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It seems to me that one of the great spiritual dangers we face is the temptation to rely on yesterday’s belief systems while missing what God is doing right in front of us. We cling to the categories that once made sense, the patterns that once felt safe, and the interpretations that once held our world together. And then, when God moves in a new way, we get caught off guard. The Bible speaks to this tension more often than we realize. In fact, it is one of the most consistent patterns in Scripture: God moves, people cling to the past, and the very ones who should recognize His work are the ones who miss it. You can see this tension clearly in Israel’s story. In Isaiah 43, God reminds the people of the Exodus — the defining miracle of their national identity — and then says something startling: “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing.” God is not dismissing the Exodus. He is warning them that if they cling too tightly to yesterday’s revelation, they will fail to recognize today’s. The God who parted the sea is still moving, but He is not obligated to repeat Himself. Israel’s memory of God was accurate, but their expectations were too small. They were prepared for the God of yesterday, not the God of right now. This same tension reaches its peak in the Gospels. Jesus arrives as the fulfillment of every promise, yet the very people who studied those promises most carefully are the ones who miss Him. The Pharisees expected a Messiah who fit their system, so when Jesus healed on the Sabbath, ate with sinners, or redefined purity, they concluded He could not be from God. Nazareth expected the carpenter’s son, so they could not see the Messiah standing in their synagogue. Even the disciples expected a political kingdom, so they were constantly surprised by a Messiah who chose a cross instead of a throne. Jesus finally says to them, “You know how to interpret the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times.” In other words: you are experts in yesterday’s patterns, but blind to today’s movement. And the pattern does not stop with the resurrection. The early church wrestles with this same tension. The book of Acts is essentially a story of God moving ahead of His people. The Spirit falls on Gentiles before anyone is ready. Peter is stunned. The church in Jerusalem is stunned. Their categories explode. Philip is sent to Samaria — a place Jews avoided — only to discover that God was already working there. Paul is called to the Gentiles, something no one expected and many resisted. Every time, the sequence is the same: God moves, people are surprised, and the systems they built must either expand or break. Jesus Himself gives us the clearest metaphor for this tension when He speaks of old wineskins and new wine. Old wineskins represent yesterday’s expectations, categories, and systems. New wine represents God’s fresh movement. Jesus’ point is not that the old was wrong; it is that the old is insufficient for what God is doing next. If we cling to the old container, we will lose both the container and the wine. The only way to receive what God is doing now is to let Him reshape the vessel of our understanding. The Bible’s consistent warning is not that God stops speaking. The warning is that we stop listening because we think we already know how God works. We assume the next move of God will look like the last one. We assume the next chapter of our spiritual life will resemble the previous one. We assume the next answer will fit the categories we already trust. And in doing so, we risk missing the God who refuses to be boxed in by our expectations. This is the tension I feel in my own life: the pull toward what is familiar and the invitation toward what is new. Faith is not nostalgia. Faith is not the preservation of yesterday’s insights. Faith is the courage to stay awake to the God who is always moving, always surprising, always calling us forward. The God of Scripture is not static. He is not a museum piece. He is the living Lord who steps into human history again and again, often in ways that unsettle the very people who claim to know Him best. If Scripture teaches us anything, it is this: God is always faithful, but He is rarely predictable. And if we cling too tightly to yesterday’s belief systems, we may find ourselves standing in the presence of God’s new work without the eyes to see it. The invitation is not to abandon the past, but to hold it with open hands — grateful for what God has done, but ready for what He is doing now. ...

