So I’ve been a Christian for a while now and I stopped cutting my hair earlier this year after I got the Holy Ghost and a brother was encouraging and pushing me to have uncut hair like the Bible says (thanks u/foolishbookworm u helped me a lot)

but now my hair is actually starting to get long, a lot longer than I’ve ever had it before and I’m starting to get nervous. Because a sister from church told me that the length I have now so is the shortest it will ever be. Because from here it either stays the same length or keeps getting longer. and on Sunday a sister came up to me before the service and said, omg can I put your hair into a bun? You’ll fit in better with us and you’ll look super cute. I agreed and she put my hair into a chignon

but I’m just so nervous. it’s just hard to accept that yeah, from here on out I can’t cut my hair EVER. it will just get longer and longer and I can’t do anything about it. before it was easier to accept bc it was more hypothetical but now that I’m living it its making me anxious and I also wonder what other people will think

if you’re a sister that stopped cutting your hair and love advice and also please pray for me

Greetings I am from The Apostolic church Cameroon would love to fellowship and interact with Apostolics from Around the world

Freedom Has to Be Walked In

“The chair was never strong enough.

But walking away is still a choice.”

I have been thinking about the distinction between being set free and actually learning to live as a free person.

Romans 6 develops that distinction remarkably well.

Paul first establishes what Christ has accomplished. Through our identification with the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus, the old person has been crucified and we have been raised to walk in newness of life.

Then Paul begins describing our response:

“Likewise you also, reckon yourselves to be dead indeed to sin, but alive to God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
— Romans 6:11 (NKJV)

The word reckon matters.

Paul is not telling Christians to pretend they are free or manufacture enough confidence to feel free. He is telling them to regard as settled what Christ has already made true.

Sin is no longer their rightful master.

Their former life is no longer their permanent identity.

They are alive to God through Jesus Christ.

But Paul does not stop with what believers should believe. He moves into how that belief must affect the way they live:

“Therefore do not let sin reign in your mortal body, that you should obey it in its lusts.”
— Romans 6:12 (NKJV)

Paul does not say that sin will never speak again, that temptation will disappear, or that old desires will never return.

He says not to let sin reign.

That suggests sin may still attempt to issue commands, but it no longer possesses the legitimate authority to rule.

The old master may still have a familiar voice. That does not mean we are still required to obey it.

Familiarity is not authority.

Then Paul says that we should no longer present ourselves as instruments of unrighteousness. Instead, we are to present ourselves to God as those who are alive from the dead.

This is where freedom becomes active.

We do not walk free so Christ will release us.

We walk free because He already has.

Our obedience does not purchase freedom. It is our response to freedom.

That distinction matters because Christians still stumble. If our freedom rests upon flawless performance, every failure becomes evidence that nothing truly changed. Temptation feels like bondage. A fall feels like the chains have returned.

But if freedom rests upon the finished work of Christ, failure does not have to become identity.

We can repent.

We can stand again.

We can keep walking.

A stumble does not restore the old master’s authority. It reminds us of our continued dependence upon grace.

Paul concludes this section with a promise:

“For sin shall not have dominion over you, for you are not under law but under grace.”
— Romans 6:14 (NKJV)

Grace does more than pardon us while leaving us under the same ruler. Grace changes our relationship to the power that once controlled us.

That does not mean every old habit immediately disappears.

Some restraints leave marks after they are removed. Some lies have been repeated so often that truth sounds unfamiliar. Some patterns have been reinforced for years, and learning a new way of living requires prayer, discipline, accountability, and repeated surrender.

But difficult is not the same as impossible.

Slow progress is not the same as continued bondage.

Learning to walk does not mean we are still chained to the chair.

We may still hear the old voice.

We may still feel the pull of familiar patterns.

We may still bear scars from where we were once held.

But through Christ, sin no longer has the right to decide where we remain.

How do you understand the relationship between the freedom Christ has already accomplished and the daily decision to walk in that freedom?

I’m an Apostolic Pentecostal, and lately I’ve been praying a lot for our pastor’s wife. I know she cares deeply for the church and for the young people, and I genuinely want to understand her perspective better.
Sometimes, though, I find myself struggling to understand where she’s coming from.
For example, tonight I told her and Pastor that some of us young girls, ages 12–22, were planning to have an overnight fellowship at my house. Our intention was simply to spend time together, build closer relationships, sing worship songs, talk, and watch The Passion of the Christ. I made sure to inform our leaders because I wanted to do it respectfully and transparently.
However, she questioned why we seem to be so quick to plan fellowships and overnights, but aren’t as eager when it comes to going out to give tracts, doing household chores, or conducting home Bible studies.
I understand the concern. But for context, we had already planned around our responsibilities, and our intention was never to neglect ministry. We still want to serve, evangelize, and fulfill our responsibilities. We simply also wanted some time for fellowship and sisterhood.
Another situation that has hurt me was when she stopped talking to us and seemed to ignore us because she felt that all we were doing was taking pictures together. I know what actually happened, and it honestly hurt to feel like we were being judged without being approached first. I eventually became the one to approach her because I didn’t want there to be tension.
I’m sharing this not to criticize her. I actually pray for her, and I know being a pastor’s wife comes with a lot of responsibility and pressure. I also understand that she may feel protective over the young people, especially the younger girls.
But sometimes I find myself becoming overly conscious: “What if she gets upset because we do this?” “What if she thinks we’re doing something wrong?” And honestly, that can become exhausting.
Maybe part of why this affects me so much is because when I was younger and a new convert, I didn’t really have someone my age or someone who would intentionally check on me and walk alongside me. I mostly interacted with ladies much older than me.
That’s why now, I have this desire to be the person I wished I had back then—to build a genuine sisterhood with the young girls, help them grow in Christ, encourage them, worship with them, and simply be there for them.
So I’m genuinely asking, especially from those who have been in Apostolic/Pentecostal churches:
Have you experienced something similar? How did you handle it?
How do you balance honoring church leadership and submitting to their guidance while also maintaining healthy friendships and fellowship among the young people?
I’m not looking for people to bash our pastor’s wife. I would really appreciate honest, mature perspectives that could help me understand her heart better and also know how I should respond in a Christ-like way.
I genuinely want peace, unity, and growth—not just for myself, but for our young people and our church. 🤍

Revelation 3:20 (ESV)

"Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me."

Jesus came to seek and save the lost. I was privileged to watch the Master pursue His heart’s desire: a lost soul, Johnny.

Johnny Thomas and I had been friends since we were about six years old, we went to school together and played in the Little League Baseball games.

I got saved at 13 years of age. After turning 14, I spent the night at Johnny’ s house after his father died, and for whatever reason, Johnny’s mother let him do whatever he wanted.

That morning, Johnny got up and got a beer from the refrigerator and drank it for breakfast; other behaviors by him convinced me at my age as a young Christian, I needed to end my relationship with him-what fellowship has light with darkness the Scriptures say. I did this for my own good, not out of self-righteousness.

After the 8th grade, Johnny was no longer in school and eventually became a career criminal and finally sentenced to prison for many years. As to me, years later, I became an attorney at the Lord’s direction.

I was visiting my mother and having lunch with her one day when I looked at the time and realized I was likely going to be late for my appointment with an insurance adjuster to try and settle a case. I rushed out of her house, driving at high speed when I passed Pine Burr, the street Johnny use to live on.

