Standing Firm – The Posture of a Believer in a Shaking Culture

 

“Do not be afraid nor dismayed… for the battle is not yours, but God’s.”
2 Chronicles 20:15 (NKJV)

There are seasons in Scripture when God’s people find themselves surrounded. Threats rise from more than one direction, voices grow louder, and fear begins to settle into the land. When Israel faced moments like this, the natural instinct would have been to prepare for war, to organise, to react, to fight.

Yet God often spoke a very different word. Do not fear. Stand firm. The battle is not yours, but Mine.

I have found myself returning to these passages again recently. Not because I enjoy confrontation. Quite the opposite. But because the spiritual landscape around us has been shifting. There is increasing hostility toward Scripture, confusion around truth, and a growing confidence in ideologies that press against the heart of the Gospel. At times it feels like those ancient moments when Israel looked up and saw opposing armies advancing.

At first, I noticed faces. Politicians. Commentators. Protesters. Leaders. Words spoken. Behaviour displayed. And it felt personal, as though these were the enemies to be opposed.

But the Lord has been gently correcting my vision. People are not the enemy. Scripture is clear. We do not wrestle against flesh and blood.

The real battle is spiritual. What we see is only the surface. Beneath cultural movements and shifting values are deeper forces that resist Christ and push against the light of the Gospel, just as they did in the days of Jehoshaphat and the prophets.

What has surprised me is not what God has revealed about the battle, but what He has not asked of me. I have not sensed Him calling me to fight in the way the world fights. Not in anger. Not in argument. Not in fear.

Instead, He has been shaping a quieter and firmer posture in me.
To stand firm.
To remain unmoved.
To hold my ground in Christ.

This is not passivity. It is not withdrawal. It is not resignation. It is the strength of a man who knows where he stands and whose he is. Standing firm is active, but it is not frantic. It is rooted.

It means refusing to bow to the spirit of the age while keeping my heart clean in a noisy world. It means speaking truth calmly when prompted, without aggression or fear. It means recognising the spiritual nature of the battle without turning people into enemies. It means allowing peace to become a guard around my life, a peace that does not come from circumstances, but from Christ Himself.

I am increasingly convinced that the victories God brings do not come from fighting culture with culture, or from trying to shout louder than the crowd.

They come from strengthening our own foundations. From building up those who already belong to Christ. From walking patiently with those God brings to us. From inviting others into the light, rather than pushing them toward it.

This is evangelism at its most grounded. Not rallies or arguments, but the steady witness of a life rooted in truth when everything around it trembles.

As I have walked this out, I sense the Lord saying again and again, do not carry battles that belong to Me. Stand in the place I have set you. Strengthen those I bring to you. Resist the pressure of the world with the peace I give you. Trust that I am the One who fights the battles you were never meant to carry alone.

This is where I find myself today. Not fighting the world, but standing firm in Christ for the sake of the world. Holding the line without hardening my heart. Refusing the lie without losing peace. Strengthening those around me. Inviting others into the same light. Trusting that the God who fought for Israel still fights for His people now.

“Watch, stand fast in the faith, be brave, be strong.”
1 Corinthians 16:13 (NKJV)

Peace, Authority, and Truth — How They Work Together

 

I’ve been reflecting recently on how peace, authority, and truth relate to one another in the life of a believer. At first they can seem like separate ideas, but the more I sit with them, the more I see that they belong together and depend on one another. When they are held rightly, they bring clarity and steadiness. When they are separated, something essential is lost.

The picture that has helped me most is a simple one. Peace is the ground I stand on. Authority is the direction I am given. Truth is what I am entrusted to carry. It is only a metaphor, but it helps me see how these three work together rather than competing with one another.

Peace is not external quietness, nor the absence of conflict. It is an inner position of alignment with God. Peace is the place where the heart rests under Christ’s rule. When I hold my peace, I remain steady and responsive. When I lose my peace, I become reactive or defensive without realising it. Peace is the stable footing from which everything else flows.

Authority, in this sense, is not about force or control. It is about direction. It is the God-given permission to speak and act under Christ’s commission. Authority brings focus. It helps discern what is mine to say, what is mine to do, and what is not. Without authority, words scatter and activity becomes unfocused. With authority, responses are shaped, timely, and restrained. Authority gives direction to truth, not pressure.

