Author: Leon Harris

If you’ve ever felt like Christianity wasn’t meant for someone like you, you’re not alone.

Many people walk away from faith not because they rejected God, but because they were rejected or otherwise hurt by people who claimed to represent Him. Others were never really invited at all. They were only warned, judged, or talked past. Some were taught a version of Christianity that sounded more like control than hope and more like shame than truth.

So before anything else, let’s say this plainly:

Christianity is not about becoming acceptable to God.
It is about discovering that God came to you first.

That distinction changes everything.

Why God at All?

For many, the question isn’t “Why Christianity?”
It’s “Why God?”

Why believe in anything beyond what we can see, measure, or control?
Because the human experience refuses to stay contained inside those limits.

• We long for meaning that outlasts success.
• We ache for forgiveness that actually heals.
• We carry guilt we can’t erase, shame we can’t outrun, and grief we can’t reason away.
• We hunger for justice. Yet, deep down, we know that if perfect justice were applied evenly, we wouldn’t escape it either.

Scripture names this tension honestly:

“He has set eternity in the human heart.”
(Ecclesiastes 3:11)

We are finite creatures haunted by infinite questions.

Christianity doesn’t mock those questions or dismiss them as weakness. It takes them seriously. It takes us seriously.

Christianity Is Not a Ladder

One of the most common misunderstandings about Christianity is that it’s some kind of moral ladder: behave better, believe harder, clean yourself up, and maybe God will accept you.

That is not Christianity.

Christianity begins with the claim that the ladder not only doesn’t work, but never did in the first place.

“There is no one righteous, not even one.”
(Romans 3:10)

“All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”
(Romans 3:23)

That sounds harsh until you realize what it removes: comparison, hierarchy, spiritual elitism.

Ladders don’t just measure progress. They create hierarchy.

Someone is always climbing. Someone is always watching. And someone is always left standing at the bottom, wondering why they never seem to move.

That’s where spiritual elitism is born—not because people want to look down on others, but because ladders require comparison to function. Someone is always above you. Someone is always below you. And the farther down you are, the more alone you feel.

That’s where shame grows.

That’s also where many people quietly leave, don’t make it past the first few rungs, or never really try at all.

For those at the bottom, the experience is not inspiration. It’s loneliness.

No one starts closer to God than anyone else.

Christianity levels the ground before it builds anything else.

God Comes Down

Every other religious system, philosophical path, or self-improvement framework begins with you: your effort, your discipline, your insight, your progress.

Christianity begins somewhere else entirely.

“But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
(Romans 5:8)

Not after you fixed yourself.
Not once you understood everything.
Not when you proved you were serious.

While you were still broken.

This is the heart of Christianity: God doesn’t wait for humanity to climb upward. He comes down to meet us on our level. Then, He lifts us out of the muck.

“The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”
(John 1:14)

God doesn’t shout instructions from a distance. He enters the mess.

Why Jesus Specifically?

Many people are open to “God” but hesitate at Jesus. That hesitation often comes from what they’ve seen done in His name, not from what He actually said or did.

Jesus doesn’t recruit the impressive.
He doesn’t flatter the powerful.
He doesn’t protect religious gatekeepers.

He consistently moves toward the ignored, the shamed, the doubted, and the disqualified.

He eats with social outcasts (Luke 5:29–32).
He touches the unclean (Mark 1:40–42).
He defends the publicly humiliated (John 8:1–11).
He rebukes religious hypocrisy more harshly than open sin (Matthew 23).

And He makes an astonishing claim:

“I am the way and the truth and the life.”
(John 14:6)

Not a way.
Not your truth.
Not one option among many.

Christianity stands or falls on Jesus, not merely as a moral teacher, but as God revealed in the flesh.

Grace for the Self-Loathing

Some people don’t reject Christianity because they think too highly of themselves. They reject it because they think too poorly.

They assume faith is for “good people.”
They assume God is tired of them.
They assume they’ve used up whatever grace they were offered.

Scripture directly contradicts that lie.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
(Psalm 34:18)

Christianity doesn’t demand self-confidence. It offers a replacement identity.

“If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.”
(2 Corinthians 5:17)

Not a polished version of the old self.
Not a managed improvement plan.

New.

This doesn’t mean consequences vanish. It means condemnation does.

“There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”
(Romans 8:1)

That isn’t emotional encouragement. That’s a theological truth.

Truth Without Illusion

Christianity doesn’t promise an easy life. It doesn’t promise health, wealth, or constant peace.

Jesus Himself says the opposite.

