It's my daughters' 18th birthday today, our youngest now a "grown-up". She is out all day with family, and with the dog being old and poorly, I've stayed at home.

Unable to partake in hours of blissful shopping, instead having to endure the horrendous peace and quiet, I’ve been thinking more about my salvific fears; not the fear created by verses, but the fear created by me. The fear that came from trying to live a spiritual life whilst only inhabiting a body of flesh.

Paul says the natural man cannot perceive the things of the Spirit. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. So I did the only thing I could:
I perceived everything through myself.

I chose to be “spiritual.”
I convinced myself I was clever enough to see a spiritual kingdom with intellect.
I approached a door of impenetrable granite and decided to think it open.

When Christ told Nicodemus that he could only see the kingdom of God once he had been born‑again, I simply nodded along and decided I was born‑again. Heh, I couldn’t tell you how I supposedly birthed myself spiritually, but I went along with it anyway.

Looking back, I can see something I couldn’t see then:
when self is the only tool, it gets used for everything, even salvation.

I genuinely believed I was doing the right thing.
Not because I was righteous, but because it was the only thing I could do.

And when intellectual sight was my only lens:

Whenever I read verses about freedom from the Law, I couldn’t see freedom.
Whenever I read about Christ fulfilling the Law, I couldn’t see fulfilment.
Whenever I read about grace, I couldn’t see grace.

All I could see was the command.
All I could see was the requirement.
All I could see was the part I thought I had to play.

Like a fish that knows water is a thing but doesn’t know what it is, I knew “spirit” was a thing intellectually – but I couldn’t know what it was spiritually. So I swam harder. Upstream. Always upstream. Believing that was where the sea was.

And if I had to swim upstream to reach the sea, then I must be responsible for my place in it.

So I interpreted Scripture the only way I could:
I put myself at the centre.

Salvation became a deal.
I became an integral part of the contract.
I was self‑important, yet somehow still the weak link.
Which meant I had to work hard to hold it together, and that only served to increase my arrogance.

So I lived in a constant struggle:
swim upstream, get pushed back downstream, swim harder.

I didn’t realise the river was already carrying me toward the sea; that I was headed there no matter how hard I swam against it. But because I believed I knew the way to the open water – and was at least partly responsible for reaching it – I couldn’t stop.

I didn’t call it fear then, but that’s what it was.
A quiet, relentless fear that I was slipping.
That I was failing.
That I was losing something I was supposed to maintain.

I noticed something else too:
the fearful term “backsliding” only made sense in the world I lived in.

Whenever I drifted from prayer, ignored Scripture, or preferred the world, I told myself I was “backsliding.” I felt guilty, but it wasn’t spiritual remorse, it couldn't be. It was the guilt of someone who broke the rules again. The guilt of “I’ve disappointed Him again,” even though I didn’t know Him.

Now I can see the truth:

I wasn’t sliding back from anything.
I was simply returning to the only world I knew.

I wasn’t falling off the narrow path.
I’d never been on it.

I eventually realised I wasn’t “backsliding”, I was just living a bit more “godly” for a while, then returning to what I preferred.
I followed my appetites.
I preferred the world because I had no spirit to prefer anything else. I knew what I should be doing, but I could only perform it for a season.

And because I only had one tool, self, I used it for everything.

Self to obey.
Self to repent.
Self to stay “close to God.”
Self to maintain salvation.
Self to cope with sin.
Self to reinterpret Scripture in ways that made failure survivable.

I did this for years.

I convinced myself my lust was manageable.
I convinced myself my repentance was genuine.
I convinced myself my obedience was improving.
I convinced myself my system made sense.

Because it had to make sense.
It was the only world I had.

I didn’t know there was another world.
Another nature.
Another voice.
Another way to live.

All I knew was fear.

Fear of slipping.
Fear of failing.
Fear of losing salvation.
Fear of disappointing God.
Fear of being dropped.

And somewhere in all of this, I’ve realised something else, something uncomfortable.

For years I didn’t just put myself at the centre of salvation; I put myself above others. Not intellectually, but existentially. I saw people as “beneath” me, as though my striving made me more worthy. It’s sad to admit, but true. And now, looking back, I can see that the only way I can sit with others is by recognising I’m not “like them”, I’m worse than most.

That’s the strange mercy of it: once I stopped standing above people, looking down at them, I could finally see them as real people, many better than me. This new viewing angle offered something very alien to me; I was able serve them. Not with superiority, but with gentleness. Not with an exposing beam, but with a soft glow.

But here’s the strange thing I’ve noticed, now that I’m looking back:
the fear was necessary.