Truth itself is not simply correct information. In Scripture, truth is personal and relational. Truth is everything that aligns with Christ Himself. Jesus did not only teach truth. He said, “I am the truth.” Truth therefore includes His teaching, His character, His way of seeing reality, the witness of Scripture, and everything that corresponds to His nature. Truth is not opinion, feeling, or interpretation. Truth is Christ.

When these three are separated, imbalance follows. Without peace, authority becomes unstable and truth can sound harsh. Without authority, truth loses direction and becomes unfocused. Without truth, authority becomes empty and peace slips into passivity. But when peace, authority, and truth are held together, something very different happens.

Peace steadies the heart. Authority focuses the response. Truth carries the life and power of Christ.

Seen this way, “speaking the truth in love” becomes much clearer. It is not mainly about tone. It is about alignment, timing, and purpose. We stand in peace. We act with God-given authority. We speak truth because truth brings clarity, light, and life.

Peace Is Not Passivity — Peace Is Power

 

I have been thinking a great deal about peace over the last couple of days. Not the idea of peace, and not simply the feeling of peace, but what peace actually is in the life of a believer. The more I explore it, the more I realise that the peace Jesus speaks of has very little to do with the soft, quiet calm we often associate with the word.

Peace is not merely a feeling. A calm feeling is only the surface. Peace itself runs far deeper.

For me, peace is an attitude of the heart, a spiritual posture that governs how I think, how I feel, and how I act. It is the inner orientation that determines whether I respond to life from fear or from faith, from panic or from obedience, from the flesh or from the Spirit.

Because I understand peace to be a work of the Spirit, I do not experience it as passive at all. Peace is power, God’s power at work within me.

Paul describes peace as a fruit of the Spirit, but I have often noticed how easily we read the word “fruit” as if it refers to pleasant personality traits. To me, fruit is not softness. It is not temperament. It is not natural disposition.

I have come to see the fruit of the Spirit as expressions of God’s own power actively at work within us.

Love is not sentiment; it is power. Joy is not positivity; it is power. Peace is not relaxation; it is power. Self-control is not willpower; it is power.

Every element of the fruit carries divine strength. I do not see them as decorations of Christian character, but as signs of the kingdom breaking through a human life.

Each one can be studied, explored, and grown in. At the moment, the Spirit keeps drawing my attention to peace, and I am slowly realising just how vast and weighty this one fruit truly is.

Inner Peace and Outer Turmoil

External peace, understood as the absence of conflict, is welcome when it happens, but for me it is not the point. As I read the Gospels, I do not see Jesus offering a promise of an easy or conflict free life.

What I do see is an offer of His peace, a stillness that can remain even when the world becomes turbulent. I have found that it is possible to hold that inner stillness even when emotions flare around me, when words become sharp, and when situations escalate. Over the past year, I have been learning the difference between external turbulence and inner calm.

As I prayed into this, the question felt as though it was being pressed deeper.

What about when external turbulence becomes external threat? What about confrontation, danger, or violence?

One morning, the question moved from theory into something more concrete. An image came to mind. I am out walking, and a group of youths approach and demand my phone. What does peace look like then? Do I hand it over? Do I resist? Did Jesus mean “do not resist evil” in the sense of total passivity?

My own understanding is that when Jesus spoke about not resisting an evil person, He was not teaching victimhood. I understand Him to be speaking against retaliation, not against righteous action. I hear Him forbidding vengeance, not protection. I do not hear Him asking us to permit evil, but to refuse to mirror it.

If someone threatened Linda, or someone weaker, or even the dogs, peace would not call me to stand aside. Peace would call me to stand rightly.

Inner peace gives clarity. Clarity gives courage. Courage gives the right action at the right time.

I believe it is possible to protect with a clean heart, to stand firm without hatred, and to intervene without stepping into sin. Peace makes this possible because peace governs the inner world, while obedience governs the outer.

The Circle of Peace

As I prayed, another image came. Peace feels eternal to me, flowing from the very nature of God, yet it also seems to encircle me. I experience it like a boundary, a holy perimeter within which sin has no room to operate.

When I remain within that circle, my heart stays clear. When I step outside of it, into anger, fear, retaliation, or pride, the inner order collapses.

Inside the circle of peace, something extraordinary happens. My will aligns. My emotions settle. My thoughts clarify. My reactions slow. My authority strengthens.