“In this world you will have trouble.”
(John 16:33)

What Christianity offers instead is meaningful endurance.

Suffering is not random.
Pain is not wasted.
Weakness is not disqualifying.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”
(2 Corinthians 12:9)

That’s not a slogan. It’s a reframing of reality.

Freedom Without Pretending

Christianity does not deny human brokenness. It explains it.

“The good that I want to do, I do not do. But the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.”
(Romans 7:19)

That struggle isn’t a faith failure. It’s a human condition.

Christianity offers freedom not by pretending you’re fine, but by refusing to leave you trapped.

“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.”
(Galatians 5:1)

This isn’t the freedom to indulge. It’s the freedom to heal.

A Place for the Outcast

From the beginning, Christianity spreads not through cultural dominance but through wounded people discovering they are wanted.

“God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise… the weak things of the world to shame the strong.”
(1 Corinthians 1:27)

And yes—many have used the name of Christ as a cover for control. That isn’t Christianity at work. It’s sin distorting the message.

If you feel overlooked, misunderstood, or dismissed, Christianity doesn’t ask you to change your past before approaching God.

It invites you as you are.

“Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
(Matthew 11:28)

That invitation has no fine print.

Why Christianity, Then?

Because it tells the truth about humanity and the truth about God.
Because it does not confuse morality with worth.
Because it offers forgiveness without denial.
Because it confronts evil without pretending we’re exempt from it.
Because it offers hope that survives reality rather than escaping it.

Most of all, because it centers on a God who doesn’t stay distant.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son.”
(John 3:16)

Not because we deserve Him.
Because we need Him.

Somewhere along the way, worship became shorthand for the musical portion of a church service.

“We’ll begin with worship.”
“Don’t skip worship.”
“They missed worship today.”

What we usually mean is singing. Lights. Sound. A carefully planned set designed to create atmosphere and emotional engagement.

And to be clear, there’s nothing inherently wrong with music. Scripture is full of songs, instruments, and communal praise. David danced. The Psalms sing. Heaven itself resounds with praise.

But when worship is reduced to a specific look, sound, or emotional response, something subtle, yet serious, happens. We begin to confuse a method with the thing itself. When we don’t feel it the way everyone else seems to, we assume the failure is ours—or God’s.

We worry, and others assume, we’re spiritual “consumers.” That we’re disengaged. That something must be broken in us.

For some, the music simply doesn’t resonate. For others, loud noise and lights are overwhelming. Some carry trauma tied to emotional manipulation. Others have seen church production drift just a little too far into performance.

And when those people arrive late, sit quietly, or step out altogether, accusations—spoken or implied—sometimes follow.

“They’re not worshiping.”
“They’re missing the point.”
“They’re not saved enough.”

But this narrow definition isn’t just exhausting. It’s unbiblical.

Paul writes:

“Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship.”
(Romans 12:1)

Paul doesn’t point to music or instruments. He doesn’t reference volume, lighting, or emotional atmosphere. He points instead to a life offered in obedience. Worship, in this sense, isn’t a segment of a service you attend; it’s a life you offer in response to God’s mercy.

This means worship is actually defined by why and who, not where or how.

For the person who quietly arrives late or sits in silence, this is a liberating truth. Your worth, and your worship, are not measured by emotional display, but by a sincere turning toward God and a loving appreciation for Him.

Jesus affirms this when He tells the Samaritan woman that worship is no longer bound to a specific location or ritual, but is defined by spirit and truth (John 4:23–24). In other words, worship isn’t about performance. It’s about posture.

Modern church culture didn’t invent music in worship, but it did unintentionally turn worship into a segment. Something you either participate in correctly or you don’t.

When worship is framed this way, several unhealthy ideas creep in:

• Worship becomes emotional validation.
• Worship becomes performative obedience.
• Worship becomes something we begin to evaluate in others.

Sincerity gets measured by raised hands. Faithfulness by visible engagement. Spiritual maturity by whether someone “feels it” during the song set.

But Scripture never gives us permission to audit someone else’s worship.

Jesus warned repeatedly about outward displays disconnected from inward obedience. The Pharisees prayed loudly, publicly, and impressively—yet Jesus said they had already received their reward (Matthew 6:5).

• Worship that draws attention to itself is not worship.
• Worship that exists to be seen is not worship.
• Worship that demands a particular visual response to be considered valid is not worship.

If worship is truly about honoring God, it cannot be confined to a room, a stage, or a playlist.

Worship can also show up in places we rarely label as holy:

• An employee refusing to cut corners when no one would notice.
• A parent patiently caring for a child while exhausted.
• A worker choosing integrity over convenience.
• A believer forgiving someone who never apologized.

