Hang On To What You Have

He didn’t start out confused.

He started out in love.

You remember what that feels like—when faith is simple, when obedience feels like joy instead of effort, when the future seems open because God is clearly ahead of you.

Prayer is natural. Scripture feels like bread. Service feels like oxygen. You don’t need a spotlight. You just want to belong to Jesus and be useful in His hands.

We’ll call him Joe.

Joe loved his Lord. Joe loved the church. Joe wasn’t playing games. He wasn’t looking for loopholes. He wasn’t shopping for a religion that would flatter him. He wanted to be faithful—plain, steady, sincere.

And that’s where the trouble began.

It didn’t begin with some scandal or a crisis of belief. It began the way so many church troubles begin: with a concerned believer who meant well.

After Sabbath service, a brother leaned in with that low, urgent tone that sounds like spiritual care. “Brother, you’re sincere,” he said. “But you don’t really understand the Spirit of Prophecy yet. Don’t worry—you will. And when you do, everything is going to change.”

Joe listened. Why wouldn’t he? He wanted to grow. He wanted to learn. He didn’t want blind spots. He didn’t want to miss some crucial piece of truth while the world rushed toward the end.

Then the list started coming.

Not all at once—never all at once. It came the way pressure usually comes: one “helpful suggestion” at a time.

You’ll change the way you dress.

You’ll change what you buy.

You’ll change what you eat.

You’ll change the kind of school your kids attend.

You’ll change where you live.

The subtle message under all of it was simple: if you truly understood, you would do this.

Joe tried.

He read. He watched seminars. He listened to speakers. He highlighted paragraphs. He made plans. He had long conversations late at night with his wife, trying to sound confident when he wasn’t. And like many sincere people, he took on changes faster than his family could absorb them.

The move was hard on the kids. The “simple living” vision sounded peaceful, but it landed like a weight.

The garden was supposed to be a blessing, but it mostly became another unfinished obligation.

Homeschooling, in theory, sounded noble; in practice, it became a daily pressure cooker—especially when a new baby came and sleep disappeared and the mother’s strength collapsed into exhaustion and sadness.

Joe’s eyes got tired. His spiritual life, once bright and uncomplicated, started to feel like a checklist with consequences.

At work, the guys who once respected his witness began to sidestep him. At home, the conversations grew sharp. He apologized a lot—more than he used to.

Joe didn’t even know his new pastor well. It was a new church after the move, and Joe had heard the whispers: “Be careful. He’s new theology.” So Joe didn’t open up there. Instead he looked for safe counsel.

He visited a seasoned return missionary, hoping for wisdom. The television was on, tuned to some mindless drama, and the visit ended quickly—awkward, disappointed, unfinished.

He tried again, visiting a retired denominational worker, a man with decades of experience. But the conversation drifted into golf stories and church politics and inside talk about who was in trouble at the conference office. Joe left with information but no shepherding.

Eventually, the family made small retreats just to survive. The kids went into church school as worthy students. Milk came back to the table. Boxed cereal appeared again.

Joe stopped feeling guilty about wearing a tie. He lost contact with the “concerned brother,” except for occasional mailings advertising prophecy weekends and warning of compromise.

Then Joe decided to risk a call to the pastor after all. Nobody answered. And by Sabbath, the story was out: the pastor was fired. Not over theology—over moral failure.

Something in Joe went quiet.

The next Sabbath they went camping. The next week something came up again. Soon, missing church felt easier than returning. No one showed up at the door.

One teacher mailed a note saying they missed the kids. An elder left a message. But the family’s absence became one more thing that didn’t quite matter enough to interrupt anyone’s routine.

Public school was simpler. The bus came. Lunch was provided. Life kept moving.

They read in the paper that a new pastor had arrived. Maybe they’d go sometime. Then again… maybe they wouldn’t.

This is not a single true story—and yet it is. It’s a composite of many true stories, because the details change but the drift is the same. And Joe’s questions are our questions:

How do we live in this world and not be of it?

How do we live in the context of Christ’s soon coming without becoming fearful, harsh, or exhausted?