Author: Leon Harris

  • Hand It Over

    One phrase I’ve heard repeatedly throughout my life was, “Hand it over to God.”

    To which my mind would respond, “Okay… how?”

    It’s not as if I can forward my bills to God. Though I wouldn’t mind.

    There is, of course, the profound truth of Christ taking our sin on the cross. That is certainly one way we “hand it over.” But that’s not what people usually mean when they say it in the middle of everyday frustration.

    More often, “hand it over” is what someone tells you when you’re venting. You’re overwhelmed. You’re angry. You’re hurt. And the response comes quickly: “Just give it to God.”

    The implication is that peace should follow immediately. As if there’s a spiritual switch you flip and the tension evaporates.

    If only it were that simple.

    For years, I thought handing something over to God meant asking Him to fix it. “Lord, take this burden from me.” Which translated into: change them, fix this, resolve that, make me feel better. My prayers became a to-do list for God.

    I wasn’t surrendering. I was managing.

    And I misunderstood something fundamental. Handing it over was never about dictating an outcome. It was about releasing control.


    When It Became Real

    There came a time when this idea stopped being theoretical.

    Someone close to me hurt me emotionally. It wasn’t a single moment. It was a pattern. A cycle. And when I realized the ripple effect was beginning to wound other people I loved, I knew something had to change.

    The problem was I didn’t know what that change should look like.

    What I did know was this: I was miserable.

    It was affecting my thoughts, my mood, my work. I found myself replaying conversations in my head. Imagining future confrontations. Venting to safe people, yes, but still dwelling on negative emotion. It was eating at me.

    Looking back, I can see something else clearly. There was a small fracture forming in my character. I was justifying bitterness because I felt wronged. I was rehearsing frustration. I didn’t label it as sin at the time. But it was. Not because I was hurt, but because I was allowing that hurt to fester.

    When my eyes were opened to that reality, the next step became clear.

    It was time to step back.

    That decision wasn’t dramatic. It was painful. It felt like failure. It felt like loss. But it was necessary. The cycle had to stop, even if I didn’t fully understand what that would mean long term.


    The Guilt That Wasn’t

    Following through helped. But it didn’t bring instant relief.

    Instead, I was haunted by questions.

    Had I really done all I could?
    Was I overreacting?
    Was I making too big a deal out of this?

    I labeled the feeling as guilt. I assumed I was doing something wrong by creating distance. So I beat myself up over it. Over and over.

    In prayer, something shifted. Slowly, I began to understand that what I was feeling wasn’t guilt.

    It was grief.

    I wasn’t mourning a decision. I was mourning a relationship. More accurately, I was mourning the relationship I wished I had. The version that never quite existed the way it should have.

    Understanding that mattered.

    When I understood I was grieving, not failing, the weight lightened. But the thoughts were still there. They branched into other relationships. Old wounds. Old fears. Every step forward felt like two steps back.

    I was exhausted.


    “Come to Me”

    That’s when I was reminded of Matthew 11:28–30. Jesus invites the weary and burdened to come to Him and take His yoke upon them. A yoke implies partnership. Shared load. Direction guided by someone stronger.

    It certainly felt like too much for me to carry alone.

    My first instinct was to think, “Okay. Give it to God.”

    Then I laughed.

    Because what did that even mean?

    For once, instead of dismissing the phrase, I decided I was going to find out.


    The Box

    Let me say something important here. How you hand something over to God depends on you, the specific circumstance, and your relationship with Him. There is no formula. No universal script. No spiritual technique that works the same way for everyone.

    Surrender is personal.

    In my situation, I decided if I didn’t understand it spiritually, then I would at least engage with it practically. I chose to take the phrase literally.

    In prayer, I imagined taking all of it. The hurt. The frustration. The confusion. The grief. I pictured packing it into a box. Every memory, every argument, every what-if.

    Then I imagined physically handing that box to God.

    My prayer was simple.

    “Lord, this box is too heavy for me. I can’t carry it on my own. Please, let me give it to You.”

    Afterward, I felt lighter. Not healed. Not finished. But lighter.

    The next day, the emotions came roaring back.

    My mind was racing. My chest felt tight. The thoughts were louder than before. And then it hit me.

    I had taken the box back.

    Without realizing it, I had picked it up again and started rummaging through it.

    So I tried again.

