Ryan's Ramblings

Press On

“I came to you in weakness with great fear and trembling.” (1 Corinthians 2:3, NIV)

Recently, I went on a five-day backpacking trip that ended with a brutal 15-mile hike out. The first three miles were straight down—no trail, just loose rock, fallen trees, boulder fields, and steep terrain that punished with every step. By the bottom, my legs felt like Jello. Then came twelve more miles on a long, winding path that seemed like it would never end. Forty pounds on my back. Blisters on my feet. And somewhere along the way, I hit my limit.

The voice in my head was shouting: “This is impossible. I can’t take another step. Everything hurts. … Help!” But I had to keep going. I wasn’t alone—I was with five others. We had miles to go, and we were in it together. There was no shortcut and no option to tap out. The only way home… was forward.

Ever had one of those moments? Not just on a trail—but in life? When the loss you never saw coming hits harder than you imagined. When the job falls through. When the diagnosis returns. When your kids drift from the faith. When the dream goes unrealized.  When you’re older than you used to be—and not where you thought you’d be. When the weight of simply keeping going feels like too much.

You’re not alone.

Paul knew that feeling. He left Athens, where his message had mostly fallen flat, and made his way to Corinth—one of the darkest, most spiritually resistant cities in the Roman world. By the time he arrived, he was completely spent. He didn’t fake strength. He said, “I came to you in weakness, with great fear and trembling.”

That wasn’t exaggeration. It was honesty. And even in that place of weakness, the gospel was still at work. People were listening. Lives were being changed. And yet… resistance continued.

Challenge and struggle don’t always come with drama. Sometimes they arrive as a slow, steady grind. A quiet voice that whispers, “This isn’t making a difference.” A heaviness that settles in and won’t let go. An ache in the silence when you pray. A moment when you start to wonder if faithfulness is even worth it.

Paul experienced this. But he didn’t quit. That’s why I hold onto his words from prison: “I press on toward the goal…” (Philippians 3:14, NIV). It’s not about pushing harder—it’s about not giving up. It’s not about having all the answers—it’s about holding onto Jesus, who is the answer.

That phrase—press on—has become a kind of sacred rhythm in my life. It’s something I say to others as they move through life with all its joys and challenges. It’s how I often close conversations, letters, and emails—not as a cliché, but as an intentional encouragement. A quiet admonition to keep going, keep trusting, and keep walking with Jesus.

In a fragile moment, Jesus spoke to Paul: “Do not be afraid… for I am with you” (Acts 18:9–10). Paul’s fear didn’t disqualify him—it drew God near. God didn’t say, “Get over it.” Or, “Just do it.” He said, “I’m here. Keep going.”

And He says the same to you and me.

So wherever you are—however heavy the pack feels, or how long the road seems—look to Jesus … and press on.

Labels

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” (2 Corinthians 5:17, ESV)

Have you ever felt labeled? Like someone sized you up, made a snap judgment, and dropped you into a category without giving you a real chance?

I have. And I didn’t like it.

We all use labels. Sometimes out loud, but often just in our heads. We’re always sorting—people, ideas, even ourselves—into boxes we can manage. It’s how we make sense of the world.

But labels can limit. And sometimes they carry more weight than they should. Labels like musical, athletic, artistic, business-minded… religious—they shape how we see people. Some come with admiration. Others come with baggage.

We know what it means when someone is musical. They don’t just hum a tune—they play, write, perform. Call someone athletic, and you don’t mean they jog on weekends. You mean they compete, move with ease, and excel physically. Say someone is artistic, and you picture creativity spilling out in sketches, color, beauty. A business-minded person sees opportunity, thinks strategically, and knows how to make money.

Each label points to a life—a rhythm, a way of being. But religious? That one often comes weighed down with ritual, judgment, rules and performance. Some prefer the word spiritual. It sounds more personal, more expressive. That’s why you often hear, “I’m not religious, but I’m spiritual.”

