preach louder than any speech he could have given. His participation becomes permission for others to take their work seriously.

Today, I had to step back and take an honest look at my leadership. Where have I been directing instead of doing? Where have I been expecting others to carry what God assigned to my hands? Don’t get me wrong. This is not about doing everything, it’s about doing your part.

This season requires visibility, vulnerability, and velocity. People need to see you engaged, not just hear you instructing. There are walls in your life—your family, your discipline, your spiritual practices, your calling—that cannot be delegated. They must be built by you.

Identify one area you’ve been overseeing but not personally engaging. Step into it today—actively, visibly, and intentionally.

When the Room Gets Loud, It’s Already Too Late

There’s a dangerous moment that doesn’t look dangerous at all. It sounds like an agreement. It feels like momentum. It looks like unity. But underneath it, there is pressure—quiet, persuasive, and relentless. The kind of pressure that doesn’t ask you to abandon truth all at once, just to soften it, adjust it, delay it, or reframe it so the room stays comfortable.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself in that kind of room. The conversation was moving and getting heated. The energy was leaning in a particular direction. And I could feel it. The air was thick, and the subtle weight of expectation pressed against my convictions. I knew that if I spoke, it might shift the room. Not because I was trying to control it, but because truth has a way of unsettling what comfort tries to protect.

So I spoke.

And even though I knew what I said was right, grounded, thoughtful, and necessary, I still walked away feeling the tension of it. I didn’t walk away rejoicing. I walked away discouraged. I walked away disappointed but not regretful. But the residue that comes from refusing to echo what everyone else is saying is rough.

That moment sent me back to Pilate. In the Gospel narratives, Pilate stands face to face with Jesus. He interrogates Him. He examines the evidence. And over and over again, he arrives at the same conclusion: “I find no fault in Him.” That should have been enough. Truth was clear. Conviction was forming.

But then the crowd started speaking. And when the crowd speaks loud enough, it can drown out what you already know. Pilate didn’t lose clarity; he lost courage. He knew Jesus was innocent, but he also knew the cost of standing against the crowd. The pressure wasn’t just the noise of the crowd; it was political, social, and personal pressure. And in that moment, Pilate made a fatal mistake: he tried to make up his mind under pressure. And that never works.

Because pressure doesn’t clarify your convictions; it exposes the ones you never settled beforehand.
That’s why what sustained me in that room wasn’t just what I said in the moment; it was what I had already decided before I walked in.

There is a kind of strength that is not built in public. It is formed in private. It is shaped in quiet moments, when no one is watching, when no one is applauding, when there is no crowd to please and no room to read. It’s in those spaces where you sit with your values, wrestle with truth, pray through your fears, and settle your convictions before they are ever tested.

I had already spent time alone making up my mind. Not about that specific room; but about who I am, what I believe, and how I would respond when truth and pressure collide. And that made all the difference.

Pilate waited until the pressure came to decide what he believed. And by then, it was too late. The crowd wasn’t asking him to think, they were asking him to surrender. And when you try to form convictions in the middle of pressure, you will almost always default to preservation over principle.
Pilate chose peace with the crowd over alignment with truth. And history remembers that decision.

But here’s the question that presses on us:
1. What rooms are we walking into unprepared?
2. What conversations are we entering without already knowing where we stand?
3. What pressures are we vulnerable to; not because we lack intelligence, but because we haven’t done the internal work to settle our convictions before the moment arrives?

Because the truth is, there will always be a crowd. Sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes it’s external voices, and sometimes it’s the internal desire to be liked, accepted, or unchallenged. But if your convictions are not settled in private, they will be negotiated in public.
And truth should never be up for negotiation.

So here’s the work:
Spend time with yourself.
Sit long enough to hear your own voice without interruption. Pray until your spirit aligns with what is right, not what is easy. Wrestle with the tension of truth before the crowd ever shows up.
Make up your mind—before the moment asks you to.

Because when the pressure comes—and it will—you won’t have time to become someone new.
You will only reveal who you have already decided to be. And unlike Pilate, you won’t have to wash your hands of a decision you wish you had the courage to make differently. You’ll be able to walk away—not just knowing you were right— but knowing you were rooted.

Old Gates: Rebuilding What Once Guarded Your Life

My morning devotional is practicing the Examen through the Book of Nehemiah. Before listening to scripture this morning, I wrote in my journal my personal frustrations about at times abandoning my patterns, routines, and disciplines. I don’t read as much and as often as I want to. I don’t rest or exercise like I know that I need to. WHY!!!!!!! Then I listend to Nehemiah 3:6.

There comes a season when God does not call you forward into something new; He calls you back to something you abandoned. Not because you failed, but because you drifted. Not because it didn’t work, but because you stopped working it. Nehemiah reminds us that some of the most sacred work is not innovation, it is restoration. The Old Gate was not glamorous. It carried history. Memory. Foundation. And yet, it had been broken down. What once protected the city had become a point of vulnerability. And if we are honest, many of us are living with broken gates. Prayer lives that used to be consistent. Boundaries we once honored. Convictions that once shaped our decisions. We didn’t lose them overnight; we loosened them over time. But this is a season to rebuild what we once knew mattered. This is a season to resecure our lives.

When they rebuilt the Old Gate, they did not just repair what was visible; they reinforced what was necessary. They set doors, bolts, and bars. Doors speak to access, what we allow in and what we keep out. Some of us need to reinstall doors on our time, our relationships, and even our thoughts, because everything that has access to us is not assigned to us. Bolts speak to internal discipline, the unseen commitments we make when nobody is watching. This is prayer, consistency, self-control, the quiet decisions that keep our lives anchored. And then there are bars, external reinforcements. These are the structures that hold us up when we feel weak: wise counsel, accountability, community, and rhythms that keep us grounded. You can rebuild a gate, but if you don’t secure it, you will relive what broke it.

God is not asking you to become someone new. He is calling you to return to what was always true. The Old Gates in your life still matter. They still guard purpose. They still protect peace. And if you have the courage to rebuild them and the wisdom to secure them, you will not just recover what was lost, you will walk in a strength that cannot be easily shaken.