    In prayer, I packed everything back up. Closed the lid. Handed it back.

    “Lord, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I took this back. I know it’s too heavy for me. Here. This is Yours.”

    And then I did it again the next day.

    And the next.


    What Changed

    Over time, something profound happened.

    The problem didn’t magically disappear. The relationship didn’t instantly repair. The past didn’t rewrite itself.

    But my grip loosened.

    The rehearsing stopped. The obsessive thinking slowed. The emotional charge dulled. I wasn’t pretending it didn’t hurt. I just wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

    That’s when I understood what “hand it over” truly meant.

    It meant surrendering the right to manage the outcome.

    It meant acknowledging that I could set boundaries without controlling hearts.

    It meant trusting that God could work in ways I couldn’t see.

    And it meant accepting that some grief doesn’t resolve cleanly. Some losses are real. Even when they’re necessary.


    What Scripture Actually Promises

    Jesus never promised that coming to Him would eliminate hardship. He promised rest for the soul.

    There is a difference.

    Casting your anxieties on Him doesn’t mean they vanish. It means you stop pretending you were built to carry them indefinitely. Trusting with your whole heart doesn’t mean you understand everything. It means you acknowledge that your understanding is limited.

    Being yoked with Christ means He sets the pace. He bears the strain. You walk with Him in obedience. Step by step.

    That is not weakness.

    That is freedom.


    A Practical Word

    If you’re holding something heavy right now, here is what I learned.

    Be specific.
    Name the weight.
    Acknowledge your limits.
    And if you have to imagine a box, imagine the box.

    Then hand it over.

    And when you realize you’ve taken it back, don’t spiral into shame. Just give it back again.

    Surrender is rarely a one-time act. It’s often a daily discipline.

    Sometimes a moment-by-moment one.


    Closing Thoughts

    I used to roll my eyes when people said, “Hand it over to God.” Now I understand they weren’t offering a cliché. They were offering an invitation.

    An invitation to stop trying to rule over what you were never meant to control.

    The burden may still exist.

    But when you finally release it, you discover something steady beneath you.

    God doesn’t always remove the box.

    But He is strong enough to carry it.

    And you were never meant to.

  • The Bible

    The Bible has been described in a hundred well-meaning ways.

    It’s:
    A love story.
    A war story.
    A story about a Father and His children.
    A moral guidebook.
    A record of human history.

    None of those descriptions are wrong. They’re just incomplete.

    The problem isn’t that we say too much about what the Bible contains. It’s that we often miss what the Bible is actually about. When we misunderstand that, everything downstream becomes distorted—how we read Scripture, how we talk about faith, how we understand God, and how we understand ourselves.


    The Center of Gravity

    The Bible absolutely contains stories of love. It tells of conflict—both physical and spiritual. It reveals a God who calls His people children.

    But the Bible isn’t a loose collection of inspiring themes.

    It’s a unified narrative with a center of gravity.

    And that center is not humanity.

    The primary story of the Bible is the story of Jesus—who He is, why He came, and what He accomplishes for us. Everything else in Scripture points toward Him, prepares the way for Him, or explains the meaning of His life, death, and resurrection.

    When we start anywhere else, we end up reading the Bible sideways. Read that way, we often see only a barrier. It becomes a thicket of rules and history that keeps us at a distance. But when we reorient ourselves and read it rightside up, toward Jesus, we see an open door.


    What the Bible Is Not Primarily About

    The Bible is not primarily a self-help book.

    It doesn’t exist to teach us how to be better people, manage our emotions, or live more productive lives. Following the wisdom of the Bible will naturally guide us there over time, but self-improvement is a byproduct, not the point.

    It is not primarily a rulebook.

    The commandments matter, but they are not the solution. In fact, one of the Bible’s most consistent messages is that rules alone only reveal what is broken in us. The Law cannot fix us.

    It is not primarily a history textbook.

    The Bible includes real history, but it does not attempt to record every event, culture, or civilization. It is selective on purpose.

    And it is not primarily about what humanity can achieve.

    That assumption quietly sneaks in when the Bible is reduced to moral lessons or inspirational examples. Read that way, Scripture becomes a measuring stick—one we will always fail to reach. Or worse, one we begin to think we can reach on our own.


    What the Bible Is Primarily About

    The Bible is the story of God acting on behalf of humanity.