I find Eugene Peterson’s comment on Christians and religion interesting:

“In some ways Christians are the least religious people in town—there is so much that we don't believe! We don't believe in good-luck charms, in horoscopes, in fate. We don't believe the world's promises or the world's curses.”

Christians don’t live by formulas. We live by faith. We’re not defined by rituals or spiritual vibes—we’re defined by Jesus. And He didn’t come to make people religious or spiritual—He came to make us new.

We see this in Jesus’ encounter with Nicodemus, one of the most spiritual—and perhaps most religious—men of His day (John 3). Nicodemus was curious—maybe even a little mystical. He came in secret at night, asked thoughtful questions, and had a teachable spirit. And he was “religious” squared—a Pharisee, a leader in the synagogue and a revered teacher in Israel. If anyone could have qualified for eternal life based on tradition, education, or moral effort, it was him.

But as Dallas Willard once wrote, “Grace is not opposed to effort; it’s opposed to earning.”

Nicodemus had the résumé, the training, the reputation, but Jesus wasn’t impressed. He was after something deeper.

“Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.” (John 3:3, NIV)

No accolades. No performance. Not more awakened. Just… “born again.” That phrase might sound dramatic—even outdated—but it’s at the very heart of the gospel.

Tim Keller put it simply: “You don’t earn being born. You don’t contribute to it. It just… happens. It’s grace.”

And so it is with salvation. Jesus didn’t offer Nicodemus a better version of his spiritual life. He offered him grace—a new life, rooted in Himself.

The Spirit’s work in us isn’t to make us impressive. It’s to make us new. And not just on Sundays, or when we pray, or do something “sacred.” Jesus is after all of it—the spreadsheets and the dishes, the wins and the losses, our time and our tears. He wants us to live a life so full of Him that it spills into everything.

That’s what it means to be a Christian. Not religious. Not spiritual. But real… alive in Him. Born again—not better behaved. New creations—not upgraded versions of our old selves.

Christian isn’t a label, a category, or a checkbox. It’s a life that points—clearly, humbly, unmistakably—to Jesus. 

I don’t like labels. But that’s one I’ll welcome.

Salt and Fight… Light

“You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world…” (Matthew 5:13–14, NIV)

Yesterday morning, I was pulling onto a busy road when I felt a nudge—literally. The car behind me bumped mine. I put my car in park and got out to check. No damage. The woman behind me stepped out of her vehicle, flustered and apologetic.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m just really stressed. I was distracted… I know that’s not an excuse.”

We talked for a moment. Nothing dramatic—just honest words exchanged between strangers. As we wrapped up, she said, “Thank you for being patient… and so kind.”

That word stuck with me: kind. She said it twice—like it surprised her. And maybe it did.

Kindness isn’t loud or flashy. It’s not a hot take or a fight to win. It’s quiet, faith-filled, and steady. And it stands out—especially in a world spoiling for a fight.

We’re living in a time when everyone seems on edge. Every conversation feels like a potential argument—about politics, church, traffic… even life itself. We’re braced for battle everywhere we go. All it took was a bumper-to-bumper thump to remind me how tightly wound we’ve all become—and how rare gentleness feels.

But Jesus calls us to something different. Listen to what He says in Matthew 5—not broken into sound bites, but as a continuous invitation and calling:

“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you. You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world…” (Matthew 5:11–14, NIV)

Did you catch that? Rejoice and be glad doesn’t come after the storm—it comes in the middle of it. Right in the midst of the bumps, bruises, persecution, insults, frustrations, and false accusations. That’s the context for salt and light.

We tend to break those verses into categories—pain over here, purpose over there. But Jesus wove them together. And He flipped everything.

We think the good life means having things go our way, living in comfort, moving with convenience, and staying in control. But Jesus says if you’re truly following Him, you may face bumps, difficulty, and resistance—and that’s where your witness matters most.

Salt doesn’t shout. It doesn’t post angry rebuttals. It seeps in quietly. It preserves what’s good. At times it may sting a little—but it also heals.