For me, peace is not the absence of sin. It is the environment in which sin loses its power.

Peace Is Standing in the Light of His Glory

This is how I understand peace. It is standing in the light of His glory, attentive to His voice, aligned with His will, and strengthened by His authority.

It is the stillness of knowing that the One within me is greater than the chaos before me.

It does not feel soft. It does not feel passive. It does not feel fragile.

Peace is the power of God made stable in the human heart.

As I continue to learn, peace becomes the ground from which everything else flows. Obedience, clarity, authority, courage, love, truth, and right action.

When I read Jesus’ words, “My peace I give to you,” I do not hear an offer of comfort alone. I hear an offer of strength.

And that is what I want to explore next, how peace becomes the environment in which true spiritual authority grows.

Only Do What the Father Is Doing

 

“The Son can do nothing of Himself, but only what He sees the Father doing.” John 5:19

For a long time, I thought of peace as something that came after everything else was sorted. A feeling that arrived once the right decisions had been made, the tension resolved, the storm calmed. Peace, in my mind, was the reward for getting things right.

Lately, that understanding has begun to change.

I am starting to see that peace is not the outcome of God’s work, but often the sign that I am standing where He is already working. Peace arrives not at the end of the journey, but at the moment of alignment. It comes when I stop trying to manage the moment myself and instead pay attention to what God is doing here and now.

This has been a quiet but important shift for me. When I carry responsibility that does not belong to me, my mind becomes busy, my thoughts rush ahead, and peace drains away. I start making plans, weighing options, rehearsing outcomes. Nothing is obviously wrong, but something essential has slipped out of place. I am active, but not settled. Capable, but not at rest.

And then, almost without drama, peace returns when I pause and turn my attention back to the Lord. Not with a long prayer, or a clear answer, but with a simple recognition that He is present. Often I do not yet know what He is doing. I just know that He is here. And that, I am learning, is enough.

What surprises me is that peace usually comes before understanding. I had assumed I would see clearly first, and then feel peaceful. Instead, peace arrives while questions remain. The situation may not change. The outcome may still be uncertain. But something within settles, and with it comes a quiet confidence that I am not alone in the moment.

This peace is not passivity. It does not mean ignoring difficulty or avoiding truth. It is not pretending that things are easier than they are. It is a steady presence that allows truth to be spoken without fear and silence to be held without anxiety. It is the peace Jesus carried with Him into every room, every conversation, every storm.

I am beginning to recognise peace as a kind of spiritual bearing. When peace is present, I know I am facing the right direction, even if I cannot yet see the path ahead. When peace is absent, it often tells me that I have stepped back into carrying something by myself.

So now, rather than asking first what I should do, I find myself asking where peace is. Not peace as comfort, but peace as alignment. Peace as the atmosphere of God’s presence. Peace as the quiet confirmation that I am standing where the Father is at work.

And this has become a gentle guide for me. When peace is here, I stay. When peace leaves, I pause. Not to force it back, but to return my attention to the One who walks with me.

“Let the peace of God rule in your hearts.” Colossians 3:15

When the Yoke Pulls in Different Directions

 

“Then the Lord saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every intent of the         thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.” (Genesis 6:5, NKJV)

I found myself pondering Genesis 6 today, those mysterious verses about the sons of God and the daughters of men. Over the centuries, many interpretations have been suggested. Some see supernatural beings, others see tribal rulers, and others understand the passage as a spiritual picture of those who walked with God joining themselves to those who did not.

I am not trying to settle that debate. What struck me afresh was not about ancient giants or the world before the flood, but about a spiritual principle that still matters today. When lives moving toward God yoke themselves to lives moving away from Him, the result can become destructive.

This is not a statement about women, nor about gender at all. It applies equally to men and women, to husbands and wives, to friendships, partnerships, leadership teams, and any relationship where two people are joined in a shared direction.

Jesus spoke of a yoke, His yoke, as something that brings rest. A yoke assumes movement together, in the same direction, at the same pace, with a shared purpose. I often picture this as two people in the same boat. Disagreement about a detail can be uncomfortable, but when the disagreement runs deeper, touching worldview, values, or the understanding of the journey itself, the boat can begin to tear apart from the inside. Not every disagreement creates chaos, but an uneven yoke often does.