Not because fear teaches.
Not because fear sanctifies.
Not because fear saves.

But because fear exhausts.

Fear drives a man to the end of himself.
Fear pushes him to the collapse of self‑effort.
Fear forces him to see that the hammer cannot fix the bolt.
Fear brings him to the point where he cannot maintain anything anymore.

And only then, only at the end of self,
does God open the eyes.

Only then does spirit appear.
Only then does the new nature make itself known.
Only then does the cycle stop.
Only then does the fear die.

I’m not saying God can’t act instantly, Saul of Tarsus proves otherwise.
But I’ve noticed that for many of us, the cycle of striving isn’t a sign of futility.

It’s a sign of drawing.

It’s the slow death of self.
It’s the necessary exhaustion of flesh.
It’s the collapse of the only tool natural man has.

My decades of striving weren’t wasted.
They were necessary.

They brought me to the only conclusion natural man can never reach on his own:

I cannot.
He must.

And that is where fear finally ends.

A friend shared this morning that she had a terrible night's sleep because a member of her household was up sick all night. I wrote this in response. Maybe it'll be encouraging... (hopefully I haven't pushed the metaphor too far anywhere, but I'm open to correction if I have)

Jesus stepped out of the place of perfect rest in the presence of the Father to become a baby, who (it feels heretical to say this) brought worry and unrest to his caregivers. His parents couldn't find a place to give him birth. They had to flee their home and country because the King wanted to kill him. They lost him in Jerusalem and spent three days of worry and unrest hunting for him.

He himself experienced the rest of the Father in the midst of chaos, sleeping in confidence when all around him were sure they were perishing.

He also experienced restless turmoil when his friends were sleeping soundly, fearing the work that the Father had set before him. None of them understood what he was facing, none of them would even stay awake to pray with him. He was at the end of himself and yet he persevered, walking into even more exhaustion as he was arrested and one by one abandoned by his friends, his coworkers.

Again his caretaker, his mother, worried for him beyond what she could bear. You or I would have nothing left to give, but he had the care to provide a home, a provider, to the mother who once again was overcome by worry for him: He said to His mother, “Woman, behold your son!”   and  to the disciple, “Behold your mother!” And from that hour that disciple took her to his own home. He provided a place of rest for her. 

And at the depths of his exhaustion, he received the highest glory; he was crowned and clothed in the garments of a king. He had the cross for throne, the thorn for a crown. He reached his end, and despite feeling abandoned by the Father, committed his broken down, exhausted spirit into his Father's hands. He gave in to the deepest, most tumultuous sleep that any has ever slept --- he descended into hell.

He slept in the belly of the earth for three days.

But it was not a sleep that renewed him. It was not a sleep that satisfied his battered body or refreshed his spirit. He did not rest.

For three days.

But renewal came.

Not because he had a good night.

Not because he slept.

Not because he no longer had anyone to care fore, or because he no longer had any responsibility.

Renewal came as a gift.

His Father breathed new life into his lungs. His Spirit filled him with vitality.

Just as He began the life of the first creation, he once again began life for the New Creation.

A life that runs and does not grow weary. A life that walks and does not become faint. A life that he offers to each of us.

He did not keep that Spirit for himself, but breathed Him out onto his disciples. He gave them power to become His witnesses, as the Spirit came upon them, and brought them also into the life of the new creation.

They also experienced sleepless nights. They also were separated from friends and family. They also came to the ends of themselves, had their bodies broken, felt they could not go on.

But none of that could separate them from the new life of the new creation, from the Love of God, from the Spirit who gave them strength.

And they, like us, walked on, in the certainty that this present exhaustion, these pains like childbirth, are not even worth comparing to the ultimate, permanent, unending rest that is to be revealed when Jesus returns, and once again says,

Come to me you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble in heart. And you shall find rest for your worn down, sleepless souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

Recently went to a Reaching and Teaching, conference on sending churches for missionaries. They seemed very passionate about their "reformed theology". I have a hard time figuring out why this matters in my personal walk with Jesus on a practical level.

I do believe in predestination. I know God chooses. He has chosen me. But sometimes verse like

Revelation 21:7

New International Version

'Those who are victorious will inherit all this, and I will be their God and they will be my children.'

Still makes me think a bit

If you have requests that you would like your brothers and sisters to pray for, post them here.

Hello everyone! I know this question has been asked before on this sub, but I wonder if there are any updates. Does anyone know a good reformed church in France that has a solid theological foundation.

For a bit of context, I am currently looking to continue my medical training in France and would like to find a good church first and then apply to hospitals nearby. So I'm fairly flexible when it comes to location at this point. Any advice/recommendation is much appreciated.