To have that kind of quiet influence, we need wisdom—not the world’s kind, but the kind that comes from above. James (the brother of Jesus) said it like this:

“The wisdom from above is first of all pure, peace-loving, gentle at all times, and willing to yield to others.” (James 3:17, NLT)

Godly wisdom doesn’t clamor for attention. It works quietly, often unnoticed.

As E. Stanley Jones put it:

“We are to be salt before we can be light. No man can shine in obviousness unless he is willing to permeate in obscurity.”

Obscurity. Insults. Weakness. They don’t mean you’re doing it wrong. They might mean you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

Look to Jesus and listen to His words. Let them steady you. Stay faithful. And when the world is itching for a fight—be kind. Because it’s not about the fight.

It’s about the light.

What Now?

“Or those eighteen who died when the tower in Siloam fell on them—do you think they were more guilty than all the others living in Jerusalem? I tell you, no.” (Luke 13:4–5, NIV)

Tragedy happens. We live in a world where car accidents steal lives, wars rage, and society fractures under the weight of conflict. These things grieve us deeply. And yet, in a broken world, where sorrow makes the news every day, we grow used to it—maybe even a little numb.

But then something happens that stops us cold. Something that feels unbearably wrong. Like twenty-seven young lives, taken in an instant—swept away by floodwaters at a church camp. And we’re left stunned. Reaching for words. And we find ourselves asking the age-old question: Why?

Jesus once pointed to a tragedy—a tower in Siloam that collapsed and killed eighteen people. The people of His day wanted to understand why. Was it punishment? Did the victims somehow deserve it? Jesus didn’t give them an explanation. He gave them an invitation. “Do you think they were worse sinners? I tell you, no. But unless you repent…” 

It may sound severe—even insensitive—but what He was doing was gently shifting the question: from Why? to What now? He was helping them see that tragedy seldom comes with a reason. Yet it always comes with a reminder—life is fragile, and our hope was never meant to rest in this world.

There’s a scene in John 11 where Jesus stands at the tomb of His friend Lazarus. He knows resurrection is coming—yet still, He weeps. But before that moment, John tells us that Jesus was “deeply moved.” The Greek word used there—embrimaomai—means a deep, guttural groaning. Anguish. Rage. Not passive sorrow, but a holy fury—directed at death itself. At the ruin and sorrow. Because this is not how it was meant to be.

God created a world of love and free choice. He didn’t create tragedy. Sin and brokenness did that. And the Enemy has had a heyday with it ever since. But Jesus came to end that reign. That’s why He stood at Lazarus’ grave. And it’s why He willingly walked toward His own. Not to escape death—but to defeat it.

He saw the grief of Mary and Martha. The tower in Siloam. The hospital waiting room. The empty crib. The centuries of names etched in tombstones. And… He saw Camp Mystic. 

He went to the cross to undo it all.

The Enemy thought death would finish us. But Jesus walked straight into the grave—and walked out again. Alive. Yet for now, even that doesn’t erase the pain. We still grieve. And the question of “why” still haunts us. But we can know this: the One who wept and groaned and raged is redeeming. Jesus is not far off. He is near. He is with us.

So—“what now?” We pray… for those who have lost the ones they love… and for ourselves, that we would hold fast to faith and not be overcome by the temptation to doubt God’s goodness. 

And we hope and trust in Jesus—the One who will make all things new.

 

Been With Jesus

“When they saw the courage of Peter and John and realized that they were unschooled, ordinary men, they were astonished and took note that these men had been with Jesus.” (Acts 4:13, NIV)

I meet every week with a group of educated young men for Bible study—guys who are genuinely trying to follow Jesus. A few weeks ago, while we were reading Acts 4, Dominic leaned back and said, “I don’t buy that Peter and John were unschooled. They spent three years walking with Jesus. Isn’t that about the length of time it takes to earn a doctorate?”