Genesis describes a world in which corruption spread until God brought judgment through the flood. However we understand the details, Scripture shows us a pattern that repeats itself. Misplaced yoking leads to distorted desire. Distorted desire gives rise to violence. Slowly, a world loses its way. While today’s storms look different, the spiritual reality remains the same. 

The enemy still seeks to weaken faith through misaligned attachments.

At this point, the reflection could easily be misunderstood if left unfinished, especially when marriage is in view. For friendships, business relationships, or ministry partnerships, the wisest response to an uneven yoke may be to end or redefine the relationship. Marriage is different. Marriage is covenant. We do not read Genesis 6 and conclude that if a spouse rows in another direction, departure is the answer.

Instead, a different question emerges. How does a believer row like Jesus, even when the yoke feels uneven?

In seasons of conflict, high emotion, or exhaustion, deep spiritual strategies can feel unreachable. In His kindness, Jesus does not burden us with complexity in such moments. He gives us ways of being that are simple, though never easy. He teaches us to forgive without keeping score, to examine our own hearts honestly, to choose costly kindness where resentment would feel justified, and to refuse escalation even when provoked. These ways do not deny pain, and they do not excuse harm. They do, however, keep the heart aligned with Christ.

These practices carry no guarantee that the other person will change. That outcome does not belong to us. What they do is anchor the believer to Jesus. Sometimes the deepest work God does in a marriage begins not with a solution, but with a different spirit entering the boat.

The flood wiped away corruption, but God preserved a family. He still does. The call is not to fear, nor to withdraw from relationship, but to discern what we yoke our hearts to and to keep walking with Jesus even when another pulls differently. His yoke is easy and His burden is light.

Sometimes the storm is not calmed when the waves stop, but when one person in the boat chooses the way of Jesus. That choice may not fix everything, but it keeps the ark within reach and the heart aligned with Christ.

“Come to Me, all you who labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke                 upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your             souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28–30, NKJV)

Speak Little, Speak True

 “Set a guard, O LORD, over my mouth; Keep watch over the door of my lips.” — Psalm 141:3 (NKJV)

Over recent days I have been returning to a simple but demanding question. How do we know when to speak, and how do we know when to remain quiet. Not silence born of fear or withdrawal, but restraint shaped by obedience. As I look back now, I can see that this question did not suddenly appear. God was already speaking to me about it in mid-November, though I did not yet have the language to recognise it for what it was.

At that time, my understanding of congruence was shaping much of how I listened. I was attentive to alignment between words, actions, and inner truth, and that framework was helpful and faithful as far as it went. What I can now see, with the benefit of time and prayer, is that God was using that very framework to lead me somewhere deeper. He was already drawing me toward obedience that rests not only on inner alignment, but on trust in His voice even when that voice leads beyond my immediate understanding.

This has become clearer as I have been reading 1 Kings 13, the account of the man of God who was sent with a clear word from the Lord and a clear instruction about how to carry it. He obeyed faithfully until another prophet spoke to him, claiming spiritual authority and angelic confirmation, and persuaded him to do the very thing God had told him not to do. The story unsettles because the man of God was not ignorant. He already knew what the Lord had said. He chose to trust another voice over the word he had received himself.

What strikes me now is not only the danger of deception, but how easily obedience can be displaced by something that still sounds reasonable, spiritual, and even congruent. The older prophet’s words were coherent. They fit a narrative. They made sense relationally. Yet they did not come from God. This is where my earlier reflections on congruence now meet a deeper truth. Alignment within ourselves is important, but it is not the same as obedience to God’s revealed word.

Around the same period in November, two reflections emerged quietly in my work and reading. One grew out of a counselling session and later became the piece I called Tangled and Untangled. The other arose while reading Ecclesiastes again, wrestling with its honesty and its insistence that life only finds its meaning when lived before God. Both reflections came with peace. At the time, I received them as thoughtful, integrated insights. I can now see that they were also part of God teaching me to trust what He gives, even before I understood where He was leading.

What followed was subtle. I noticed an impulse to second guess myself, not because anything felt wrong, but because I wondered how others might receive what I had written. Would they object. Would they misunderstand. Would they criticise. Looking back, I can see that this was the very place God was already addressing. The correction that has become clear to me now was already present then. Trust the words I give you. If correction is needed, I will bring it. Do not surrender what I have given you to someone else’s reaction.

