Maybe it didn’t happen all at once. Maybe it happened slowly… the way most things do. A phrase here. A sermon there. A little clarification added to grace so people wouldn’t “misunderstand.” Before long the gift started sounding a lot more like a contract.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot the last couple weeks. Two weekends. Same life. Same family. Same God. Completely different experiences.
The weekend before last, Erica and I had just gotten back from a trip celebrating our fourth anniversary. It was a good trip. The kind where you breathe a little deeper and remember why you chose each other in the first place. But when we got home… something shifted. You know those moments where you can feel it in the air before a word is even spoken? The boys were in a funk. I was in a funk. The house just felt… off. And then out of nowhere, Erica and I had one of those arguments.
We don’t fight often. But this one showed up uninvited and decided to stay awhile. It was actually explosive. It was dramatic. It was bigger than either of us could figure out. This one was heavier than we could carry and kept us apart for a few days. This was a difficult fight. The kind where you’re both trying to explain something deeper than the words you have available. The kind where you walk away wondering if the thing that needed to be solved ever actually got solved.
I’m not even sure we fixed what needed fixing. But I do know there was some damage done. And in those moments I’m thankful for vows. Not the romantic kind we post about online. The gritty kind that quietly remind two stubborn humans that healing, forgiveness, and growth are still the road we promised to walk. Marriage has a way of showing you parts of yourself you’d rather pretend don’t exist. And that weekend… I saw plenty of those parts.
I saw how easily old wounds show up. How past traumas still whisper lies. How quickly I can slip into believing that if I were just a little better… a little wiser… a little more patient… life would run smoother. That weekend confirmed something in me I already know but don’t always like to admit. I’m still broken.
Then came this past weekend. And if the previous one felt like walking through fog, this one felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds. Family gathered. Time together. Church. Laughing. Conversations that remind you why these people are the ones God gave you. And it ended at a Brandon Lake concert.
If you’ve ever been in a room full of people singing their lungs out about the goodness of God, you know the feeling. It’s hard to describe, but you feel it in your chest. At one point I just stopped singing and looked around. My boys had their hands raised in worship. My mom had tears running down her cheeks. My wife was holding onto our son—who somehow isn’t a little boy anymore but is growing into a man—and they were both singing with everything in them. And there we were… this imperfect, messy family… lifting high the name of Jesus together.
Two weekends. One full of tension and brokenness. One full of joy and worship. And somewhere in the middle of it all, my brain started doing what it always does.
Processing. Trying to make sense of what it all means. Because if I’m honest, those weekends revealed something deeper in me. I still struggle with the feeling that I’m not enough. I still feel the weight of my brokenness. And maybe that’s why something else during the concert caught my attention.
Throughout the night the message was beautiful. Over and over again the truth echoed through the room: God’s love is for you. God’s love is for me. Nothing can separate us from that love. It was powerful. But then there was a moment.
Brandon said something that, if you’ve spent any time in church circles, you’ve heard a thousand times. He said, “If you’ve been living for yourself, it’s time to start living for Jesus.” Everyone around us said amen. And I knew exactly what he meant. I really did. But something in my heart paused. Because I couldn’t stop wondering how many people in that room suddenly felt the shift.
One minute we’re singing about a free gift. Unending love. Grace that can’t be earned. And the next minute it sounds like maybe there’s a condition attached. Maybe the gift is free… but you better start doing something now. And that’s when the thought hit me.
Why are we so uncomfortable letting grace just be grace?
Why do we keep sprinkling caveats onto the dessert of God’s love?
It’s like we’re afraid someone might actually believe it’s as free as Jesus said it was. So we add a little clarification.
Yes, God loves you… but.
Yes, grace is free… but.
Yes, Jesus paid it all… but now you better start living differently.
We know better than to say we earn salvation. That would be blatant legalism. But sometimes we still sneak a few crumbs of it onto the plate. Just enough to make sure nobody gets too comfortable with grace. But when I look at the story Scripture tells, I see something different.
I see a Father who seems perfectly capable of being God without our help. He creates life. Sustains life. Holds the universe together while still noticing when a sparrow falls.
Jesus accomplished exactly what He said He would accomplish. He stepped into our broken world and paid the full price for our brokenness.
And the Spirit… the often misunderstood third person of the Trinity… breathes faith into human hearts and strengthens that faith as we grow.
The Father, the Son, and the Spirit seem to have the whole redemption story handled. And yet somehow we keep feeling like we need to add something to it. A checklist. A spiritual to-do list. Some visible proof that we’re holding up our end of the deal. But what if the deal was never ours to hold up in the first place?
What if the Gospel really is that simple? God loves broken people. Not the cleaned-up version of us. Not the version we promise we’ll become someday. The real us. The one who argues with his wife after a great anniversary trip. The one who still wrestles with old wounds. The one who sometimes feels like he’s falling short as a husband, a dad, a leader, a follower of Jesus.
That version.
The Father looks at that person and says, “Come here.” Not “Fix yourself first.” Not “I love you but you better show some change to keep your home.”Just come home.
When Jesus told stories about the Father, they always seemed to sound like that. A dad who runs toward his child the moment he sees him on the horizon. A dad who throws a party for the kid who shows up late. A dad who gives good gifts because that’s what good dads do. It’s actually… really that simple.
Our relationship with God isn’t built on acting better. It’s not an IOU that says we’ve been saved but now we better start improving ourselves to prove we deserve it. It’s a relationship built on the reality that we’re broken people living in a broken world surrounded by other broken people. And the only one who knows how to fix that world is God Himself.
The Father restores.
The Son redeems.
The Spirit breathes life.
And somewhere between one messy weekend and one beautiful one, something settled in my heart. Maybe my brokenness wasn’t exposed to remind me how far I fall short. Maybe it was there to remind me how good God actually is. Because when you feel your own cracks, grace suddenly shines brighter.
And I realized something else. There are a lot of voices in the church reminding people of God’s goodness. And I’m thankful for that. But there are still voices missing. Voices that refuse to sprinkle commands from our flesh onto the dessert of grace. Voices that remind people that letting God be God might be the most freeing thing we could ever do.
Maybe that’s part of why my heart can’t stop talking about this. Not because I have it figured out. But because I don’t. My brokenness doesn’t disqualify the message. If anything… it proves why the message matters.
So let me ask you something.
What are the things you keep sprinkling onto the dessert of God’s grace that leave your soul feeling like a desert? What are the church phrases… the spiritual expectations… the quiet little stories in your head that make you feel like you better do something to keep God happy? What if the Father already knows exactly who you are? What if Jesus already paid for every part of your story? What if the Spirit is already at work inside you in ways you can’t even see yet?
Maybe the hardest part of faith isn’t trying harder. Maybe it’s trusting that God really is as good as He says He is. Two weekends reminded me of that.
One showed me my brokenness. The other showed me God’s goodness. And somewhere between the two, I realized something. The message still needs to be shared. I’m not sure exactly where I’ll get to say it. But I know this. My brokenness doesn’t keep me from sharing it.
If anything… it makes it even more true.