We chuckled at his comment—but then sat with it. He had a point.

Peter and John didn’t attend rabbinical school, and they didn’t carry religious credentials. But they followed the Word made flesh. They ate with Him, traveled with Him, listened to Him teach, watched Him weep, heard Him laugh, and saw Him heal. He didn’t just shape their theology; He shaped their entire way of being. It wasn’t classroom learning—it was daily apprenticeship with Jesus.

And now, filled with His Spirit, the disciples were doing exactly what He did. Just days earlier, Peter had healed a man who couldn’t walk. Then he stood before a hostile council and declared that salvation is found in no one else but Jesus. These weren’t timid followers anymore. Their courage, clarity, and authority made it obvious—they had been with Him.

I’ve spent a lot of time in classrooms, both as a teacher and as a student. And here’s what I’ve learned: godly wisdom doesn’t come from seat time. It comes from walking with Jesus. He is the source of Truth. In Him, “are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge” (Col. 2:3). He doesn’t just inform us—He transforms us. Wisdom doesn’t grow through textbooks, but through time in His presence.

In Acts 11, we’re told that the early believers were first called “Christians” in the city of Antioch. It wasn’t a badge of honor—it was a slur. It meant “those belonging to Christ” or “Christ’s men.” A label of reproach for people who lived and looked a little too much like Him. The world thought they were fools. But they had been with Jesus—and His Spirit now lived in them—and that made all the difference.

Degrees may impress. Positions might matter. But presence—His presence—is what remains. The world may call you unschooled, ordinary, even foolish. Fine. Let them. But may one name stick—in its truest sense, not reduced to a label or a title.

Christian—not as a badge we wear, but as a life we live. And most of all, may the world take note that we have… been with Jesus.

 

His Address Is Grace

God’s address is at the end of your rope. —Dallas Willard

Some time ago, I was diagnosed with a rare, deadly disease—one that only five in a million people get. It was a tumor called an insulinoma, hidden deep in my pancreas. And it was killing me. For six long months, I went from doctor to doctor with no answers. My symptoms worsened, and my strength faded. I was scared, frustrated, and desperate—clinging to Jesus. I was in a tight spot. But while I was there, something deeper was happening.

King David once prayed,

“O God of my righteousness: Thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress.” (Psalm 4:1, KJV)

King David was in a tight space—and God met him with wide grace. Not just by providing escape, but by expanding his heart. God made room—for trust to deepen, for love to grow, and for David to glimpse the height, depth, width, and length of His presence. Like David, I found that when the Lord steps into our distress, freedom and hope follow—even in the tightest places.

I ended up making three trips to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. Through the skill of the medical team—and by the grace of God—the tumor was found and removed. I was healed. But even more miraculous than the healing… I was changed. Not just in body—but in soul.

Dallas Willard once said, “God’s address is at the end of your rope.” Some have suggested that if that truth had a website, it might be called: http://www.attheendofyourrope.com. It’s not a real URL, of course—but the metaphor holds. It’s where striving ends… and grace begins. And I was unquestionably there—at the end of my rope. I had nothing left but God… and the faithful prayers of my friends, family, and church.

Not only was I in a tight place—but I felt completely alone. A bit like Jonah. Trapped in the belly of a whale. Isolated. Powerless. Waiting. And it was there, in that dark, hidden place, that prayer and faith became real. To tie in with the earlier URL reference, here’s a fitting hashtag for my Instagram friends: #inthebellyofawhale. It’s where faith is born—and where prayer gets honest.

Eugene Peterson once noted that in parts of Eastern Europe, some pulpits were built in the shape of a whale. To preach, the pastor had to ascend through the belly and speak from the mouth. It wasn’t just a clever design. It was a deep conviction: something happens in a tight place that can’t happen anywhere else. The belly of the whale is a place of reckoning and surrender. It’s where dead hearts find clarity—and new life begins.