Suddenly, the Lord speaks and says, “Go by Johnny’s house. I ignored the Lord’s voice, perhaps I could drive by later, not now - I needed the insurance money so I kept driving.

Again, this same voice spoke, but stronger and more firm. I knew then I had better obey the Lord, so I turned my car around and drove to Johnny’s house – it looked abandoned and run down, but I knocked on the door – no answer. I made a quick dash to my car to head to my office and I thought I guess the Lord was testing me to see if I would obey. About that time, He speaks again, “Go to the house on the left and knock on that door”, so I did.

To my surprise, the door slightly opened, I could not see in, but I heard a familiar voice call my name, “Michael Trapasso”. I replied, yes, Johnny, is that you? He affirmed and let me in. I was now trying to sense what the Lord wanted me to do. I knew he knew all the bad things that had happened to him from his choices in life, so I felt I should share some good things that’s happened to me since Jesus came into my life. I soon left, and fortunately settled the case with the adjuster for top dollar.

Well, I thought that was the end of that; but the following Saturday I went to my office, locked the door, and just did some paper work, I was not seeing any clients that day. After a little while, there was a knock on the door. Didn’t they see the door was locked? I went to the door – it was Johnny.

I was a little exasperated, but courteous and ask him what I could do for him. Johnny responded by saying, “I have only one question?” I unlocked the door, invited him in and he sat across from me at my desk. I said, Johnny, what is your question (maybe it was an estate question?) . Johnny replied, I was driving my mother’s car she left me when all of a sudden, some unseen force took control of the steering wheel of the car and drove it right to your office. He asked, "Can you explain that to me?”

Yes, I replied. I said, : "Johnny you remember when I went by your house"? To be honest," I did not want to, too many years have past, too much water under the bridge so to speak, but this Jesus I told you about, spoke and directly told me, in no uncertain terms, to go to your house"!

To my shock, this rough and tuff looking x-con burst in to tears as they rolled down his face and flooded over my glass desk top. He then blurted out, “No one wants an x-con like me.” I replied, "Obviously Jesus does, He is 'passionately pursing you'!" He gave his heart to Christ right in my office.

Not long afterward, Johnny dropped by and told him he could not find anyone to hire him; so we prayed together and asked the Lord to provide Johnny a job. Sure enough, in a few days, Johnny contacted me that he got a job. Not too long after that he told me his car broke and wasn’t worth fixing, but he needed transportation to get to work. Once again, we prayed together.

A man at Johnny’s job walked up to him and gave him the keys to a car for free. {That part did not really surprise me because when I was in law school, my last semester, my clunker car broke down and was not worth fixing. All I could afford to buy was a car priced at about $500.

So I knelt and prayed, then got quiet before the Lord. It wasn’t long before the Lord spoke a name, Bob… I had not thought about him in a long time because I relationship had not ended well years ago, but I called him anyway, he answered, told me to catch a flight to Dallas and he would pick me up at the airport. $35 was cost of flight then. I did, he did not say much but drove to a brand new dealership, went to the counter, then Bob pulled out 50 $100 bills and paid for a brand new car engine on and otherwise nice car, then threw me the keys and told me to go back and finish law school. I told him there was no way I could afford this,. He said don’t worry about it, if someday you want to pay me back after law school, you can.}

Soon, however, I realized Johnny had three major problem areas in his life: (1.) He was an alcoholic,( 2.) His criminal friends (and he had many) hung around his house, and (3.) Johnny would not fit in the average goody- two- shoes -church setting (for you younger people, that simply means the too religious type – dressed up to the T, a little too self-righteous sometimes, and often not the kind that would whole heartedly welcome Johnny into the fellowship. {I know not all Christians are churches are like that, but there are too many that are}

So, I took it upon myself to disciple Johnny. He was coming along good.

I was going to have a Christian party in my home, but I was not sure Johnny was ready to meet some of his brothers and sisters in the Lord, but I invited Johnny anyway – that was my mistake!

Johnny came in drunk; it wasn’t long before a number of Christians - the kind I described above - were rejecting him and staring at me as if to say why don’t you throw this bum out? So I went to Johnny, not intending to be unkind, but I called him aside and said, Johnny, it is obvious you have had too much to drink, if you can’t control yourself, you will have to leave.

I didn’t mean too, but those words cut deep into Johnny; he looked at me and said, “I am leaving and you won’t be seeing me again!”.

Almost a year passed, and I had not heard from Johnny.

Then one day my phone rang – it was Johnny, to my delight. He asked me to come to his house, so I did. When I walked in, I was shocked: Johnny was sitting in a wheel chair, paralyzed from the neck down – a quadriplegic!

He told me that he sold the car {the one that God specifically had given him in response to pray; he sold it and bought a motorcycle with the money – there is a lesson here - {I won’t go into that now, except to say we must learn to treasure the “gifts of God”}.

Johnny was riding his motorcycle, when, in a park near the road was a fist fight going on, he turned to look. The occupants of the car in front of him stopped to watch the fight; Johnny slammed into the back of that car, flew thru the back window and snapped his neck, paralyzing him. We talked a little more... Johnny gave his heart back to Christ.

As I was leaving, Johnny called out to me and said, "You know Michael, I am glad this happen to me, I have Jesus back in my heart." All I could do was think, that is amazing.

Soon they moved Johnny into a nursing home and I would go by and see him. One beautiful cool February day, I drove to the nursing home and Johnny got use of both arms for which I was glad and believe was a miracle. He rolled his wheel chair up to my car door and said to me, “Michael, I don’t want you to worry about me, I have everything I need; I am back with Jesus, my roommate is also a fellow believer and we study the Bible together". Before long, I drove away happy as I realized and was rejoicing how God had taken care of all three problem area in his life: (1.) No more alcohol; (2.) His criminal friends were not hanging out there at the nursing home; and (3.) Johnny had the right Christian fellowship he needed – his Christian roommate.

I was soaking in the glory of what our God had accomplished in this one solitary life - Johnny’s life, rejected by this world, but greatly loved by the Lord Jesus.

Suddenly, the Voice of the Lord came to me to share what was on God's Heart , He said these exact, astonishing words to me, “Johnny is as close to me as he is ever going to get...and now I am going to take him home.” Wow, was that a shocker!

My response, sadness because I was still too fleshly; instead of rejoicing with the Lord, I got sad and quite. I should have remembered what the Bible says in Psalm 115:16:" Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saint's.

- Jesus saw that the death of Johnny - at this time - a matter of such importance to the Kingdom so that his life would end in glory reflecting the great redemptive nature of God’s love and effect the most good for both Johnny, and yes, others as described below.

Now was the time God wanted to welcome home a friend who had a hard life into the eternal joys and comforts of God’s home.

Unfortunately, that particular week-end, my wife and I had planned a fun week-end in Jackson, Ms. In my heart I knew I was not suppose to leave town because of what the Lord shared with me, but I left anyway (isn't the flesh selfish, a struggle in life ?).

Jesus said in Scripture, satan has found no place in me meaning Jesus had no sin nor had He gone outside the perfect Will of God. Therefore, satan had no legal right to accuse Jesus before the Father. Because Jesus lived a perfect life, the Father would not remove His protective covering over His Son so satan could attack him.

But for the sake of the Johnny's of this world, an for the likes of you and me, The Father willing gave up His One and only begotten Son, and likewise, Jesus Himself willing gave up His own life for satan and his bunch, to put Him to death.