Alongside this, another instruction has continued to grow more distinct. Speak little. Not as avoidance, and not as fear, but as discipline. Not every truth needs voicing. Not every difference needs naming. Not every tension needs resolving. There is a maturity that comes from restraint, from learning to remain peaceful without managing outcomes. This too was present in November, though I can see it more clearly now.

These two movements belong together. Speak little, and speak only what is given. Do not rush to correct, and do not shrink back when the Lord has already spoken. Silence shaped by obedience is very different from silence shaped by hesitation, just as speaking from obedience is very different from speaking to fill space or defend position.

This has become especially alive for me in family life, where differences of view exist and old habits tempt us to manage conversations carefully. What I am learning is that peace does not come from careful control, but from presence. When we stop trying to align everything outwardly and instead remain anchored inwardly in God, words become fewer, listening becomes deeper, and love does its quiet work.

As this year draws to a close, I find myself grateful for the way God speaks ahead of our awareness. He was already teaching me in November what I am only now able to name. That gives me confidence. Not in my own clarity, but in His faithfulness.

May the Lord teach us when to speak, when to wait, and how to recognise the difference. May our words be few, and may they be true.

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Your sight, O LORD, my strength and my Redeemer.” — Psalm 19:14 (NKJV)

When the Journey Makes Sense — Learning to See My Life Through Ecclesiastes

 

“Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is man’s all.”

Ecclesiastes 12:13 (NKJV)

I finished reading Ecclesiastes again this morning. Twelve chapters of Solomon wrestling honestly with life, meaning, frustration, uncertainty, repetition, injustice, and the limits of human understanding. As I reached the end, something unexpected happened. Rather than feeling unsettled by his questions, I found myself recognising my own story in his reflections, particularly in the light of my prayers earlier today.

This morning I thanked God for His hand over my life from the very beginning. I found myself reflecting on my early years, my stepfather adopting me, the tangled sense of identity I wrestled with as a young man, and the long season of life I lived without Christ. My thoughts then turned to the last thirty five years, and to the patient, gentle work of the Lord slowly untangling the knots I had created before I ever knew Him.

As I sat with Ecclesiastes, it became clear that Solomon was describing the same journey, simply from a different angle.

Throughout the book he strips away every illusion of meaning. Wealth, pleasure, work, success, legacy, and knowledge are all tested and found wanting. Everything lived “under the sun” runs in circles, fades with time, or ultimately fails. Everything we are tempted to use to define ourselves eventually slips through our fingers.

That was my story too.

For thirty five years I lived under the sun, doing life on my own terms, searching for meaning, and trying to build something solid out of things that could never truly hold it. Like Solomon, I attempted to understand identity without God at the centre. The result was much the same as his. Tension, confusion, and a tangled mess largely of my own making.

Yet the turning point in Ecclesiastes mirrors the turning point in my own life.

When I met Christ, the search ended. The centre returned. Meaning came back into focus. Not because I became a different person, but because the same life finally came under the hand of its Maker.

Solomon concludes his long and searching journey with a single, simple sentence. Fear God and keep His commandments. This is everything.

That is exactly what happened to me. Questions about identity, origin, purpose, and direction gradually fell into their proper place when Christ took His rightful place at the centre of my life.

Looking back now on my childhood, my youth, my tangled years, my conversion at thirty five, and now my seventieth year, I see the same truth Solomon discovered. Life only makes sense when God is placed above the sun, not merely beneath it.

Without God, my early years were shaped by uncertainty. With God, my later years have been shaped by clarity. Without God, I struggled to understand who I was. With God, I discovered that I had been His child all along. Without God, my choices tightened the knots in my life. With God, His grace has patiently untangled every one of them.

So this morning, on the day after my birthday, and having finished Ecclesiastes once again, I find myself grateful for something I never expected. Even the confusing parts of my story now make sense, and the older I grow, the more clearly I see the steady thread of God’s faithfulness running through it all.

Solomon was right. Nothing else truly holds. Nothing else ultimately lasts. Nothing else gives lasting meaning. But God does.

And at seventy years old, that truth has never felt clearer or more precious.

Lord, thank You that the search ends in You. Thank You for being the meaning of my life, past, present, and future.

Amen.