The journey you’re in now? That rope? The belly? They’re not detours. They’re not too much for God. And they’re not signs He’s forgotten you. They’re the very places of transformation—the places where grace finds us.

Here’s the invitation Jesus offers to anyone in that place:

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened…” (Matthew 11:28, NIV)

So whether you’re barely hanging on at http://www.attheendofyourrope.com, or gasping for breath at #inthebellyofawhale… remember: you’re not lost. You’re not alone. Jesus is already there. Look to Him.

His address… is grace.

 

[The following is my fledgling attempt at historical fiction, sparked by my recent study and sermon on Joshua 2. Scripture tells us that two unnamed spies were sent into Jericho—and while their identities remain a mystery, my imagination couldn’t help but wonder: Could one of them have been Caleb, the faithful warrior who knew the land? And what about Salmon—the man who would later marry Rahab and become the father of Boaz, named in the genealogy of Jesus? This retelling takes creative liberty while remaining rooted in biblical truth. It’s not meant to rewrite Scripture, but to help us wonder, reflect, and trace the scarlet thread of redemption woven through it all.]

The Scarlet Thread

“Tie this scarlet cord in the window through which you let us down…” (Joshua 2:18, ESV)

Caleb was tired of waiting. Forty years had passed since he and Joshua had torn their robes in frustration—begging the people to trust God and take the land. But the people listened to the ten, and the two of them spent the next forty years digging graves for a faithless generation.

But now… it was time to enter the Promised Land. Joshua was in charge, and he turned to Caleb and said, “We need eyes on Jericho.”

Caleb nodded. “I have someone.”

Salmon was young, but not green. He was the kind of man who listened more than he spoke. He walked with God, moved like a shadow, and carried a quiet discernment that set him apart. He was a rising warrior from the tribe of Judah—and one of Caleb’s finest protégés.

When Caleb approached him that morning, Salmon stood, spear in hand, dressed and ready. Caleb smiled. “We’ve got work to do.”

Jericho loomed—massive and imposing, but not invincible. They entered the city under cover of dusk, blending in with a caravan of merchants at the gate. Caleb kept to the shadows while Salmon scouted ahead. They knew they were being watched.

Then came a whisper—“This way.” And they followed. The voice belonged to a woman. Her name was Rahab. She led them up a narrow staircase, into a room of thick curtains, colorful linens, and strong perfume. “I know who you are,” she said. “Everyone in Jericho does.”

Then came the pounding at the door—loud, urgent. It was the king’s men, and she acted quickly. She hid the men under a pile of flax on the roof and spun a tale of travelers who had been there but had already fled the city. Her ruse worked.

That night, under the stars, she spoke quietly:

“We’ve heard about your God—how He dried up the Red Sea. How He gave you victory over Egypt. Everyone here is terrified…but I believe. I believe your God is the true God.”

Salmon stared at her. Not with suspicion—but with wonder. She wasn’t like anyone he’d met before. Her faith was raw, desperate,…real. Caleb watched him watching her. And he knew.

The spies made a promise. Rahab had saved them—and they would save her. Before they slipped into the hills, they turned to her one last time. “Tie this scarlet cord in your window. When we return, it will be the sign.”

The scarlet cord was a symbol of mercy—the thread of salvation. So Rahab let them down through the window, and she left the cord tied in place. The spies vanished into the hills, and three days later they stood before Joshua.

Salmon reported, “The Lord has surely given us the land.”

Caleb didn’t speak of Rahab. But later, he looked the young man in the eye and said, “Go get her.” Salmon did, and years later, their son would be named Boaz. He’d be a man of kindness. A redeemer. A beautiful strand in the patchwork of redemption. And when the family line was recorded, Boaz was named—and so was his mother, Rahab: a former outsider, now woven into the story of salvation.

Generations later, another child would be born—and the scarlet thread would continue. Not through a rope, but as a promise. In a person—Jesus.