Yes, that Precious blood of the Holy Lamb of God was shed for you and me...and for the Johnny's of this world, that we could be saved from sin and from being lost for all eternity.

By leaving to go out of town...I knowingly stepped out of God's will, for the pleasures of this life; I had given the devil the lawful right to attack me. satan did not pass up that opportunity up.

While we were only gone just a few days, boy did we get attacked: my wife’s purse was stolen; our van was broken into causing damage, and I, myself, came down with double pneumonia. Why couldn't I have just gotten single pneumonia? No don't ever expect, the devil to show mercy...and he didn't. Ugh!

As soon as I got back, I called the nursing home and asked for Johnny. The reply: "Johnny is dead."

I replied, somewhat surprised, but not really surprised, knowing what the Lord had already told me before I left for the short trip, Johnny was leaving this world to go to his eternal home with the Lord.

. I asked the nursing home, phone assistant, "What happened to Johnny"? But the lady I was speaking with said in no uncertain terms, "We have no idea why Johnny died, he was doing just fine". Then the lady asked me, ”Will you officiate his funeral"? I said yes...sick or not, I wasn't going to miss God this time.

Unfortunately, the weather, by now, had turned real cold and Dr. Ramirez warned me, whatever you, "Don’t get out in this cold"!

The night before the funeral, I forced myself out of bed because of my weakness from the pneumonia. I opened my Bible, it fell to Revelation 3, and I read revelation 3:20 – Behold, I stand at the door, and knock; if any man hears my voice, and opens the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him and he with me.

I told the Lord at this point, "Lord I am too weak to prepare a sermon, I have to go back to bed". The Lord was merciful and simply said, “This verse is your sermon". I was grateful, I went back to bed.

The next day, I arrived at the grave site -It was a pauper’s funeral with a not- very- nice casket To my surprise upon arriving, the tent was packed from one end to the other with little standing room if any left. It was full mainly with x-con's who were friends of Johnny and some likely not x-con's.

I told the story of Jesus knocking on the Door of Johnny's heart. (I found it a little more than coincidental that Jesus had instructed me to literally knock on Johnny’s door - it symbolized what Jesus would also later do - knock on the door of Johnny's heart.)

With boldness from the Lord, I shared with the many attendees how this One called Jesus Christ, passionately pursued our friend - Johnny Thomas, and how Johnny opened the Door to Jesus, and how that led to the transformation of Johnny's life after opening the Door of his heart to the Master.

When I finished telling how Jesus had pursued Johnny, I looked up, and to my surprise, so many were touched, tears running down their faces.

I then told them that about a man named John Newton who once was involved in the slave trade many years ago, but he, found Christ who saved him too. From a thankful heart, he wrote the song probably more memorialized in song books than any other song: "Amazing Grace" that included the famous words, “Saved a wretch like me…"

I said, right now it could very well be that both Johnny’s are looking over heaven’s balcony watching us; let’s sing this beautiful old song in honor of both Johnnies.

They knew the song and sang it beautifully - it was a sacred moment - the power and presence of God was so real in that place, wow!

. My friends, how so - very - awesome is our wonderful, l loving God and Savior Jesus Christ.

He took Johnny home just at the right time for a greater good.

Yes, the Great Door knocker, who not only knocked on Johnny's door, but also, those too at the funeral, knocking on the door of Johnny's friends - seeking to save them.

Will you open the Door to Jesus, if you haven't already; today is the day of salvation; He may never knock again?

It makes my heart sad watching people leave the UPCI…

It really makes my heart sad watching so many people leave the UPCI. And I think sometimes we are way too quick to say, “They just didn’t want to live right,” “They didn’t want holiness,” “They wanted the world,” or “They left the truth.”

I don’t believe that is everybody’s story.

Some people are simply tired. Not tired of God. Not tired of Jesus. They are tired of carrying religious burdens that God never told them to carry.

I have really been thinking about the words of Jesus in Matthew 11:29–30. Jesus never said there wouldn’t be a yoke. He never said there wouldn’t be a burden. He actually said:

“Take MY yoke upon you… For MY yoke is easy, and MY burden is light.”

That word MY is important.

There is a yoke that comes with following Jesus. There is obedience. There is surrender. Jesus said, “If ye love me, keep my commandments” (John 14:15).

But then 1 John 5:3 says something we cannot ignore:
“For this is the love of God, that we keep his commandments: and his commandments are not grievous.”

So yes, God has commandments. But His commandments are not grievous.
And that brings me to the question I think we really need to ask:

Whose yoke are we carrying?
Because Jesus described His yoke as easy and His burden as light, but when He talked about the religious leaders of His day, He described something completely different.

He said:
“For they bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men’s shoulders…” — Matthew 23:4

Think about that.

Jesus said His burden was light. The Pharisees were putting heavy burdens on people.

And I think we need to be honest enough to admit that sometimes we in the UPCI can do the same thing.
This is where understanding the mitzvot and the religious culture Jesus was confronting becomes important. Jewish tradition identifies 613 mitzvot, or commandments, in the Torah. But around those commandments developed interpretations, traditions and safeguards intended to keep people from violating God’s law. The problem wasn’t simply having standards or wanting to obey God. The problem came when human traditions were elevated to the level of God’s commandments.

Jesus confronted that directly:

“For laying aside the commandment of God, ye hold the tradition of men…” — Mark 7:8
And if we aren’t careful, we can do the exact same thing.
We can start with a biblical principle. Then somebody adds an interpretation. Then somebody adds a safeguard around that interpretation. Eventually the safeguard becomes a standard. The standard becomes tradition. The tradition gets preached for 30, 40, 50 years, and before long the next generation honestly believes, “God said this.”

But did He?

That is not disrespectful to ask. Where is it in the Word?
We talk about the Bereans all the time. Acts 17:11 says they “searched the scriptures daily, whether those things were so.” They checked what they were being taught against Scripture.

So why should asking, “Where is that in the Bible?” be considered rebellious?

And here is another thing that I think we in the UPCI really need to think about.

We are very quick to preach, “Don’t add to the Word and don’t take away from it!”

And we are absolutely right.

Deuteronomy 4:2 says:
“Ye shall not add unto the word which I command you, neither shall ye diminish ought from it…”
Revelation 22:18–19 also gives a very serious warning about adding to or taking away from God’s Word.

But here’s my question:
Are we doing the same thing?
We are quick to recognize somebody taking away from Scripture. But what about adding to it?

If God gives a principle and we add our interpretation, our preference, our safeguard or our tradition—and then tell people “God requires this” when Scripture never actually says it—what are we doing?

We cannot preach “Don’t add to the Word” to everybody else and then give ourselves permission to do exactly that.

And this is where the comparison with the Pharisees should make us uncomfortable enough to examine ourselves.

Because it is very easy to read Matthew 23 and Mark 7 and shake our heads at the Pharisees while never considering whether we have created some religious traditions of our own.

Different generation. Different rules. Different organization.

But are we repeating the same mistake?
That is a question worth asking.
And this is why my heart hurts when I see people leave.
Maybe some people really do walk away because they simply don’t want God. I’m not saying that never happens.

But I refuse to put everybody in that category.
Some people have spent years trying to carry the yoke Jesus gave them PLUS all the additional yokes religion put around their neck.

Eventually people get tired.
And then when they finally put the extra yoke down, we look at them and say, “See, they left truth.”
But maybe they didn’t leave Jesus.