None of these moments come with music. None of them feel particularly spiritual. And yet they reflect obedience, humility, and reverence for God.

Scripture tells us:

“Whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus.”
(Colossians 3:17)

That phrase, “whatever you do,” isn’t poetic exaggeration. It’s comprehensive.

If this is true, then washing dishes, showing up to work on time, or doing honest labor becomes a sacred act of reverence. This levels the playing field completely. It means the person whose life feels small or hidden is often offering deeper, costlier worship than the most expressive person on a platform.

Jesus once told a story about two men who went to the temple to pray (Luke 18:9–14). One was a Pharisee—outwardly religious, publicly respected. The other was a tax collector—socially despised, morally suspect in the eyes of everyone around him.

The Pharisee stood confidently and prayed, thanking God that he was not like other people: greedy, unjust, immoral—or like that tax collector. His prayer sounded like worship, but it was built on comparison. It drew its confidence from pride rather than humility.

The tax collector, by contrast, stood at a distance. He would not even lift his eyes. He simply said, “God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Jesus said it was the second man—the quiet one, the unimpressive one—who went home justified before God. Not because his words were better crafted, and not because his posture looked right, but because his heart was rightly aligned. Worship that elevates itself by diminishing others is not worship at all.

Martin Luther King Jr. once said that if a person is called to be a street sweeper, they should sweep streets the way Michelangelo painted, the way Beethoven composed music, the way Shakespeare wrote poetry—so well that all of heaven and earth would pause and say, “Here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well.”

The point was not applause.

The point was faithfulness.

Long before any sermon illustration, Scripture said the same:

“Serve wholeheartedly, as if you were serving the Lord, not people.”
(Ephesians 6:7)

This is worship that never makes it onto a stage. Worship that doesn’t stir emotion. Worship that no one claps for.

And yet it is precisely this kind of obedience that Scripture consistently honors.

If worship is so broad, why do we struggle to let others worship differently?

Often, it is because we project our own insecurities. When someone worships quietly, we feel judged for being expressive. When someone worships through service, we feel exposed for valuing emotion. When someone turns away from the production, we fear it undermines what moves us.

So we label. We assume motives. We correct what we do not understand.

But Scripture offers a firm boundary:

“Who are you to judge someone else’s servant? To their own master, servants stand or fall.”
(Romans 14:4)

It is not our role to standardize another person’s devotion.

If you have been made to feel unworthy because you worship quietly, or because your obedience looks more like service than song, remember this: God is not impressed by production or swayed by aesthetics. He’s looking at the heart, and He recognizes faithfulness that never makes it onto, or in front of, a stage.

Let’s break it down:

• You are responsible for your worship.
• You are accountable for your obedience.
• You are called to examine your motives.

• You are not responsible for your neighbor’s posture.
• You are not accountable for someone else’s emotional response.
• You are not called to examine someone else’s arrival or departure times.

When Peter tried to monitor another disciple’s faithfulness, Jesus shut him down immediately:

“What is that to you? You follow Me.”
(John 21:22)

The instruction still stands.

Follow Him in the way that reflects your conscience and calling. Sing loudly if that honors God. Sit quietly if that helps you listen. Serve faithfully if that is where obedience leads you. Work honestly. Repent quickly. Forgive generously.

And let others do the same.

Worship is not what happens when the band starts.

Worship is what happens when obedience costs you something and you choose faithfulness anyway.

So worship however you are called to worship, but leave room for others to do the same.

The goal was never a uniform expression.

The goal was humility and thankfulness, offered through praise.

Faith is one of those words that almost everyone thinks they understand until they’re asked to rely on it.

I used to think faith meant believing hard enough. Or believing correctly. Or believing without questions. Sometimes it sounded like confidence. Other times it sounded like denial. And more than once, it sounded like something other people had but I didn’t.

If I’m honest, faith often felt fake to me. Or fragile. Or like a thin layer of optimism stretched over very real pain. I assumed that if faith were real, it would feel stronger than this. More certain. Less conflicted.

What I eventually learned—slowly, and not without resistance—is that most of those assumptions weren’t Biblical at all.

They were cultural.

What the Bible Means by Faith

The Bible’s most well-known definition of faith comes from Hebrews 11:1:

“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”

That sounds poetic, but it’s easy to misread. Faith is not described as certainty about outcomes. It’s not confidence that everything will turn out the way we want. And it certainly isn’t pretending reality doesn’t exist.