Refreshment

“Then times of refreshment will come from the presence of the Lord.” (Acts 3:19, NLT)

It’s one of my greatest joys to lead a weekly Bible study with a group of sharp, faith-filled young professionals. These guys are in their mid-twenties—walking with God and hungry to grow in their faith. We’re working our way through the book of Acts, and recently we came to the moment in chapter 3 when Peter and John encountered a man who had been crippled from birth. He was expecting coins from them—but what he got was healing.

It was a miracle, and a crowd gathered—full of questions.

Peter—never one to miss a moment—pointed straight to Jesus and said, “You handed Him over. You denied the Holy and Righteous One. You killed the Author of life, but God raised Him from the dead.”

The people hadn’t understood who Jesus really was—not then, but now they did. And Peter extended the invitation:

“Now repent of your sins and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped away. Then times of refreshment will come from the presence of the Lord” (Acts 3:19, NLT).

That last line caught us.

One of the guys said, “I’ve heard of peace and joy. But I’ve never heard of… refreshment.”

Another nodded. “Yeah. What exactly is that?”

We all sat with it for a moment—curious, amazed, longing. We let it sink in. We knew that feeling—or maybe more honestly, we knew our need for it. Not just peace or joy, but something deeper—something we hadn’t had words for until now.

Refreshment. Not a break. Not a pause. But a real, soul-deep restoring. Like water on dry ground. Like catching your breath after a hard workout.

That Bible study conversation stayed with me. A few days later, still thinking about what refreshment really means, I bumped into this line in Jeremiah 45:5:

“I will give you your life as a reward wherever you go” (NLT).

That’s a promise spoken to the scribe Baruch, at a time of chaos, in a culture crumbling at the edges. God wasn’t promising ease. He was promising something better—Life. Real life. Whole life. A life that doesn’t rise and fall with the headlines, the markets, or the mood of the day.

And it hit me—that is refreshment. Not escape from trouble. Not the absence of struggle. But the presence of God in it all. When we surrender to Him—truly let go of control, fear, and our sin—we don’t just survive. We breathe again. We live—fully, freely… refreshed.

Hundreds of years after Jeremiah and Baruch, Jesus said,

“I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” (John 10:10, NIV)

Let that sink in today.

Peter made it clear to the crowd then, and to you and me now: Jesus, the One who was crucified and raised—the One who heals, forgives, and restores—is still inviting us to come, to repent, and to receive… refreshment.

A Goad of Grace

“When the blood of your martyr Stephen was shed, I stood there giving my approval and guarding the clothes of those who were killing him.” (Acts 22:20, NIV)

There’s that one thing.

You know what it is—and I do too. The moment you wish you could rewrite. That thing you did—or stood by and let happen. Sometimes it haunts us. Other times, we almost forget—tucking it under the pile of “good” we’ve done. Time and distance help us rationalize it and we move on… sort of.

But then comes the poke. A word. A memory. A moment that left a mark. And we feel it—deeply. It presses and prods. It won’t let you stay where you are.

That’s what a goad does.

Goad is not a word we use much anymore, but in the ancient world, it was a pointed stick used by a farmer to prod an ox in the right direction. If the animal resisted—if it kicked back—it only ended up hurting itself more.

That’s the image Jesus used when He addressed Saul on the road to Damascus:

“Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me? It is hard for you to kick against the goads.” (Acts 26:14, ESV)

Goads aren’t just painful—they’re persistent. They dig, prod, and poke. They’re not meant to destroy—but to guide. You know that sting of conviction? That holy discomfort that won’t leave you alone? It might not be punishment—it just might be a goad of grace.

For Saul, I wonder if one of those goads was the face of Stephen—the first Christian martyr. Saul was there when he died—approving of his murder. But Stephen didn’t curse. Instead, he forgave. He looked up to heaven and prayed for the very ones throwing the stones.

That kind of love leaves a mark.