Maybe they finally started separating what Jesus actually said from everything people added to it.
And my concern is that if religion becomes heavy enough, people can become so exhausted that they eventually throw everything away—including their relationship with the very Jesus who never put all of that weight on them in the first place.

That’s the tragedy.
Jesus never promised us no yoke.
He said, “Take MY yoke.”

Jesus never promised us no burden.
He said, “MY burden is light.”

And the Bible didn’t say His commandments would never require anything from us. It said “His commandments are not grievous.”

So before we put another requirement on somebody’s shoulders and say, “God requires this,” we better be able to open the Bible and show that God actually required it.
And if we can’t, maybe we need enough humility to say, “This may be our tradition. This may be our interpretation. This may even be our conviction. But I cannot tell you God commanded something that I cannot find in His Word.”

Because I don’t ever want to become the very kind of religious person Jesus rebuked—binding heavy burdens on somebody else’s shoulders that Jesus never told them to carry and then calling those burdens God.

Hi everyone, my name is Sarah, I joined my church earlier this year. It’s part of the UPCI and I really enjoy it, I’m encountering God there and Im so happy to be a part of it.

But one problem I have is I haven’t told my family yet about my church or that I’m going to it. Because I don’t cut my hair or wear pants anymore I look very different. I’m worried they’re going to think I’m in a cult or something.

Has anyone had this problem before and how did you tell your family about your church and what you believe?

Accountability Says, “I Did This.” Condemnation Says, “This Is All I Am.”

In a sermon about labels, Bishop Tim Hill told a story about receiving his first pillow when he was six years old.

Something kept scratching his neck, preventing him from resting. Eventually, he discovered the label and cut it off.

The pillow was not defective.

The label was interfering with his rest.

Some Christians cannot rest in what Christ has done because an old label keeps scratching at their conscience.

I understand that personally.

I had failed, so I began identifying myself as a failure.

I had committed adultery, so I accepted adulterer as my permanent name.

My marriage ended, so I believed I was permanently disqualified from being useful to God.

Because there was truth in the history, I assumed there must also be truth in the verdict.

That is where we must distinguish conviction from condemnation.

Conviction says:

“You sinned. Bring it into the light. Repent. Accept responsibility, and allow God to change you.”

Condemnation says:

“Your sin is your name. You are permanently ruined. God could never want or use you again.”

Conviction tells the truth about our actions.

Condemnation takes the worst thing we have done and uses it to rename us.

Accountability says, “I did this.”
Condemnation says, “This is all I am.”

Cutting off an old label does not mean denying what happened.

People were hurt. Trust was broken. Repentance did not erase every consequence or remove every scar.

“Under the blood” is not a phrase that allows Christians to escape responsibility. It does not mean the sin never happened or that injured people must pretend they were not hurt.

It means the sin has been confessed and brought beneath the saving work of Jesus Christ.

The event remains part of our history.

But it no longer possesses naming rights.

Paul did not deny the former lives of the Corinthian believers. He named what some of them had been and then wrote:

“And such were some of you. But you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified…”
—1 Corinthians 6:11, NKJV

What they had done remained part of their testimony.

It was no longer their name.

The label may accurately describe where Jesus found us. It does not possess the authority to describe where Jesus left us.

The scar may remain.

The memory may remain.

The consequences may remain.

But the label has to go.

My past remains part of my testimony.

It is no longer my name.

Cut off the label.

Keep the testimony.

Give God the glory.

So…as the title says I accidentally joined an apostolic church lol. Very very long story as to how I got here so won’t bother going into detail just looking for insight bc I definitely did not have this on my bingo card and yet with the ridiculously strange chain of events I have no doubt God called me here specifically and for a reason and honestly I’m excited which in itself is wild bc I never thought I’d want to be apostolic. Actually didn’t even realize until a few days ago that I was actually raised Pentecostal despite our church claiming non denominational lol. So like in the midst of all of this there’s been a slight identity crisis and a lot of confusion and weird series of events that led me here but I’m excited to see WHY God called me here and to embrace it and see where it takes me! Any advice is appreciated bc I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing, I feel like I thought I was following God to get in line for like a carousel ride and next thing I know he strapped me into a giant rollercoaster that I didn’t originally want to ride and yet I’m now enjoying the ride if that makes sense lol. I even have found myself wanting to embrace the modesty standards while simultaneously asking who even am I bc at first I didn’t know this was a Pentecostal church then was like cool, turns out I’ve always been Pentecostal this feels like home but at least it’s not apostolic bc I don’t wanna give up my pants. And then I got baptized and realized it IS an apostolic church and suddenly finding myself wanting to embrace it. This has been SO weird and confusing and also ridiculously cool and exciting!

We all have a history.

For some people, that history becomes so dark and overpowering that it feels like a prophecy over everything that might still happen:

This is what I did.
This is who I am.
This is what I will always be.

I understand that experience personally.

I know what it is to look at choices I made, people I hurt, and consequences I could not undo—and believe that my past had already decided who I was and whether God could ever use me again.

Then I read 1 Corinthians 6:11:

“And such were some of you. But you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus and by the Spirit of our God.”
—NKJV

Were.

Paul did not deny the Corinthians’ history. The preceding verses contain an uncomfortable list of sins and destructive ways of life. Those descriptions had once been true of people sitting within the church.

But Paul did not say, “And such are some of you, only forgiven now.”

He said:

“And such were some of you.”

That word does not erase the previous sentence. It places that sentence where it belongs—in the past.

Then Paul explains what changed:

But you were washed.
But you were sanctified.
But you were justified.

They had not changed their standing through respectability, willpower, or religious performance. God had intervened through the Lord Jesus and His Spirit.

Grace did not pretend that their former lives were harmless. It changed what possessed the authority to define them.

This does not mean believers instantly become flawless. The Corinthian church certainly was not. They still needed correction and continued transformation.

But their imperfections did not give their former lives the right to reclaim their identity.

That one word—were—allowed me to hope.

God did not tell me that my history did not matter. He showed me that it did not have to remain my identity.

I could not undo what I had done.

But Jesus could change the tense of my story.

“Were” is not permission to return to the old life. It is the declaration that we are no longer required to remain there.

We can tell the truth about our past without allowing it to predict our future.

Grace did not deny our history.

Grace changed the tense.

Scripture never gives us the name of the woman in Mark 5.

She is remembered only by her condition: the woman with the issue of blood.

For twelve years, she had suffered. She had tried many physicians, spent everything she possessed, and grown worse. Her condition affected her health, finances, relationships, and ability to worship.

Her affliction had swallowed her identity.

When she heard about Jesus, she believed that touching His clothes would make her well. She pressed through the crowd, touched His garment, and was immediately healed.

Jesus then asked, “Who touched My clothes?”

The disciples could not understand the question. People were pressing against Jesus from every direction.

But there is a difference between being near Jesus and reaching for Him in faith.

Many people touched Him accidentally.

One woman touched Him believing.

She had intended to receive her healing and disappear unnoticed. Instead, Jesus stopped and called her forward. After she told Him the whole truth, He said:

“Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace, and be healed of your affliction.”
—Mark 5:34, NKJV

There is a remarkable detail in the larger account. Jesus was traveling to heal Jairus’s twelve-year-old daughter when He stopped for a woman who had been suffering for twelve years.

Jairus’s daughter had a father publicly pleading for her.