    From beginning to end, it bears witness to a single truth: left to ourselves, we do not, and cannot, meet God’s standard. Not because the standard is unfair, but because we are flawed.

    This is the secondary story running throughout Scripture: human failure.

    We see it immediately. Creation is declared good, and humanity breaks trust almost as soon as it is given. From there, the pattern repeats endlessly. Promises are made and then broken. Rescue is offered, gratitude fades, and rebellion returns.

    The Bible does not flatter us. It tells the truth about who we are when we’re honest and who we become when we’re not. In this way, Scripture becomes a home for the person who has run out of ways to fix themselves.

    But human failure is not the point of the story. It is the context that makes the point necessary.

    The Law doesn’t exist to save humanity. It exists to show us that something is wrong and that we cannot fix it ourselves.

    It reveals a gap between us and God.

    That gap is where Jesus stands.


    Jesus Is Not “Plan B”

    Jesus does not appear late in the story as a backup plan. He is the fulfillment of what the story has been pointing toward all along. The prophets anticipate Him. The sacrifices foreshadow Him. The Law exposes the need for Him. Jesus doesn’t come to help us try harder. He comes because trying harder was never going to be enough. Jesus comes to break the cycle of humanity’s inevitable failure.

    To say that humanity is flawed is not to diminish human value. It’s to acknowledge our limits and to make room for something we actually need. Not endless instruction, but relationship. Not constant correction, but guidance. Not abandonment, but a Father who steps in with boundaries, nurture, and love.

    This is where many misunderstand the Bible. They read it as a long list of examples to imitate and warnings to avoid, and then wonder why it feels crushing or contradictory.

    The Bible does not say, “Here is how to climb your way back to God.”

    It says, “You cannot. So God comes to you.”

    That is the Gospel. It’s not merely advice, instruction, or self-improvement. It’s about rescue.


    Truth, Selectivity, and the Objection of Omission

    At this point, a common objection surfaces:

    “But the Bible leaves things out. Other things happened that aren’t recorded. So how can it be true?”

    This objection assumes something the Bible never claims to be.

    The Bible does not attempt to contain all truth.

    But everything it contains is true.

    Those two statements are not in conflict.

    The Bible tells a specific story with a specific purpose. It’s not an exhaustive account of everything that ever happened or everything that ever existed everywhere in the world. It’s an intentional narrative focused on revealing God, humanity’s condition, and the work of Jesus.

    To expect the Bible to record everything that happened all across the world would be like criticizing a novel for not describing every time a character uses the restroom. We know they must, but it’s usually not discussed. There are many things a character does in a day that isn’t spelled out, or even mentioned, because it simply doesn’t serve the story.

    Details are included because they serve the purpose of the story being told, not because other details are untrue or unimportant. This kind of selectivity belongs to the author, not the reader.

    There is a quiet comfort in this selectivity. Just as the Bible is intentional in its storytelling, God is selective in what He defines us by. He doesn’t record every mistake or every silent hour of loneliness for the sake of the record; He focuses the narrative on the rescue that addresses them.

    The Bible doesn’t give us permission to choose which parts of its message we prefer. It gives us a complete and coherent witness, intentionally arranged to reveal God, expose our condition, and point us to Jesus.

    What Scripture leaves out is not hidden to mislead. What it includes is sufficient to tell the truth it intends to tell.

    The Bible is no different from any serious, purpose-driven narrative in this respect—except that the story it tells isn’t fiction, and the consequences are eternal.


    Why This Distinction Matters

    When we demand that the Bible be something it was never meant to be, we either reject it unfairly or misuse it dangerously. Some dismiss it because it doesn’t answer every possible question. Others weaponize it by forcing it to speak on matters it never intended to address. Both miss the point.

    The Bible tells us what we need to know to understand who God is, who we are, and why Jesus matters. It doesn’t tell us everything we might want to know. It tells us what we need to know.

    The truths we discover outside of Scripture are real and important. Science, history, art, discovery, and the human experience all matter. They simply serve different purposes than Scripture.

    The Bible isn’t diminished by its focus. It’s powerful because of it.


    Reading the Bible the Right Way Around

    When the Bible is read as a book about self-improvement, it produces shame.

    When it is read as a rulebook, it produces pride or despair.

    When it is read as a weapon, it produces harm.