Biblical faith is trust. Specifically, it’s trusting in God’s character.

Faith does not say, “This will work out.” Faith says, “God is still God, even if it doesn’t.”

That distinction matters. Because one collapses the moment circumstances go sideways. The other can survive disappointment, confusion, and loss.

Scripture repeatedly calls people to trust God even when the path ahead is unclear.

“Lean not on your own understanding.”
(Proverbs 3:5)

“We walk by faith, not by sight.”
(2 Corinthians 5:7)

These aren’t commands to shut our eyes or stop thinking. They’re acknowledgments that our understanding is limited and that God’s faithfulness is not.

Faith, then, is not blind belief. It’s informed trust in Someone we’ve come to know.

The Hangups We Don’t Like to Admit

Most people don’t struggle with faith because they’re rebellious or hardened. They struggle because faith has been oversold as something it isn’t.

One of the most common hangups is doubt.

Many of us quietly assume that doubt disqualifies faith. If we were really faithful, we wouldn’t question. We wouldn’t waver. We wouldn’t feel torn. But Scripture tells a different story. David doubted. Job questioned. The disciples panicked. Thomas hesitated. These weren’t faithless people—they were honest ones. (Psalm 13; Job 3; Matthew 28:17)

Doubt doesn’t cancel faith. Silence does.

Another hangup is suffering. Faith feels especially fragile when life hurts. When prayers go unanswered. When healing doesn’t come. When the weight doesn’t lift.

Somewhere along the way, many of us absorbed the idea that faith should make life smoother. Easier. More manageable. But the Bible never promises that. In fact, it often warns us of the opposite.

Faith does not remove pain. It reorients us within it. (John 11:35; Psalm 22:1)

And then there’s the hardest question of all: If faith works, why hasn’t God fixed this?

That question doesn’t come from arrogance. It comes from exhaustion. From disappointment. From waiting longer than we thought we could.

The uncomfortable truth is that faith is not a mechanism for control. God is not a lever we pull. Faith doesn’t obligate Him to operate on our timeline. It calls us to trust Him even when the timeline doesn’t make sense.

Faith in Practical Terms

If faith isn’t optimism or certainty, what does it actually look like in real life?

Often, it looks unimpressive.

Faith looks like continuing to pray when prayer feels hollow. Like telling the truth when lying would protect you. Like taking the next right step without knowing where the road leads. Like showing up again when quitting would be easier.

Faith acts because obedience still matters, not because the outcome is guaranteed.

This is where faith is often misunderstood as passivity. As waiting. As standing still until clarity arrives. But Biblical faith moves. Abraham went without knowing where. Peter stepped out of the boat before the water held him. Faith does not wait for certainty. It responds to trust. (Genesis 12:1–4; Matthew 14:28–31)

Not recklessly. Not blindly. But faithfully.

How Faith Actually Grows

This is the part few of us want to hear.

Faith does not usually grow in comfort.

Scripture is blunt about this. Tribulation produces perseverance. Perseverance produces character. Character produces hope. Time and again, the pattern is the same: pressure precedes growth. (Romans 5:3–5; James 1:2–4)

That doesn’t mean God delights in suffering. It doesn’t mean every hardship is sent by Him. But it does mean He uses what we endure to refine what we trust.

Tribulation has a way of stripping away illusions. It exposes the things we leaned on without realizing it: control, approval, certainty, self-reliance. And when those supports fail, faith is no longer theoretical. It becomes necessary.

Looking back, I can see that some of the deepest growth in my faith happened when I felt the least faithful. When prayers were more honest than hopeful. When trust was chosen daily, not felt instinctively.

Faith, it turns out, grows the same way muscles do: through resistance.

What Faith Is Not Asking of You

Faith is not asking you to have everything figured out.

It’s not asking you to silence questions or suppress grief. It’s not asking you to pretend you’re okay when you’re not. It’s not asking you to feel strong all the time.

Faith is asking for honesty.

Honesty with God. Honesty with yourself. Honesty about what hurts, what confuses you, and what you don’t understand yet.

One of the most sincere prayers in Scripture is also one of the shortest:

“I believe; help my unbelief.”
Mark 9:24

That prayer isn’t polished. It isn’t confident. But it’s real. That’s how God receives it.

A Place to Begin

Faith does not start where we think it does.

It doesn’t start with confidence. Or certainty. Or answers.

Often, it starts with willingness.

Willingness to stay. Willingness to trust incrementally. Willingness to keep walking, even when the path is dimly lit. Willingness to believe that God is still present, still faithful, and still at work even when we can’t yet see how.