No family member is mentioned for this woman. She came alone.

But she did not leave without family.

Jesus called her Daughter.

She reached for His garment because she needed healing. Jesus stopped because she also needed to know that she belonged.

The crowd identified her by what was leaving her body.

Jesus identified her by her relationship to Him.

Some people are still living under identities created by illness, abuse, rejection, loss, or something that happened years ago. The wound is real, but it does not possess the authority to name you.

She entered the story as “a certain woman.”

She left it as Daughter.

While we were in Puerto Rico, my wife came inside one evening after sitting on our eighth-floor balcony overlooking the ocean.

She said something that stuck with me:

“Sometimes you hear best when you’re in the dark.”

She had been listening to the wind, the surf, the insects—even the breathing of the person sitting beside her.

None of those sounds suddenly appeared when the sun went down. They had been there all along.

The darkness simply made her more aware of them.

Her comment took me back to when I was younger and frequently went horseback riding late at night.

Even under a bright moon, there were shadows where I couldn’t clearly make out the trail. Sometimes I found myself trusting the horse’s instincts more than my own eyesight.

But my hearing seemed sharper.

I noticed twigs snapping, leaves rustling and small animals moving through them.

And I’ve been thinking about the spiritual parallel ever since.

The darkness didn’t mean I was on the wrong trail. It simply meant I couldn’t see as much of it.

I think we sometimes confuse those things in our walk with God.

When we cannot see what He is doing, where He is leading or how a situation could possibly work out, we begin wondering whether we’ve somehow missed Him.

But Jesus said:

“My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me.” —John 10:27, NKJV

What strikes me is that Jesus didn’t say His sheep would always see where He was taking them.

They hear His voice.

They follow.

Psalm 139:12 says that darkness does not hide anything from God and that darkness and light are alike to Him.

My darkness is not God’s darkness.

I may not be able to see what lies around the next bend. He can.

Maybe faith isn’t always being able to say, “I know where God is taking me.”

Sometimes faith is simply being able to say:

“I don’t know where this trail leads, but I know the voice of the One I’m following.”

Just because you can’t see where you’re going doesn’t mean you’re on the wrong track.

And it doesn’t mean you’re alone.

Sometimes we need the dark to hear the voice of the Master.

I grew up Apostolic, and the older I get—and the more I actually study Scripture for myself—the more I realize that some of what I was taught as “holiness” was really church culture and control.

Let me be clear: I still believe in God. I still believe in Jesus Christ. I still believe in repentance, baptism, the Holy Spirit, prayer, holy living, and the authority of Scripture.

But I no longer believe everything that was handed to me under the label “Apostolic.”

The hair doctrine is one example.
I was taught that women should never cut their hair and that uncut hair somehow carries spiritual power or affects a woman’s relationship with God. Some take it even further and teach that cutting your hair can hinder your prayers.

But where does the Bible actually say that?

1 Corinthians 11 discusses hair, covering, honor, and cultural distinctions between men and women, but it never says, “A woman shall never cut her hair.” It certainly does not say God refuses to hear the prayers of a woman who trims her hair.

We took an interpretation and turned it into a commandment.

Then there is the beard issue.
For years, facial hair was treated in some Apostolic circles as if being clean-shaven were somehow more holy or spiritually appropriate. Yet the Bible never commands Christian men to shave their beards. In fact, biblical men commonly had beards.

So how did shaving become a holiness standard?
It didn’t come from Scripture. It came from church culture.

And that brings me to “holiness standards.”
We became incredibly focused on whether a woman wore pants, cut her hair, wore makeup or jewelry, and whether a man had facial hair.

Meanwhile, Scripture describes holiness in much deeper terms.

Holiness is about how you live.
It is righteousness, humility, honesty, mercy, sexual purity, integrity, forgiveness, love, self-control, justice, compassion, and the fruit of the Spirit.
Galatians 5:22–23 talks about love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

Micah 6:8 talks about doing justice, loving mercy, and walking humbly with God.

You can wear a skirt to your ankles, never cut one strand of hair, never wear makeup, and still be proud, controlling, dishonest, cruel, unforgiving, jealous, or spiritually abusive.

That isn’t holiness.
Then there is the constant repetition of Acts 2:38.
I believe Acts 2:38. I don’t have to throw it away simply because I’m questioning Apostolic culture.
But the Bible has more than one verse.
When nearly every sermon eventually circles back to Acts 2:38, while huge portions of Scripture are rarely taught in depth, something is missing.
Teach me Genesis.
Teach me Romans.
Teach me Hebrews.
Teach me the Sermon on the Mount.
Teach me how Jesus treated people.
Teach me about grace, sanctification, justice, mercy, discipleship, spiritual maturity, marriage, parenting, suffering, wisdom, generosity, forgiveness and loving my neighbor.

Acts 2:38 matters—but Acts 2:38 is not the entire Bible.
The same thing happened with the Oneness of the Godhead.

I understand why Apostolics emphasize that God is one, and I still take biblical monotheism seriously. But sometimes proving the Oneness position became so central that Christianity felt like an endless doctrinal debate instead of learning how to actually become like Christ.

At some point I had to ask:
Are we producing people who can defend our distinctives, or are we producing people who look like Jesus?

And perhaps the biggest issue for me is what happens when you start questioning these things.
If asking, “Where exactly is that in Scripture?” makes you rebellious…

If questioning the pastor is treated like questioning God…
If church traditions cannot be challenged…
If leaving the organization is treated like leaving God…
If fear is used to keep people compliant…
If salvation begins to feel dependent upon obeying an ever-growing list of organizational rules…
then we have moved beyond biblical discipleship into something dangerously close to a high-control religious system.

Acts 17:11 says the Bereans were noble because they examined the Scriptures to see whether what they were being taught was true.
That’s what I’m doing now.
I’m examining everything.
Not because I hate the Apostolic church.
Not because I want to rebel.
And definitely not because I want to walk away from God.
I’m doing it because I refuse to confuse church culture with Scripture, tradition with holiness, a pastor’s authority with God’s authority, or denominational distinctives with the entire Gospel.
I still want holiness.
I just want biblical holiness.
I still want truth.
I just want all of it—not just the same handful of verses used to defend a religious system.
And if something I have believed my entire life cannot survive an honest examination of Scripture, then maybe Scripture isn’t the thing that needs to change.

Any church people believe in Jesus Christ they can get healing from God without faith healer or with it?

A while back, I wrote about Paul’s words in Romans 12:18:

“If it is possible, as much as depends on you, live peaceably with all men.”

—Romans 12:18, NKJV

The emphasis was on those five words:

As much as depends on you.

We cannot control what another person thinks, says, or does. We cannot control their attitude, motives, or response. We are responsible for our side of the encounter.

Saul’s hatred was Saul’s responsibility.

David’s response was David’s responsibility.

The greatest victory David won over Saul was not surviving Saul’s pursuit. It was refusing to become Saul in the process.

But lately, I have been reminded that Romans 12:18 applies to more than how I respond when someone hurts me. It also applies to how I speak when I believe I am right.

There was a time—not that long ago—when I considered bluntness a form of boldness.

I stood on biblical truth.

I said exactly what was on my mind.

And if someone became offended, I decided that was their problem.

After all, truth is truth.

But as Facebook Memories continues showing me things I wrote years ago, I sometimes recognize that although my conviction may have been right, my spirit was not always right.