    But when it is read as a witness to Jesus, it produces humility, clarity, and hope.

    Suddenly the Bible stops asking, “Are you good enough?” And starts answering, “You were never meant to be on your own.”

    It stops sounding like a list of demands shouted from a distance and begins to sound like an invitation offered up close.


    The Story the Bible Is Telling

    The Bible does not hide humanity’s flaws. It does not exaggerate human potential. It does not minimize the cost of redemption.

    It tells the truth plainly:

    We fail. Repeatedly.
    God does not. Faithfully.

    And in Jesus, God does what we cannot by restoring what was broken, reconciling what was lost, and offering salvation not as a reward for performance, but as a gift of grace.

    That is the story.

    Everything else in Scripture exists to serve it.

  • Jesus and the Rejected

    There are people who assume, for a variety of reasons, that Jesus couldn’t possibly be reaching out to them.

    They don’t always say it out loud. More often, it shows up as distance. As hesitation. As a quiet dismissal before the question ever fully forms. Faith might work for other people—just not for someone with their history. They’ve made too many mistakes. They live with too many contradictions. There’s been too much damage done, or too much damage received.

    So they stand near the edge. They’re convinced that if God is real, He is, at best, tolerating them from afar.

    What’s striking is how rarely that belief comes from actually reading the Gospels themselves.

    When you slow down and pay attention to who Jesus Christ moves toward—who He notices, speaks with, eats with, touches, and defends—the picture that emerges is almost the opposite of what many people expect.

    Jesus didn’t orbit the acceptable and occasionally glance toward the rejected. He walked straight into their lives.


    Who We Assume Jesus Is For

    Many of us believe an unspoken hierarchy about who God welcomes:

    The faithful.
    The consistent.
    The morally improving.
    The people who “try harder.”
    The ones who don’t embarrass Him.

    By contrast, the rejected—the socially awkward, the morally complicated, the visibly broken—are often treated as projects at best or warnings at worst. That message may not be spoken directly, but it’s felt.

    Come back when you’re cleaner.
    Stay quiet until you’ve figured yourself out.
    Belonging comes after improvement.

    Over time, this settles into a quiet conclusion in the hearts of many: “Jesus might be good. Just not for someone like me.”

    That conclusion doesn’t hold up when you actually follow Jesus through the pages of Scripture. What often feels like spiritual clarity turns out to be something we’ve learned to assume without ever stopping to see if it’s true.


    Who Jesus Actually Welcomed

    One of the clearest patterns in the Gospels is this:
    Jesus consistently moved toward the very people others moved away from.

    • The Woman at the Well

    In John 4, Jesus speaks with a Samaritan woman who carried multiple layers of rejection.

    She was a Samaritan, part of a group despised by Jews.
    She was a woman, approached publicly by a rabbi.
    She had a complicated personal history that made her an object of gossip and shame.
    Even her timing—drawing water alone at midday—suggests someone accustomed to avoidance.

    Jesus does not begin by correcting her life.
    He does not lecture her about repentance.
    He does not require her to explain herself.

    He asks her for water.
    He stays.
    He listens.
    He reveals Himself to her plainly.

    Before her behavior changes, before her understanding is complete, she is treated as someone worth engaging—someone seen.

    Belonging comes first.

    • Tax Collectors and “Sinners”

    Jesus’ reputation among religious leaders was not that He was strict, but that He was reckless with the wrong people.

    “He eats with tax collectors and sinners.”

    The accusation was meant to discredit Him. Instead, it reveals His priorities.

    Tax collectors were collaborators.
    Traitors.
    Financial abusers.

    “Sinners” was a broad label for anyone who didn’t fit religious respectability.

    Jesus did not wait for them to clean themselves up before inviting them to the table.

    He ate with them.
    He shared space with them.
    He restored their dignity in public.

    And only then did lives begin to change—not because shame was applied, but because relationship was offered.

    • Lepers and the Unclean

    Leprosy was not just a medical condition. It was social exile.

    Those labeled “unclean” were physically isolated, ritually avoided, and publicly marked as unsafe. They were accustomed to shouting warnings so others could keep their distance.

    Jesus did not shout back.
    He touched them.

    In a world where no one would make physical contact, Jesus crossed that line deliberately. Healing was not just physical—it was relational. He restored people to community, not just health.

