— THE PROBLEM: WHY WE KEEP LOOKING BACK
Life leaves us with memories.
Some of them warm us.
Some of them wound us.
And some of them quietly shape us long after the moment has passed.
Most of us don’t notice how much time we spend replaying our lives.
We replay conversations we wish had gone differently.
We replay relationships that ended — sometimes badly, sometimes suddenly.
We replay decisions we made too fast or opportunities we didn’t take.
We replay seasons when life felt simpler, clearer, or more hopeful than it does now.
The past can start to feel safer than the future — not because it was better, but because it’s familiar.
That’s the part we don’t always admit.
The past doesn’t argue with us.
It doesn’t surprise us.
It doesn’t demand anything new.
It just sits there, replaying on a loop, asking us to visit again.
Some people call this nostalgia.
Some call it regret.
Some call it grief.
But whatever name we give it, the effect is often the same: we stop moving forward.
Sometimes, without realizing it, we begin to live backward.
Not literally — we still show up to work, pay bills, post photos, laugh at jokes.
Inwardly, something stalls. The future becomes something we postpone, not something we expect.
We tell ourselves things like:
“I’ll move forward once I feel better.”
“I’ll start again once I have clarity.”
“I’ll trust again once I’m sure it won’t hurt.”
And without meaning to, we turn waiting into a lifestyle.
Some people are walking around half-alive — not because they’re lazy or broken or faithless — but because something in their past quietly took the driver’s seat.
Before we go any further, let me say something that needs to be said out loud:
If you are mourning today — yes, it’s OK.
It’s OK to grieve what ended.
It’s OK to miss what mattered.
It’s OK to feel the loss of a season, a relationship, a version of yourself you thought would last longer.
Grief is not weakness.
Grief is the price of love.
But grief was never meant to become a permanent address.
There’s a famous literary character named Miss Havisham from Great Expectations.
She was left at the altar on her wedding day. And instead of moving on, she froze time. She kept the wedding cake rotting on the table. She wore the dress for the rest of her life. She lived every day inside the moment of her loss.
Her house decayed.
Her life shrank.
And eventually, so did her heart.
Miss Havisham didn’t die on her wedding day — but she stopped living forward.
And if we’re honest, many of us do the same thing in subtler ways.
We build lives around what didn’t happen.
We define ourselves by what went wrong.
We let a loss become an identity.
We don’t do it intentionally.
We do it carefully.
Quietly.
Reasonably.
And over time, yesterday becomes heavier than tomorrow.
That’s why the question for tonight isn’t a religious one.
It’s a human one.
Are you still living where something ended?
The apostle Paul — who was no stranger to loss, failure, and regret — wrote something honest and disarming:
“Forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, I press toward the goal…”
Paul isn’t pretending the past didn’t happen.
He’s saying it no longer gets to decide where he’s going.
That’s an important distinction.
Forgetting doesn’t mean erasing memory.
It means refusing to live there.
Tonight, I want to share three simple truths — not as rules, not as pressure, but as guideposts — for anyone who feels stalled, stuck, or quietly tired of replaying yesterday.
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First: Stop mourning yesterday.
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Second: Start moving forward.
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Third: Stay focused on the goal.
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Not all at once.
Not perfectly.
But intentionally.
Because you cannot heal by staring at the wound forever.
Grief has its place.
It deserves its moment.
But it cannot become your permanent address.
And the good news — whether you consider yourself a person of faith or not — is that morning doesn’t arrive because we force it.
Morning comes because darkness never gets the final word.
If you’re willing to take one honest step forward — not with certainty, not with everything figured out — but simply with openness…
Then this might be the night where mourning begins to give way to morning.
--- WHEN GRIEF STALLS US
There is a difference between grieving and living in grief.
Grief is a response.
Living in grief is a posture.
Grief is something you pass through.
Living in grief is something you build around.
Most of us never decide to get stuck. We just don’t realize when grief quietly overstays its welcome.
In the Bible, there’s a moment like this that feels almost uncomfortably honest. It involves a man named Samuel — a prophet, a leader, someone who genuinely loved God and cared deeply about people.
Samuel had anointed Saul as king. He believed in him. He prayed for him. He hoped for him. But Saul failed — repeatedly. He ignored God, made reckless decisions, and eventually disqualified himself from leadership.