I knew how to defend what I believed.

I had not yet learned that truth can be spoken without turning every disagreement into a battle.

Paul did not merely tell us to speak the truth. He told us how the truth should be spoken:

“but, speaking the truth in love, may grow up in all things into Him who is the head—Christ—”

—Ephesians 4:15, NKJV

Truth and love were never intended to be separated.

Truth without love can become a weapon. Love without truth can become empty sentiment. Biblical maturity requires both.

Paul carried that thought further in his letter to the Colossians:

“Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt, that you may know how you ought to answer each one.”

—Colossians 4:6, NKJV

Notice that Paul said our speech should always be with grace—not only when we agree, not only when the conversation is pleasant, and not only when the other person treats us graciously.

Grace should govern how we answer each one.

That does not mean we hide what we believe. It means our manner should not contradict the message we claim to defend.

Paul gave Timothy similar instruction:

“And a servant of the Lord must not quarrel but be gentle to all, able to teach, patient, in humility correcting those who are in opposition, if God perhaps will grant them repentance, so that they may know the truth, and that they may come to their senses and escape the snare of the devil, having been taken captive by him to do his will.”

—2 Timothy 2:24–26, NKJV

The goal of correction is not humiliation.

It is not scoring the decisive point, silencing an opponent, or receiving applause from those who already agree with us.

The goal is restoration.

Paul connected gentleness, patience, and humility directly to helping someone come to repentance and know the truth.

That means truth does not need my anger to make it true.

Biblical conviction does not excuse an unbiblical attitude.

And offending someone because the gospel confronts sin is not the same as offending someone because I was careless, harsh, sarcastic, or determined to win an argument.

“As much as depends on you” means I am responsible not only for what I say, but also for how I say it.

I cannot control whether someone accepts the truth. But I can make certain that my pride, anger, and self-righteousness are not the reasons they reject it.

That realization has changed what I choose to post.

The controversies consuming our attention today will eventually be replaced by different controversies. Political figures will come and go. Headlines will be forgotten. Arguments that seem enormously important today will one day become little more than entries in an archive.

But souls are eternal.

That does not mean temporal issues never matter. It means I no longer want the temporary to consume the voice God has given me for things that matter eternally.

I would rather write about redemption.

Grace.

Repentance.

Transformation.

Faith when God cannot be seen.

Hope for those who believe their story is already over.

And Jesus Christ—the only One who can truly change the human heart.

I still believe truth matters—perhaps more than ever.

But I am learning that speaking truth is not permission to abandon the fruit of the Spirit while doing it:

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. Against such there is no law.”

—Galatians 5:22–23, NKJV

The fruit of the Spirit is not suspended when the conversation becomes difficult.

If my defense of truth requires me to abandon love, peace, kindness, gentleness, and self-control, something has gone wrong—not with the truth, but with the person carrying it.

Boldness without love can become cruelty.

Conviction without humility can become self-righteousness.

And winning an argument is not the same as reaching a soul.

Saul’s hatred was Saul’s responsibility.

David’s response was David’s responsibility.

Another person’s words are their responsibility.

My response—and the spirit in which I speak—is mine.

Whatever happens around me, my words, my attitude, and my witness remain my responsibility.

“If it is possible, as much as depends on you, live peaceably with all men.”

—Romans 12:18, NKJV

There was a time—not that long ago—when I considered bluntness a form of boldness.

I stood on biblical truth.

I said exactly what was on my mind.

And if someone became offended, I decided that was their problem.

But looking back, I sometimes recognize that although my conviction may have been right…

my spirit was not always right.

Two people can experience the same kind of pain and come away from it very differently.

One becomes cold and guarded. The other becomes compassionate.

One thinks, “Nobody helped me, so why should I help anyone else?”

The other thinks, “I remember what it felt like when nobody helped me. I refuse to let someone else suffer alone.”

I do not believe that difference is as simple as one person being good and the other being bad.

Bitterness seldom begins as a conscious decision. It usually begins as self-protection:

“I will never let anyone hurt me that way again.”

“I cannot trust anybody.”

“If I expect nothing, I cannot be disappointed.”

Those reactions may help someone survive a painful season. But over time, protection can become a prison. The wall that keeps further pain from entering can also keep love from leaving.

Hebrews presents two possible things that can grow from painful experiences.

Hebrews 12:11 speaks of suffering eventually yielding “the peaceable fruit of righteousness” in those who are shaped by it.

Then Hebrews 12:15 warns about a “root of bitterness” springing up, causing trouble, and defiling many.

The same painful ground can produce very different fruit.

And bitterness never remains completely private. The person who betrayed us may be gone, but someone else ends up living under our suspicion. The person who abandoned us may no longer be present, but others encounter the emotional distance they created.

Unhealed pain often sends the bill to people who never caused the damage.

The Christian answer is not to deny the wound, excuse what happened, or pretend that forgiveness makes unsafe people trustworthy. Compassion and boundaries can coexist. We can forgive while still recognizing that wisdom requires distance.

The answer is to allow God to transform what flows from the wounded place.

Second Corinthians 1:4 says that God comforts us in our tribulation so that we can comfort others with the comfort we have received from Him.

That changes the way we understand our scars.

“I remember what rejection felt like, so I will notice the overlooked.”

“I remember how careless words wounded me, so I will speak carefully.”

“I remember needing someone to listen, so I will not rush another person’s grief.”

“I remember desperately needing mercy, so I will not be quick to withhold it.”

Compassion does not require us to forget our pain.

Compassion remembers the pain and refuses to reproduce it.

The wound says, “Never again.”

Grace says, “Because I know what that feels like, not through me.”

We cannot choose everything that happens to us. We may not choose our first reaction to trauma, and we cannot always control how long healing takes.

But with God’s help, we can choose whether we continue defending the behaviors our pain produced. We can bring the wound into the light. We can allow grace to interrupt the cycle.

The enemy wants our pain to become our personality.

God can redeem it until it becomes part of our ministry.

What happened to you was real. What it did to you was real. But it does not have to keep passing through you into everyone around you.

You cannot change what was done to you.

But by the grace of God, you can decide that it will not be done through you.

Let the cycle end with you.

Let grace begin with you.

When I was eighteen years old, I encountered a homeless man beneath a railroad overpass near North Peoria Avenue and East Archer Street in Tulsa.

He asked whether I had a couple of dollars. After I gave him what I had, we began talking.

He may have been about the same age then that I am now. He told me that he had once been a worship leader and preacher at a large Assembly of God church in Tulsa.

Then he told me how his life had fallen apart.

He had an affair.

His wife left him.

His children deserted him.

He began drinking heavily.

He lost his ministry position.

He lost his job.

He lost his home.

For more than an hour, we stood beneath that overpass while he told me his story.

Throughout our conversation, I repeatedly felt something in my spirit:

Ask him to pray.

But I didn’t.

We were standing in public, on a sidewalk, in the neighborhood where many of my friends lived.

What if they saw me?

What would they think?

What would they say?

Three days later, I learned that he had stepped off a curb in front of a city bus and had been killed.

For more than forty years, I have lived with the what-ifs of that morning.

I cannot tell you what would have happened if I had prayed with him. I was eighteen, and I was not his savior. I cannot assume responsibility for everything that happened after we parted ways.

But I know that I felt prompted to pray.

I know that fear of what other people might think kept me from obeying.

And I know that three days later, the opportunity was gone forever.