    He did not heal from afar to preserve appearances.
    He drew near, even when it cost Him socially.

    • The Thief on the Cross

    Near the end of His life, Jesus is executed—hung on a cross between two criminals.

    One mocks Him.
    The other—broken, condemned, out of time—asks to be remembered.

    There is no opportunity for restitution.
    No chance for long-term obedience.
    No way to clean up his life.

    When the thief recognizes Jesus and speaks with humility, Jesus does not hesitate.

    “Today you will be with Me.”

    In that moment, religious systems could offer nothing. Tortured and dying, Jesus still gives what He has always given.

    Presence.

    Rejection is not the final word.

    • Peter After Denial

    Perhaps one of the most personal moments comes after the resurrection, when Jesus meets Peter the Apostle—the disciple who denied Him publicly, repeatedly, and at the worst possible moment.

    Peter had once declared unwavering loyalty.
    He had promised devotion without limit.

    But when fear took hold, Peter shunned Him—denying he even knew Jesus.

    Jesus does not open with accusation.
    He asks a question:

    “Do you love Me?”

    He asked the question three times. He did so not to shame Peter, but to restore him.

    Peter did not seek Jesus.
    Jesus sought him.

    Peter’s failure did not disqualify him from the relationship.
    It became the very place where restoration began.


    Jesus Was Rejected, Too

    This pattern is not accidental.

    Jesus does not merely care about rejection.
    He understands it from the inside.

    He was misunderstood by His family.
    Opposed by religious leaders.
    Abandoned by friends.
    Publicly humiliated.

    Even His own hometown sought to kill Him.

    Jesus knows what it is like to be unwanted.


    Executed as a Criminal

    Isaiah describes Him as “despised and rejected by men.”

    Jesus was not rejected because He broke Roman law.
    He was not cast out for criminal behavior or public disorder.

    He was rejected because He unsettled power.
    Because He refused to fit the categories people relied on.
    Because His presence exposed hearts, systems, and hierarchies that preferred to remain untouched.

    Jesus knows what it is like to be unwanted—not for wrongdoing, but for being who He was.

    Which means when He moves toward the rejected, He is not offering distant sympathy.
    He is offering shared ground.

    He stands with those who feel pushed out—because He has stood there Himself.


    Belonging Before Improvement

    This is the distinction many people miss.

    Jesus never pretended that behavior didn’t matter. Yet, He consistently treated belonging as the starting point, not the reward.

    People were welcomed as they were.
    Identity was restored before behavior was addressed.
    Love was extended without preconditions.

    That order matters.

    Because shame rarely produces transformation. But being seen often does.

    The Gospel stories are not about Jesus lowering standards. They are about Him refusing to withhold Himself from those who came to Him—even before they knew how to change.


    For Those Standing at the Edge

    If you’ve ever felt disqualified by your past, your inconsistency, your doubts, or your failures, this matters. If church culture taught you that God tolerates you at best, this matters. If you’ve assumed that Jesus is mostly disappointed in you, this matters.

    The consistent witness of Scripture isn’t that Jesus waited for people to become worthy.

    It is that He treated them as worthy enough to approach in the first place.


    Rejection Is Not the End of the Story

    Jesus does not minimize pain.
    He does not romanticize brokenness.
    He does not ignore harm.

    But He also does not abandon people where they are. He meets them there.

    The heart of the Gospel is not a demand shouted from a distance. It is an invitation offered up close.

    Jesus was rejected so that rejection would never be the final word.

  • The Christian Calling

    There’s a great deal of confusion, both inside and outside the Church, about what Christians are supposed to be doing in the world.

    Some believe Christians exist to enforce morality. Others think they exist to argue doctrine. Still others assume Christianity is primarily about correcting behavior or opposing cultural change.

    None of those ideas come from Jesus.

    Before we can talk about sin, culture, or controversy, we need to address something far more basic.

    What is the role of a Christian?

    If we get that wrong, everything else becomes distorted.


    Christianity Begins With Relationship, Not Behavior

    At its core, Christianity is not a system for producing better behavior. It’s a relationship between God and people. This relationship begins with God, not with us earning our way toward Him.

    Scripture consistently shows that God moves toward people first (Romans 5:8, 1 John 4:19). He calls, invites, and restores before transformation ever takes place. Change follows relationship. It does not precede it (2 Corinthians 3:18).

