Church

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’s a problem in the way many of us think about our role in the Church. We hide. We give in to what we think we’re supposed to be. We feel the pressure to change, to fit in, to match the image of whatever group we’ve attached ourselves to. And while things may be improving in some places, we still cling to the idea that unity means shared belief — that everyone must think alike, act alike, and agree on everything for the Church to be whole. ...

Being honest about Jesus means sharing your life. One of the problems I see in American Christianity is that we look to degrees and books for authority, and then assume our own lives somehow disqualify us from speaking with any. But the heart of the New Testament tells a different story. Jesus didn’t hand out diplomas. He said, “Follow Me.” And the people who followed Him didn’t write systematic theologies—they told stories of what they had seen, and heard, and lived. Christian authority originally came from witness, character, suffering, obedience, transformation, and lived faith—not credentials. Yet modern American Christianity often treats degrees and books as the primary source of authority. So, we have to ask: is this simply a natural progression, or a sign that we’ve drifted from the way God actually forms people? God does not meet people in abstract theories. He meets them in the real, unfiltered places of life—the places where we bleed, hope, fail, and rise again. Any theology that avoids those places becomes disconnected from the God it claims to describe. Moses encountered God in the wilderness. David met Him in caves. Paul wrote from prison. The disciples learned Him on dusty roads. Scripture itself is a record of encounters, not academic arguments. I believe lived experience is the foundation of knowing God. He is not learned in a library. Books can be valuable, but only when they connect with the life you’ve actually lived. When writing resonates with lived experience, we glimpse the shared offering of the author. So why did American Christianity drift toward degrees and books? Not because scholarship is evil, but because it’s the natural progression of institutional religion. Movements become institutions; every revival begins with experience, and every institution ends up protecting ideas. Institutions need gatekeepers. Once you have seminaries, denominations, budgets, and buildings, you need a way to decide who is “qualified.” Degrees become the shortcut. Books become badges of legitimacy. Instead of saying, “I have walked with Jesus,” the standard becomes, “I have read the right people.” A university can teach you Greek and Hebrew, but it cannot teach you how to pray in the dark, how to love someone who wounded you, or how to trust God when everything falls apart. Academic training can sharpen the mind, but only lived experience shapes the soul. And as institutional authority grew, lived experience became suspicious—less reliable, less valued. Scholarship isn’t the enemy; disconnection is. And the cost is real: testimony becomes secondary, vulnerability disappears, and faith becomes intellectual instead of relational. The danger of treating the holy as common is subtle but serious. When people trivialize what is sacred simply because it costs them nothing, they reveal an ideology they don’t even realize they hold. Scripture calls this profaning the sacred—dragging something meant for the holy place into the realm of the ordinary, not out of hatred, but out of indifference. And when we speak with authority about things we have never lived, we begin binding other people’s consciences without bearing any of the cost ourselves. Jesus confronted this posture in the Pharisees, who “tie up heavy burdens and lay them on people’s shoulders, but are unwilling to lift a finger to help.” When we assume our perspective is “just normal,” we stop recognizing it as a theology at all. We imagine we are being objective, when in reality we are being shaped by beliefs we refuse to name. Taking the holy and making it common is often the clearest sign of an ideology we are unwilling to admit we have. So why does testimony still carry the most authority? Because it returns us to the core truth: a shared life is the most honest witness to Jesus. People trust stories, not systems. Transformation is visible, not theoretical. Suffering teaches what books cannot. Humility grows through experience, not credentials. The early church recognized authority through character, not degrees. If we want to witness to a world that does not recognize our Lord, then we must do so with lives walked in their world—with humility, grace, and kindness that transcend institutional credentials. We should think carefully about what “authority” ought to mean in the Christian life. Scholarship has value, but it must serve lived faith—not replace it. The most powerful speakers I have ever heard are those who let their scholarship complement their testimony, not overshadow it. I believe believers must reclaim testimony as a primary form of spiritual leadership. Because if our faith does not intersect with real life, it cannot reveal the real Jesus. ...