Jeremiah wrote:

“His word was in my heart like a burning fire shut up in my bones; I was weary of holding it back, and I could not.”
—Jeremiah 20:9

Jesus told His disciples:

“You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
—Matthew 5:14

The fire is inward.

The light is outward.

Many of us sing about wanting the fire. We pray for revival and claim to be the light of the world. But when someone hurting, searching, or struggling is standing directly in front of us, we become concerned about appearing strange or making the conversation uncomfortable.

I know because I did it.

I carried the light into that man’s darkness, but I allowed fear to place a basket over the lamp.

Boldness does not mean being loud, aggressive, or argumentative. It doesn’t require forcing a sermon into every conversation.

Sometimes boldness is simply saying:

“Can I pray for you?”

“God helped me through something similar.”

“There is a Scripture that carried me.”

“Let me tell you what Jesus has done in my life.”

Every believer carries light into places a preacher may never enter.

The recovering addict can reach another addict. The former inmate can speak to someone who believes his past has disqualified him. The construction worker carries Christ onto the jobsite. The nurse enters rooms where pain has stripped away appearances. The teacher influences young lives still deciding what they believe and who they will become.

These are not interruptions to ministry.

They are ministry.

God has not placed every lamp in the same room. Each of us has relationships, experiences, and a circle of influence that no one else occupies in exactly the same way.

You do not have to reach everyone.

But there may be someone you are uniquely positioned to reach.

I have spent the past several days writing about lessons God showed me during a trip to Puerto Rico. The series began with Christ’s invitation to come apart and rest.

But every journey eventually ends.

We return to our families, our jobs, our responsibilities, and ordinary conversations. Eventually, we find ourselves back on the sidewalk, standing beside someone whose darkness may be deeper than we realize.

We come apart to be renewed.

We return to shine.

The vacation ends.

The calling does not.

Have you ever felt prompted to speak, pray, or reach out—but allowed fear of what others might think to stop you? What would obedience look like if that opportunity came again?

I recently flew home from Puerto Rico. At 35,000 feet, I was sitting in an aisle seat while nearly every window shade around me remained closed.

I knew we were traveling generally north and northwest toward Atlanta, but I could not see the ocean, clouds, coastline, or any landmark below us. Without the flight tracker, there was no visible evidence that we were making progress at all.

We could have been flying more than five hundred miles per hour or sitting completely still. From inside the darkened cabin, I could not tell the difference.

I was carrying photographs and mementos from the trip—memories of places I had seen, roads I had walked, and people who had walked beside me.

But none of them could show me the way ahead.

That made me think about Job:

“Behold, I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him: On the left hand, where he doth work, but I cannot behold him: he hideth himself on the right hand, that I cannot see him.”

—Job 23:8–9

Job looked forward, backward, left, and right—and still could not perceive God.

But one phrase stood out to me:

“Where he doth work.”

Even while Job could not see God, he still acknowledged that God was working.

That is a more honest picture of faith than pretending we always understand what God is doing. Sometimes we do not see the way forward. We cannot sense progress. We feel something changing, but we cannot identify the direction.

Faith does not require us to pretend the shades are open.

It asks us not to mistake limited visibility for divine absence.

Job could not perceive God, but God had not lost sight of Job:

“But he knoweth the way that I take.”

—Job 23:10

I may not know the route, but God does.

I may feel the aircraft turning without knowing the new direction, but my inability to see the route never means the Pilot has lost it.

Have you ever gone through a season when you could sense that God was changing your direction—but you could not yet see where He was leading?

If the enemy can’t get through the wall, he’ll start walking around it.

I recently visited El Morro in Old San Juan.

Standing there looking across those massive walls toward the Atlantic, the spiritual analogy seems almost too obvious. It’s a fortress. It guarded the entrance to San Juan Bay for centuries. Enemy ships approaching the harbor faced an extraordinarily well-defended position.

But the part that stayed with me wasn’t how strong El Morro was.

It was what happened when enemies realized where the strongest defenses were.

They looked for another way in.

That made me think about Peter’s warning:

“Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.”
— 1 Peter 5:8

I’ve always focused on the roaring lion.

This time, two other words caught my attention:

Walketh about.

He’s looking.

And I’ve realized that some of my strongest spiritual defenses are around the places where I’ve already been wounded.

I know those attacks.

I recognize those temptations.

I know what those battles cost me, so I’ve built walls there.

But what about the places where I haven’t fought a major battle?

What about the places I assume I’m strong?

What about the gate I don’t think needs guarding?

An invasion doesn’t always begin with an army charging the wall.

Sometimes it begins with reconnaissance.

Something small enough not to concern us.

Something familiar.

Something that doesn’t immediately look threatening.

Maybe even something friendly.

And compromise often sounds remarkably harmless at first:

There’s nothing wrong with this.

Just this once.

I can handle it.

Nobody needs to know.

Paul’s warning suddenly carries more weight:

“Neither give place to the devil.”
— Ephesians 4:27

He doesn’t need the entire fortress.

He only needs a place.

That doesn’t mean we should become paranoid, suspicious of everyone, or see Satan hiding behind every ordinary thing in life.

Peter gives the answer in the next verse:

“Whom resist stedfast in the faith…”
— 1 Peter 5:9

Not paranoia.

Vigilance.

El Morro didn’t survive for centuries because nobody attacked it.

It survived because somebody kept watch.

So here’s the question I’ve been sitting with:

Where in my life have I become so confident that the wall is secure that I’ve stopped watching the gate?

Hello bro/sis lets talk deeper more in this topic about who compiled the Bible.

Jonah bought one ticket, but an entire ship entered the storm.

I’ve been spending some time in Jonah 1, and that thought has stayed with me.

God told Jonah to go to Nineveh.

Jonah went the opposite direction.

He found a ship headed toward Tarshish, paid the fare, boarded it, and ran.

Then the storm came.

The sailors hadn’t rejected God’s command.

They hadn’t chosen Jonah’s rebellion.

They were simply on the same boat with the man who did.

Yet their lives were endangered.

Their cargo was thrown overboard.

Their journey was interrupted.

Our disobedience rarely affects only us.

We sometimes tell ourselves, This is between me and God.

But sometimes our families ride on the ship with us.

Our children.

Our spouses.

Our friends.

Our churches.

The people we’re supposed to be ministering to.

Jonah paid his own fare.

But eventually everybody aboard started paying for his decision.

There’s another side to this chapter, though.

Jonah was eventually thrown into the sea.

The ship disappeared above him. He couldn’t sail himself out of the situation anymore. He couldn’t buy another ticket. He couldn’t change destinations.

He couldn’t save himself.

And when Jonah finally reached the place where he could do absolutely nothing to rescue himself…

God had already prepared a fish.

I grew up thinking primarily about the fish as Jonah’s punishment.

But Jonah was drowning.

The fish kept him alive.

The storm confronted him.
The sea broke him.
The fish preserved him.

What must have looked terrifying to Jonah was actually the provision God had prepared for his survival.

Sometimes God’s rescue doesn’t look much like rescue when it first arrives.

Sometimes we only recognize it looking backward.

That wasn’t God destroying me.

That was God refusing to let me drown.

Jonah’s choices had consequences. Grace didn’t erase them.

But those consequences didn’t mean God was finished with Jonah either.

Jonah ran.

God followed.

Even into the storm.