    When Christianity is reduced to rule-keeping or moral correction, it loses its center. The Gospel isn’t about becoming acceptable to God. It begins with the realization that God has been reaching toward us the whole time, not with us proving ourselves to Him.

    That distinction matters, because it defines how Christians are meant to live among others.


    The Purpose of a Christian Life

    A Christian is not called to manage the behavior of the world (1 Corinthians 5:12–13, Romans 14:4).

    A Christian is called to love God, to accept Jesus as Savior, and to allow the Holy Spirit to guide their life. From that relationship flows a restored walk with God, a life shaped by Christ’s example, and a witness that reflects God’s character through word and action.

    This is why Jesus didn’t tell His followers to win arguments or fix society. He told them to follow Him.

    And when He did send them out, He made their role clear. They were to speak, to witness, and to invite. If they were not received, they were told to shake the dust from their sandals and move on. He did not instruct them to force understanding, argue people into agreement, or remain where their presence was no longer welcome. (Luke 9:5)

    Christian life is meant to be visible, not through performance, but through fruit (John 15:8). That fruit isn’t self-improvement or moral polish, but the lasting spiritual result of a life shaped by Christ rather than driven by personal effort.

    When people encounter a Christian life lived faithfully, they should see something different. Not perfection. Not superiority. But transformation.


    “Planting Seeds,” Not Producing Results

    Jesus often spoke in agricultural terms for a reason. Seeds are planted, growth happens later, and harvest comes in its own time.

    Christians are called to plant seeds, not to force outcomes. That calling is lived out through how we speak, how we love, how we forgive, and how we endure hardship. It shows up in patience, humility, and faithfulness, even when results remain unseen. Especially when it costs us something.

    Growth belongs to God (1 Corinthians 3:6).


    Christianity Was Never About Fixing People

    One of the most persistent misunderstandings about Christianity is the belief that Christians are meant to go out and change people.

    That is not a Biblical assignment.

    Scripture assigns the roles clearly. Transformation belongs to God (Ezekiel 36:26). Conviction belongs to the Holy Spirit (John 16:8). Witness belongs to us (Acts 1:8).

    At no point are Christians given authority to remake hearts, regulate behavior, or force repentance. Those things are not only beyond our ability, they are beyond our jurisdiction. When Christians attempt to do God’s work for Him, the result is not holiness. What should be trust turns into control. What should be humility turns into judgment.

    Control and judgment have never produced genuine faith or good fruit.

    The Christian calling is not to change people, but to point to the One who does.

    If we’re trying to fix someone, we stand above them looking down. If we are pointing to Christ through witness, we stand beside them (Romans 12:16).

    That difference isn’t subtle. It’s foundational.


    What It Means to “Make Disciples”

    Making disciples is another part of the Christian calling that is often misunderstood (Matthew 28:19–20). Even well-intentioned efforts can come across as judgmental, intrusive, or hostile. In some cases, this turns into high-pressure tactics or emotional manipulation that tries to force a response, a conversion, or some other kind of change.

    But discipleship begins with invitation, not pressure (John 1:39).

    Most of the time, it looks simple and unremarkable. Someone notices that something has changed in your life. They ask why you have peace, hope, or stability where you once did not. And you are able to answer honestly, not about how you fixed yourself, but about how Jesus is working in the middle of your mess.

    That is discipleship in its earliest and most authentic form. It’s not about convincing. It’s about witnessing.


    Living a Christ-Like Life Is the Testimony

    Jesus didn’t build His ministry on intimidation or dominance. He built it on presence. He walked with people, listened to them, shared meals with them, spoke the truth, and extended grace. Again and again, He drew people toward Himself rather than pushing them away.

    A Christ-like life does the same. It doesn’t repel people or demand attention. It invites them to look closer.

    That doesn’t mean everyone will respond positively. Faith has never been universally welcomed. But there is an important difference between being rejected for the truth and driving people away through our posture.

    Christians are called to be light, not spotlights (Matthew 5:14-16).


    Why Judgment Is Not the Christian’s Assignment

    Judgment assumes authority over outcomes we don’t control and hearts we can’t see.

    Scripture is clear that judgment belongs to God (James 4:12). When Christians adopt a judgmental posture, they misrepresent both God’s character and their own role.