Over the course of my life, I’ve noticed something uncomfortable: the times I felt the most justified in my actions were usually the times I acted the least like Jehovah God. Back in the Navy, I used to debate the Bible with Petty Officer Buchanan in front of everyone. At the time, I felt certain — rock‑solid certain — that I was right. Today, I hang my head at some of the things I said. That certainty wasn’t faith; it was pride dressed up as conviction. Maybe that’s why I look at the world today with a mixture of uncertainty and skepticism. Everyone seems so sure of themselves — in politics, in the Church, everywhere. We surround ourselves with people who think just like we do, and if a congregation doesn’t line up with our preferences, we leave for one that does. But the Church has never been a single, polished group that dresses alike and finishes each other’s sentences. The Church is eclectic because Jesus scattered His people across thousands of congregations and denominations. Some you’ll agree with, some you won’t — and that’s by design. If you never look past your own congregational or denominational walls, you’ll start believing you’re justified before God by something other than the blood of Jesus Christ. And that’s a lie. And if the God you worship agrees with everything you already think and do, then you’re no longer worshiping Jehovah God — you’re worshiping an idol shaped suspiciously like yourself. I still remember sitting in a history class in Houston, Texas, going over the recurring themes of American history. I’ve forgotten two of them, but I’ll never forget the third: revivalism. Every so often, the American people were called back to the Christian faith. I’ve always believed we need that now — a renewed interest in Jesus. We’ve become too compartmentalized, too specialized, too alone. Not because we found something better, but because people everywhere are searching and no longer believe their parents’ religion is enough. Honestly, that’s not a bad thing. Jesus can stand up to any head‑to‑head comparison. Are you looking for peace in the middle of turmoil? Jesus has it — real peace, not talking points. You want joy? Jesus has that too. He wins out over every spiritual discipline, every self‑help method, every “new thing” we chase. God reveals Himself to those who seek Him earnestly. That sounds vague until you actually try it. What it means is simple: spend time in Scripture, put what you read into practice, and then reflect — in a journal, in prayer, or in a small group. Pay attention to what happens inside you. That’s where God does His revealing. And about the fruit of the Spirit — remember that fruit is seasonal. It takes time. But there are things you can do to help it grow. Pursue the fruit you desire. Take notes on why it seems to slip through your fingers. Practice it, pray over it, and keep practicing until it becomes part of you. God will give you the fruit you seek. ...

There is a part of humility that no one likes to talk about, because it exposes something deep in all of us. The hardest moment to be humble is not when we’re unsure or confused. It’s when we are absolutely convinced we’re right. In those moments, something shifts inside us. We stop holding back. We feel justified in our tone, our reactions, and even our anger. In America, this is so normal we hardly notice it. Once we feel certain, we give ourselves permission to act however we want. But certainty is not the same as righteousness, and it is not the same as Christlikeness. I know this, and yet it doesn’t make it any easier to be humble when I’m right and someone else is acting superior. For me, this is the hardest part of being a Christian. We live in a culture that rewards confidence, certainty, and winning. We admire people who “stand their ground” and “don’t back down.” But that instinct can turn into something dangerous. When we feel right, we stop listening. When we feel justified, we stop examining our motives. And when we feel morally secure, we stop depending on God. That is the quiet shift where pride takes over. It’s the same shift that fuels arguments, divides churches, and fractures relationships. It’s the same shift that feeds the illusion of control. Scripture speaks directly to this struggle, and it does so with surprising clarity. Romans 14 shows believers who were absolutely convinced they were right about food laws and holy days. Paul doesn’t tell them to abandon their convictions. He tells them to hold those convictions with humility. “Each one should be fully convinced in his own mind,” he says, but then he adds, “Make every effort to do what leads to peace and mutual edification.” In other words, you may be right, but unity matters more than proving it. 1 Corinthians 8 goes even deeper. The Corinthians were right about idols having no real power. Paul agrees with them. But then he says, “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up.” Being right is not the highest virtue. Being loving is. Paul tells them to limit their freedom, even though they’re right, for the sake of others. Philippians 2 gives us the ultimate example. Jesus Himself was right. He had every right to assert His authority, His status, His correctness. Yet He “made Himself nothing” and took the nature of a servant. His humility didn’t come from uncertainty. It came from perfect security in the Father. Proverbs 12:15 reminds us that “the way of a fool is right in his own eyes, but a wise man listens to advice.” Wisdom isn’t about doubting truth. It’s about doubting our ego. James 3 describes two kinds of wisdom. Earthly wisdom is defensive and argumentative. Heavenly wisdom is peace-loving, considerate, and full of mercy. James is saying something we don’t want to hear: you can be right and still be wrong in the way you carry it. And Acts 15 shows the early church facing a massive theological conflict. Both sides were convinced they were right. Instead of splitting or shouting, they listened, debated respectfully, sought the Spirit together, and compromised for the sake of unity. It is a living picture of humble conviction. All of this confronts the same truth: being right is not the test of spiritual maturity. What we do with being right is. This is where the bridge forms between the illusion of control and the power of humility. When we cling to being right, we cling to control. We cling to our image. We cling to our pride. But humility requires surrender. It requires dependence. It requires trusting God more than we trust our own correctness. I wish this came naturally to me. It doesn’t. Every time I feel certain, something in me wants to tighten my grip, defend my position, and prove my point. But every time I do, I feel the Spirit nudging me back toward a different way—a quieter way, a surrendered way. Humility is not about pretending we’re unsure. It’s about remembering who we belong to. It’s about letting God shape our posture even when our arguments feel airtight. It’s about choosing love over victory, peace over pride, and obedience over ego. This is the hardest walk I know. But it is also the one that keeps leading me back to Jesus. ...