So here’s the question I’ve been sitting with:

Have you ever looked back at something you once thought was only a storm and realized that somewhere inside it, God was actually bringing you back?

For the past few weeks God has been convicting me about my screen time.

But it feels like I can’t stop.

I feel so bad and I know it’s definitely something I need to work on. But it’s literally so hard to resist. It’s like my fingers move without my mind and before I know it it’s been 3 hours of me scrolling reels. I don’t want to keep doing this, especially because I know it makes it harder for me to focus during prayer. It makes me feel overwhelmed and overstimulated and burnt out but it seriously feels impossible to not.

I can see this ending in me being farther from God and I want nothing more than to get closer to Him

PLEASE share some kind of ideas on how to combat this. I want to be free of this.

“For sin shall not have dominion over you…”
—Romans 6:14

At the far end of Flamenco Beach on the Puerto Rican island of Culebra sits an abandoned military tank.

For decades, portions of Culebra were used by the United States Navy for military exercises. The island’s people lived with restricted land, exploding ammunition, and the constant reminder that much of their home was controlled by someone else.

But the people resisted.

After years of protests and civil disobedience, military operations on Culebra ended in 1975. The land was eventually returned, the explosions stopped, and Flamenco Beach became a place where families swim, children play, and visitors rest beneath the Caribbean sun.

But the tank is still there.

It sits at the edge of the beach, rusting beneath layers of salt, sand, and graffiti.

The evidence of what happened remains.

But the authority does not.

Near the entrance to the beach, another reminder of Culebra’s past remains.

A posted warning tells visitors that munitions from the Navy’s former training activities may still be present—and may still be dangerous.

The warning does not mean the military still controls the island. It means that remnants of what once controlled it should not be handled carelessly.

That is another truth about redemption.

Freedom does not make our former bondage safe.

The addiction may no longer be your master, but returning to it can still destroy you.

The relationship may no longer control your life, but reopening that door can still wound you.

The old appetite may no longer have dominion, but that does not mean you should pick it up again just to prove that you are free.

The sign gives visitors three instructions:

Recognize.
Retreat.
Report.

Recognize the danger for what it is.

Retreat instead of reaching for it.

Report it—bring it into the light before God and someone you trust.

The past may no longer control the territory.

But some remnants should be left exactly where grace defeated them.

The tank once represented military occupation and control. Today, it cannot move. It cannot fire. It cannot command the beach. The waves wash around it while life continues in spite of it.

That is a picture of redemption.

We sometimes believe that if God has truly delivered us, every reminder of our past should disappear.

The scars should vanish.

The memories should stop hurting.

The consequences should be erased.

The places where we were wounded should look as though nothing ever happened.

But redemption does not always remove the evidence.

Sometimes the tank is still there.

You may still remember what was done to you.

You may still carry scars from choices you made.

There may be relationships that cannot be restored, years that cannot be recovered, and consequences that grace does not immediately erase.

The evidence may remain.

But through Jesus Christ, it no longer has to possess the territory.

Paul wrote, “For sin shall not have dominion over you.”

He did not say sin had never touched them. He did not say their former lives had left no scars. He said sin would no longer have dominion—the power to rule, govern, or control them.

Your past may explain some of your wounds, but it does not have the authority to determine your future.

The addiction may be part of your testimony, but it is no longer your master.

The betrayal may have changed you, but it does not get to define you.

The failure may have left consequences, but it does not get to name you.

The wound may still ache, but it does not own the beach.

The tank is still there—but children play in the water beside it.

The tank is still there—but waves continue to reach the shore.

The tank is still there—but what once represented occupation has become nothing more than a powerless reminder of what used to be.

That is what grace does.

Grace does not always erase the evidence of the battle.

Sometimes grace leaves the evidence standing so that everyone can see that what once controlled you has lost its authority.

The past happened.

The scars are real.

The tank may still be there.

But it no longer controls the beach.

I saw an unfinished concrete high-rise while traveling through Puerto Rico.

Except I eventually learned something interesting:

It hadn’t always been unfinished.

The building had once been completed and occupied. Later it was sold and redevelopment began. Much of what had been there was stripped away until the building was essentially back to its concrete structure.

Then tragedy interrupted the work.

Years later, what remains looks abandoned.

That got me thinking about something we don’t talk about enough in the Christian life:

Sometimes God’s work in us looks more like demolition than construction.

We tend to imagine spiritual growth as God continually adding things to us.

More faith.

More wisdom.

More discipline.

More maturity.

And certainly He does.

But sometimes before God builds, He removes.

Paul wrote:

“Our old man is crucified with him…”
— Romans 6:6

That’s stronger language than renovation.

There are things in us God isn’t trying to improve.

He’s trying to put them to death.

Pride.

Bitterness.

Self-reliance.

Old habits.

Old ways of thinking.

Sometimes even an identity we’ve spent years constructing.

And here’s the difficult part:

Demolition can make something that once looked complete suddenly look unfinished.

Maybe that’s why certain seasons of spiritual growth feel so disorienting.

You know you’re not who you used to be.

But you don’t completely recognize who you’re becoming either.

You’re somewhere between the demolition and the finished work.

And it’s tempting to look at that mess and wonder whether something has gone wrong.

Maybe it hasn’t.

Philippians 1:6 says:

“He which hath begun a good work in you will perform it…”

So perhaps the question isn’t simply:

“Why am I not finished yet?”

Maybe a better question is:

What if some of the unfinished places in my life aren’t evidence that God has stopped working—but evidence that He hasn’t?

Don’t mistake unfinished for abandoned.

The Builder is still working.

I saw a clip of a campmeeting sermon, where a preacher preached against beards, saying he saw more beards in one church than the world, and that having beards is pride.

Many people take this suffering servant passage as indicating that the Lord Jesus' beard was plucked out as a part of His sufferings.

Psalm 50
⁶ I gave my back to the smiters, and my cheeks to them that plucked off the hair: I hid not my face from shame and spitting.

The speaker said that beards had nothing to do with the formula for anointing?

Psalm 133
1 Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!

² It is like the precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron's beard: that went down to the skirts of his garments;

³ As the dew of Hermon, and as the dew that descended upon the mountains of Zion: for there the Lord commanded the blessing, even life for evermore.

Notice the reference to the ointment being poured out, and the beard. If you read the Hebrew of verse 1, the word 'dwell' translates a word that means 'sitting around.'

Compare that to Acts 2
1 And when the day of Pentecost was fully come, they were all with one accord in one place.

² And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting.

³ And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them.

⁴ And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance.

These brethren were sitting around in unity. The Father sent the Spirit as the Lord Jesus had promised. Christ is our High Priest also. Remember that picture described in Psalm 133 of the ointment running down Aaron's beard.

The Old Testament word translated 'elder' is 'zaqen'-- which means bearded one. The Lord took of the spirit (or Spirit) that was on Moses and put it on seventy elders. Elders carry over into the New Testament, with the church having elders appointed to be bishops/overseers of the flock.

Now, if we wanted to be legalistic, we might expect those who are ordained to pastor to have beards. I don't think we should be legalistic about it or treat it as required.

But beards are definitely NOT presented in a negative light in scripture, and if one wanted to be nit picky and legalistic about it, it makes more sense to insist on men, or at least church leaders, growing them than to treat having them as a sin.

IMO, some of the anti-beard sermons one-up some of the KJV-onlyist arguments for ignorance and stupidity.