If faith feels small right now, that doesn’t mean it’s absent. It means it’s alive.

Faith does not require you to be unshaken. It asks you not to walk away.

And more often than not, that’s enough to begin.

There are few things more discouraging to a believer than prayer that seems to go nowhere.

Many of us have prayed earnestly for things that matter deeply: relief from illness, freedom from addiction, reconciliation in a broken relationship, or simply a sense that God is near. We pray because we are told prayer is powerful. We pray because Scripture encourages it. And yet, more often than we care to admit, prayer can feel unanswered.

This can leave us wondering whether prayer works at all.

The discomfort often comes from an assumption we rarely examine—that prayer is meant to produce outcomes. That if we ask sincerely enough, often enough, or with enough faith, the thing we are asking for should come to pass. When it does not, disappointment sets in. Doubt follows close behind.

But prayer was never meant to function as a mechanism for getting what we want.

Scripture consistently affirms that God is sovereign—that His purposes are not shaped by our preferences, and His timing is not accelerated by our urgency. We often acknowledge this in theory. “God will give us what we need, not what we want,” we say. Yet when we pray, we sometimes act as though our desires should take precedence over His will.

Ecclesiastes 3:1 speaks directly into this tension.

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven

A few verses later, we are reminded:

He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also He has put eternity in their hearts, except that no one can find out the work that God does from beginning to end.

These verses do not suggest indifference on God’s part. They point instead to perspective. We see what is immediately before us; God sees the whole. There are forces at work beyond our awareness, purposes unfolding beyond our understanding. What feels like delay or denial may be part of a larger story we are not equipped to see.

This is where the phrase “turn it over to God” often enters our vocabulary. At its core, it refers to surrender—to releasing control over outcomes we cannot manage and trusting God where our understanding fails. If prayer becomes an effort to force a particular result, it is worth asking whether we are truly trusting God, or simply trying to influence Him.

Jesus Himself gives us the clearest picture of what prayer looks like when desire and surrender coexist.

In the garden of Gethsemane (Matthew 26:39), facing suffering and death, Jesus prays:

My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as You will.

He expresses His desire honestly. He does not deny His humanity. But He submits that desire to the Father’s will.

Scripture encourages us to ask, but it never promises that asking is a way to control outcomes.

This moment reveals something essential about prayer. It is not the suppression of desire, nor is it an attempt to override God’s plan. It is the act of placing our desires before Him while remaining willing to trust His wisdom when the answer is not what we hoped for.

This helps us understand what prayer is actually for.

Prayer exists primarily to nurture relationship. Like any relationship, it requires communication—not because God lacks information, but because intimacy is built through presence and honesty. God already knows what we are facing, just as a parent often knows when their child is struggling. Still, there is something meaningful about being invited to speak, to share, to be known.

In prayer, we are not only speaking to God; we are also learning about ourselves. What we bring before Him—our fears, frustrations, longings, and hopes—reveals where our trust is placed and where it is still forming.

Prayer also rightly turns us outward. When we pray for others, we give time and attention to someone else’s burden, often in moments when no one else is watching. Scripture tells us that “God is love” (1 John 4:8). To intercede for another person is to participate in that love and allows it to shape us. In doing so, we become more aware of God’s presence within us—not because He was absent before, but because our attention has shifted.

Seen this way, prayer becomes less about results and more about relationship.

It becomes a space where we speak honestly to God about where we are, what we fear, and what we do not understand. We ask for wisdom rather than control. We ask for strength rather than escape. We acknowledge the weight of temptation, suffering, and uncertainty without pretending we can manage them on our own.

Prayer is also a discipline of listening. God’s response does not always come in the form of a voice. More often, it comes through Scripture, through circumstances, or through the slow reshaping of our understanding. Discernment matters here. Any thought, impression, or direction we believe comes from God must be tested against what He has already revealed in His Word.

This is why Scripture repeatedly urges believers to be grounded in truth. Paul describes this as putting on the armor of God—truth, righteousness, faith, salvation, and the Word of God itself (Ephesians 6:10–18). Without that foundation, we have no reliable way to discern what aligns with God’s will and what does not.

When prayer is treated as a list of requests to be fulfilled, disappointment is almost inevitable. Expectations go unmet, and doubt begins to take root. But the failure is not prayer itself, nor is it God. The problem lies in misunderstanding what prayer is meant to be.

Prayer is not a transaction. It is a relationship.

It is a posture of trust, an act of surrender, and a way of remaining present with God even when answers are unclear and outcomes remain unresolved.

It’s just something to think about.