    This doesn’t mean Christians ignore truth, abandon conviction, or reject others who may be spiraling. It means truth is spoken from humility, not superiority.

    Truth without love hardens hearts. Love without truth loses direction. The Christian calling holds both without claiming ownership over either.


    The Measure We Use Matters

    Jesus warned that the standard we apply to others will be applied to us as well (Matthew 7:2).

    That warning isn’t meant to silence the truth. It’s meant to restrain arrogance.

    Christians live by grace. Every one of us stands because of mercy we did not earn (Ephesians 2:8). Remembering that keeps us grounded and honest.

    A faith that forgets grace quickly becomes cruel.


    Christianity From the Outside

    If Christianity is being lived faithfully, it should be recognizable from the outside. People should see lives being restored, not people being sorted. They should see humility rather than hostility, conviction paired with compassion, and a hope that holds up under pressure. (John 13:34–35)

    Christianity doesn’t need to be defended by aggression. It stands on the strength of the One it points to.


    A Final Clarification

    Christians are not called to control culture, police morality, win arguments, or force belief. Those things may feel urgent, but they are not our assignment.

    Christians are called to love God, follow Christ, live faithfully, and love truthfully. We are called to trust God with outcomes we cannot control.

    That calling is demanding. It requires patience, restraint, courage, and humility.

    But it is also freeing.

    Because it reminds us that we are not the Savior (John 3:30).


    The Heart of It All

    If this article leaves one thing clear, let it be this:

    The Christian life is not about making others look more like us. It is about becoming more like Christ and trusting Him to work through that witness.

    Everything else—growth, repentance, and change—flows from there.

    That is the role of a Christian.

    And it is enough.

  • Dirty Feet

    There was water in the basin.
    There were towels folded nearby.
    And there were twelve men eating with dirty feet.

    Few moments in the Gospels are as quietly unsettling as the night Jesus washed His disciples’ feet.

    It’s a scene so familiar that it risks becoming tame. This act is often reduced to a symbol of kindness or humility, reenacted ceremonially without much discomfort. But in its original setting, this moment was neither gentle nor sentimental. It was shocking. Awkward. Deeply unsettling to everyone in the room.

    To understand why, let’s begin where the disciples were that night:

    Eating with dirty feet—and no one willing to kneel.


    Feet, Roads, and Rank

    In the first-century Mediterranean world, foot washing was not symbolic. It was both functional and deeply social.

    People walked everywhere. Roads were unpaved, dusty, and often mixed with animal waste. Open sandals were the norm. By the time someone entered a home, their feet were filthy.

    In that world, foot washing wasn’t just a customary form of hospitality or hygienic necessity. It was also hierarchical.

    Foot washing was the job of the lowest household servant, preferably a non-Jewish slave. It was never the host, never a teacher—never a superior.

    Even Jewish servants couldn’t always be required to wash feet since it was considered too degrading. This was the task reserved for those without status, power, or honor.

    Which makes what happened at the Last Supper so striking.

    There was a basin.
    There was water.
    There were towels.

    But there was no servant.


    When No One Would Kneel

    The Gospel of John does not tell us why no one washed the disciples’ feet before the meal. It doesn’t need to. The other Gospels give us the context.

    Luke tells us that during this very meal, the disciples were arguing about which of them was the greatest (Luke 22:24). This was a repeated pattern. Time and again, they jockeyed for position, asked for seats of honor, and measured themselves against one another.

    In their culture, foot washing wasn’t merely unpleasant. It was a public admission of inferiority. If one disciple washed the others’ feet, he would be declaring himself beneath the rest.

    So no one moved.

    And here is the uncomfortable truth we often miss:

    The disciples were not ignorant of humility. They were unwilling to embrace humiliation.

    They were willing to eat with dirty feet rather than kneel beneath one another.


    Why Jesus Let the Meal Begin

    This detail matters.

    According to John 13, Jesus doesn’t immediately intervene. He allows the meal to proceed. They reclined at the table with their dirty feet exposed, close together, and undeniable.

    This was intentional. Watch how Jesus reacted.

    Jesus did not rush to correct the moment. He let it sit. He let the tension breathe. He let their unwillingness become visible.

    Why?

    Because if He had washed their feet before the meal, it could have been misunderstood as a courtesy.