And when it was over, Samuel didn’t just move on.
He mourned.
Deeply.
Painfully.
For a long time.
Scripture tells us that Samuel grieved over Saul, and the grief didn’t lift. Days passed. Then more days. Then months. And finally, God spoke to Samuel with a question that almost sounds abrupt:
“How long will you mourn for Saul, since I have rejected him as king?”
At first glance, that can sound harsh. But it isn’t.
God wasn’t scolding Samuel for loving Saul.
He wasn’t dismissing the pain of disappointment.
He wasn’t saying grief was wrong.
He was saying: Grief has finished its work.
There’s a moment when mourning is faithful — and there’s a moment when continuing to mourn actually keeps us from obedience.
That’s a hard truth to hear, especially when the loss was real.
Some of us are still grieving things that genuinely mattered:
a relationship we hoped would last
a calling that didn’t unfold
a job we thought was permanent
a church experience that left us wounded
a version of life we were sure we’d be living by now
And God doesn’t minimize that.
But there comes a point when He asks a gentle, piercing question:
“How long?”
Not to shame us.
Not to rush us.
But to wake us up.
Because grief that goes unattended eventually turns inward. It doesn’t stay honest. It starts rewriting our identity.
We stop saying, “That happened to me,” and start saying, “That’s who I am.”
“I’m the one who got left.”
“I’m the one who failed.”
“I’m the one who didn’t measure up.”
“I’m the one who always gets hurt.”
And without meaning to, we anchor ourselves to the very moment God wants to redeem.
Samuel wasn’t wrong to grieve Saul.
He was wrong to stay there when God was already moving ahead.
That’s where grief becomes dangerous — not because it’s painful, but because it’s persuasive.
Grief whispers things that sound reasonable: “Stay here. It’s safer.” “Don’t hope again. You know how that ends.” “Don’t trust again. You’ve learned your lesson.”
And if we listen long enough, grief becomes a voice we mistake for wisdom.
But grief is not a guide.
It’s a companion — and only for a season.
That’s why God didn’t just ask Samuel a question. He followed it with a command:
“Fill your horn with oil, and go.”
In other words: Stop looking back. There’s work ahead.
That’s not cruelty.
That’s mercy.
Because staying in mourning doesn’t protect us — it quietly shrinks us.
And here’s where this gets very personal.
Some of us are not stuck because we don’t know what to do next.
We’re stuck because moving forward would require us to admit that something is truly over.
And endings are scary.
Endings mean letting go of explanations.
Letting go of control.
Letting go of the hope that maybe it could still be fixed if we wait long enough.
But unresolved grief keeps us tied to a version of life God is no longer asking us to live.
That’s why healing doesn’t always begin with answers.
It often begins with permission.
Permission to say: “That mattered.” “That hurt.” “And it’s not coming back.”
And then — courage to move anyway.
This doesn’t mean you forget the past.
It means the past no longer gets to decide your direction.
Which leads us to the next movement in the story — and it’s one many of us recognize instantly.
Because sometimes grief isn’t about what failed.
Sometimes it’s about what ended — and left us wondering who we are now.
That’s exactly where the people of Israel found themselves next.
--- WHEN GOD SAYS, “NOW ARISE”
Loss doesn’t just take something from us.
It leaves a gap.
A space where something used to be.
And that space can feel more unsettling than the loss itself.
Now we have to ask a harder question: Who am I without what I lost?
That’s where the people of Israel found themselves when Moses died.
For forty years, Moses had been everything to them.
He spoke for God.
He prayed for them.
He confronted their failures.
He stood between them and destruction more times than they could count.
When they sinned, Moses interceded.
When they were afraid, Moses spoke.
When they were confused, Moses led.
And then, suddenly, Moses was gone.
Scripture says the people mourned him for thirty days. That mattered. God honored that time. He didn’t interrupt it. He didn’t rush it.
But after the mourning period ended, God came to Joshua and said something that sounds almost blunt:
“Moses my servant is dead. Now therefore, arise.”
Why say the obvious?
Joshua knew Moses was dead. Everyone knew Moses was dead.
God wasn’t giving Joshua information.
