Nothing Left To Give

One of the biggest misconceptions I’ve had about following Jesus is that the longer I walked with Him, the less I’d need Him.

I don’t think I’d ever say that out loud.

But I’ve lived like it.

Somewhere along the way, I started measuring growth by behavior. I don’t react as quickly anymore. I know more Scripture than I used to. I can recognize unhealthy patterns faster. I’ve become more patient in some areas.

Then God does what only He can do.

He doesn’t just look at what I do.

He looks at what I think.

And that is where I realize…

I am still an absolute wreck without Him.

Not because I’m living some secret double life.

Not because I’ve abandoned my faith.

Because there are still moments where my first thought isn’t holy.

My first reaction isn’t gracious.

My first instinct isn’t love.

I can still think incredibly judgmental things about people.

I can still assume motives I know nothing about.

I can still replay conversations in my head where I imagine saying the thing that would absolutely destroy someone if I ever had the courage to say it.

Sometimes I don’t even say it.

But the fact that I wanted to says enough.

Jesus didn’t just say we’d be accountable for our actions.

He preached straight to the heart.

“You have heard… but I say to you…”

Again and again, He wasn’t raising the standard of behavior.

He was exposing the condition of the heart.

That’s what He’s been doing with me.

My tongue has become one of the greatest indicators of what is still alive inside of me.

People often say, “At least you didn’t say it.”

Sometimes I think Heaven responds with, “But you wanted to.”

That has humbled me more than I can explain.

James wasn’t exaggerating when he said no human being can tame the tongue (James 3:8).

I used to read that thinking it referred only to words spoken.

Now I wonder if it also includes the conversations we have with ourselves.

The arguments we rehearse.

The criticisms we never voice.

The assumptions we quietly nurture.

The bitterness we polish until it sounds like discernment.

I’ve realized something uncomfortable.

Just because I’ve become quieter doesn’t always mean I’ve become kinder.

Sometimes I’ve simply become more sophisticated at hiding what my heart is producing.

That’s not transformation.

That’s better self-control.

Jesus came for something much deeper.

Luke 5 has become painfully personal to me.

Jesus steps into Peter’s boat and then asks him to go deeper.

Peter had every reason to question Him.

He had worked all night.

He knew fishing.

Jesus was a carpenter.

None of this made sense.

Yet Peter responds, “Because You say so…” (Luke 5:5).

That phrase keeps echoing in my own life.

Because You say so…

Leave your comfort.

Because You say so.

Lay down control.

Because You say so.

Stop comparing yourself.

Because You say so.

Watch your mouth.

Because You say so.

Judge less.

Forgive quicker.

Assume the best.

Be slow to speak.

Be quick to listen.

Those are the places that have been costing me lately.

God isn’t asking me to leave a physical boat.

He’s asking me to leave the places I keep returning to whenever my flesh feels threatened.

Comfort.

Control.

Comparison.

Self-righteousness.

The need to have the last word.

The need to be understood.

The need to be right.

The thing about Luke 5 is that the boat was never Peter’s problem.

The boat simply represented what he trusted.

I think we all have boats.

Some just look more respectable than others.

One of the hardest truths God has been teaching me is that purpose always exposes something.

Moses’ calling exposed his anger.

Gideon’s calling exposed his insecurity.

Paul’s calling exposed his pride.

The Samaritan woman encountered the places she’d spent years hiding.

Purpose doesn’t shame us.

It reveals us.

Not because God wants to embarrass us.

Because He refuses to let us carry into our calling the very things that will eventually destroy it.

Maybe that’s why following Jesus feels so offensive to my flesh.

Every time I think I’ve become a little more like Him, He lovingly shows me another room in my heart that still needs cleaning.

Years ago, I would’ve been discouraged by that.

Now I think it’s mercy.

Because if God stopped correcting me, that would be the terrifying part.

Hebrews tells us that He disciplines those He loves.

So, every conviction is actually evidence that He hasn’t given up on me.

Every uncomfortable revelation is another invitation to become more like Christ.

Nothing is wasted.

Not the years.

Not the failures.

Not the moments I wish I could take back.

Not even the ugly thoughts that remind me how desperately I still need a Savior.

At the end of Luke 5, Peter leaves the boat.

Lately, I’ve realized my boat isn’t made of wood.

It’s made of pride.

It’s made of self-reliance.

It’s made of thinking I’ve matured beyond certain struggles.

And everyday Jesus quietly stands on the shore saying the same thing He said to Peter.

“Come deeper.”

Not because I’ve become enough.

Because apart from Him, I never will be.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been learning all along.

The evidence that I’m growing isn’t that I need Jesus less.

It’s that I’m becoming increasingly aware of just how much I still do.