    By waiting, Jesus transformed it into a confrontation.

    They ate while the unspoken problem remained unresolved. They ate knowing someone should have knelt. They ate knowing no one would.

    Only then did Jesus rise.


    The Lord Who Knelt

    John introduces the foot washing with one of the most theologically dense verses in the Gospels:

    “Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under His power, and that He had come from God and was returning to God.”
    (John 13:3)

    This is not incidental.

    John is explicit: Jesus acts from a position of total authority, not insecurity. And then, knowing who He is, Jesus does the unthinkable.

    He:

    • Gets up from the table
    • Takes off His outer garment
    • Wraps a towel around His waist
    • Pours water into a basin
    • Kneels

    Every movement echoes the posture of a slave.

    The One through whom all things were made takes the place no one else would take.


    Peter’s Protest… and Ours

    When Jesus reaches Peter, the tension finally breaks.

    “Lord, are You going to wash my feet?”
    (John 13:6)

    Peter’s objection isn’t pride in the usual sense. It is discomfort. Confusion. Reverence.

    “You shall never wash my feet.”

    Peter recognizes the reversal of order—and it feels wrong.

    But Jesus responds with words that still confront us:

    “Unless I wash you, you have no part with Me.”
    (John 13:8)

    This is not about hygiene. It is about relationship.

    Peter wants a Messiah who reigns. Jesus insists on being a Messiah who serves.

    You cannot follow Christ while rejecting the way He chooses to love. You cannot accept His crown while refusing His towel.


    Why the Dirty Feet Matter

    It is easy to miss how radical this moment truly is.

    Jesus doesn’t merely teach about service. He doesn’t merely recommend humility. He enacts it, physically, personally, unmistakably.

    And He does so after their failure.

    He washes the feet of:

    • The disciples who refused to serve one another
    • The men arguing about greatness
    • The one who would deny Him
    • The one who would betray Him

    Jesus kneels before unrepentant pride.

    That is the scandal.


    Teacher and Lord

    After He finishes, Jesus resumes His place at the table and asks a dangerous question:

    “Do you understand what I have done for you?”
    (John 13:12)

    Then He names the truth plainly:

    “You call Me Teacher and Lord—and rightly so, for that is what I am.”
    (John 13:13)

    Jesus doesn’t deny His authority in order to emphasize humility. He grounds humility in authority. If Jesus were merely an equal, this act would be kind. But because He is Lord, it is revolutionary.


    “As I Have Done for You”

    Jesus’ conclusion isn’t symbolic. It’s ethical.

    “Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet.”
    (John 13:14)

    This isn’t a call to occasional gestures. It’s a redefinition of greatness.

    In the Kingdom of God, rank does not excuse service, knowledge does not exempt obedience, and calling does not cancel humility.

    The closer one is to Christ, the closer one should be to the floor.


    Why This Still Confronts Us

    We live in a culture that praises leadership but resists servanthood. We admire humility as long as it doesn’t cost us dignity. We like the idea of washing feet more than the reality of kneeling.

    But Jesus does not ask us to admire the act. He asks us to imitate it.

    Not ceremonially.
    Not symbolically.
    But relationally.

    Who are the people we believe should kneel for us? Who do we quietly believe are beneath our service? Where do we preserve our status at the expense of love?

    These aren’t abstract questions.

    They’re the basin in front of us.

    When we live by the ladder, we live in isolation. We feel lonely at the bottom because we feel unseen, but we also feel lonely at the top because we are constantly defending a status that doesn’t allow for true connection. That night in the upper room, every disciple chose the ladder, and the room grew heavy under the weight.

    The basin was the only way out.

    It was the only place where status no longer mattered, where comparison ended, where love could finally move. The basin is where performance stops, where defenses fall away, and where we allow ourselves to be shaped by something greater than ourselves.


    The Last Lesson Before the Cross

    This moment takes place on the night Jesus is betrayed.

    Before the cross.
    Before the blood.
    Before the crown of thorns.

    Jesus’ final lesson to His disciples isn’t power, strategy, or dominance.

    It’s posture.

    The hands that will soon be pierced first wash feet. The knees that will bear the cross first touch the floor. And in doing so, Jesus shows us what God is like.

    Not distant.
    Not self-protective.
    Not obsessed with rank.

    But willing, always, to take the lowest place so that others might be made clean.

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