Maybe that image was seared into Saul’s mind. Maybe it played on repeat in his soul. Here’s the truth: God doesn’t waste anything—not even our worst moments. The very thing the Enemy meant to use as shame, God can use as a holy irritation, a divine haunting—a goad—not to condemn, but to call us closer.

Jesus didn’t die on the cross to let our past have the last word. He’s holy—and the pain and guilt we carry didn’t come from Him. But in His mercy, He takes it on and transforms it. He loves us with a relentless love, and that nudge in your spirit, that ache of regret, that tension you can’t shake—it’s not an interruption. It’s an invitation.

He goads us—not to shame us, but to save us. Not to punish, but to pursue. Until we find our peace in Him we’ll keep feeling unsettled—not because He’s far off, but because He’s drawing near. Pressing in. His grace won’t let us go.

That’s what happened to Saul. The goads became grace. The one who tried to silence the church became Paul—the gospel’s most passionate preacher. Sometimes the most merciful thing God can do is make us uncomfortable. His loving conviction might feel like a sharp prod in the ribs, but it’s actually His kindness—leading us to repentance (Rom. 2:4).

So if something’s poking at you, don’t kick against it. Don’t run away. Lean in—and listen to Jesus.

It might just be a goad of grace.

 

God’s Enough

"If you find honey, eat just enough—too much of it, and you will vomit." (Proverbs 25:16, NIV)

I have a problem.

Actually, I have several: all-you-can-eat buffets, my wife’s gluten-free chocolate chip cookies, and chips and dip—especially chips and dip. I love them… and then I hate myself about an hour later. I eat past the point of fullness and end up writhing in discomfort, can’t sleep, and feel awful.

And here’s the thing—my wife sees it coming. With love in her eyes and a hand on my arm, she’ll say, “You better stop.” Or, “That’s enough.” She’s not trying to shame me. She’s trying to help me. She knows how I’ll feel later. And when I actually listen—when I stop while I’m still feeling good—it’s a gift. I feel fine. I sleep well. No regrets. But I don’t always listen. I ignore her wisdom and keep eating… and it’s not pretty. 

Eugene Peterson wrote a great book called A Long Obedience in the Same Direction. It’s about the steady, faithful path of following Jesus over time. That’s how we want to live. But too often, we find ourselves drifting toward its opposite—a long disobedience in the same direction.

This path rarely looks like rebellion. More often, it looks like indulgence. It starts with something good—harmless, even deserved. But then we keep going. We reach past “enough,” blow past wisdom, ignore the quiet whisper of God’s Spirit—and eventually, we’re sick.

Derek Kidner put words to this deception: 

“Beyond God’s enough lies ecstasy—not nausea.” 

You might want to read that again. It’s a lie. It’s the same one the serpent whispered in the garden. The same distortion that pulled King Solomon off course. That more will finally satisfy. That God is holding out on you.

But Jesus didn’t fall for it.

In the wilderness, when the enemy tempted Him with bread, power, and glory, Jesus said, “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” He trusted the Father. He lived within God’s enough.

It’s a theme that runs throughout Scripture: When God gave manna in the wilderness, it was enough for the day—never for the week. No stockpiles. No hoarding. Just trust. Jesus taught us to pray, “Give us this day our daily bread”—not a warehouse full. Even Paul, tormented by a thorn, heard these words from Jesus: “My grace is sufficient for you.” It’s enough. 

Disobedience doesn’t always show up in defiance. Sometimes it looks like just one more bite, one more scroll, one more purchase—one more step away from trust. It starts sweet, but ends with a sour stomach.

Is there something in your life right now that you’re chasing past “enough”? Something that started as a gift… but is quietly becoming a god? A long disobedience that’s subtly pulling you in the wrong direction?

Maybe it’s time to listen to the Voice that says, “You’ve had enough.” It’s not because God is stingy. Not because He’s some kind of killjoy. But because He loves you. Because He sees what’s coming and He wants better for you. The world preaches scarcity, but Jesus offers sufficiency. In Him, we avoid regret and find rest.

He is God’s Enough.