He was giving him orientation.
He was saying: That chapter is closed. The story isn’t.
There’s a profound kindness in that moment.
God didn’t erase Moses.
He didn’t diminish what Moses had meant.
He didn’t pretend the loss wasn’t devastating.
But He also refused to let Israel build their future around what no longer existed.
That’s often the hardest part of moving forward.
Not the grief itself — but the responsibility that follows it.
For forty years, Israel had lived in a kind of spiritual dependency. Moses prayed for them. Moses went up the mountain. Moses stood before God.
Now God was saying, “Joshua, it’s time for you to lead. And people — it’s time for you to walk.”
At some point, every season of support gives way to a season of ownership.
And that moment can feel frightening.
Because responsibility feels heavier than dependence.
We all have “Moses moments” in our lives.
Times when something or someone we leaned on is no longer there.
It might be:
a relationship that anchored us
a job that gave us identity
a community that gave us belonging
a season of life where things made sense
And when it ends, God doesn’t always replace it immediately.
Sometimes He says: “Now arise.”
Not because we’re ready.
Not because we’re confident.
But because standing still is no longer an option.
God wasn’t asking Joshua to become Moses.
He was asking him to become faithful.
That distinction matters.
Moving forward does not require becoming a different person.
It requires trusting God in a different way.
Some of us are waiting for clarity before we move.
But Scripture consistently shows us that clarity often comes after obedience, not before it.
Joshua didn’t receive the full map.
He received a direction.
And that’s how faith usually works.
Faith is not certainty.
Faith is movement.
It’s choosing to step forward even when the ground ahead looks unfamiliar.
That’s why God told Joshua something repeated over and over again:
“Be strong and courageous.”
Not because Joshua felt strong.
Not because courage came naturally.
But because courage is something you practice — not something you wait to feel.
And here’s the part we often miss:
God didn’t scold Israel for missing Moses.
He invited them into something new.
Through the prophet Isaiah, God later said it this way:
“Behold, I am doing a new thing. Now it springs forth — do you not perceive it?”
That question isn’t an accusation.
It’s an invitation.
Can you see what I’m doing now?
Can you trust Me beyond what you already know?
New things don’t feel stable at first.
They feel uncertain.
Awkward.
Unproven.
That’s why we resist them.
It’s easier to stay with what we understand — even when it no longer gives life.
But staying where God has finished is not safety.
It’s delay.
Some of us are waiting for permission to move forward.
And tonight, this may be that permission.
Not to rush.
Not to pretend the past didn’t matter.
But to stop asking it for direction.
The moment God says “arise,” standing still becomes an act of disbelief.
Movement doesn’t mean you’ve healed completely.
It means you trust God enough to walk while healing continues.
— STAY FOCUSED ON THE GOAL
Starting to move again is one thing.
Staying oriented once you do is another.
Because the moment you begin to step forward, something familiar happens: the past starts calling.
Not always loudly.
Not always negatively.
Sometimes gently.
Sometimes sweetly.
It reminds you of what you knew.
Of what felt certain.
Of what once worked.
And if you’re not careful, you can start moving forward physically while still living backward emotionally.
That’s why the apostle Paul uses such intentional language when he talks about faith and direction.
He says, “This one thing I do.”
Not ten things.
Not everything perfectly.
One thing.
“Forgetting what lies behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal…”
Notice the verbs.
Pressing.
Straining.
Reaching.
This isn’t casual movement.
It’s intentional focus.
Paul isn’t saying the past disappears.
He’s saying it no longer gets to steer.
Because you can’t run a race well if you keep turning your head to see who’s behind you.
You lose balance.
You lose momentum.
You lose direction.
That’s why Jesus once gave a warning that sounds simple but carries enormous weight:
“Remember Lot’s wife.”
God was leading her family out of destruction.
She was moving in the right direction.
She was almost safe.
But she looked back.
And in that moment, she lost her future.
Jesus didn’t tell that story to frighten people.
He told it to keep them from crashing.
I once heard a story about a little boy in Sabbath School.
The teacher was explaining how Lot’s wife looked back and became a pillar of salt.
The boy raised his hand and said, “My mommy looked back once while driving — and she turned into a telephone pole!”
It’s funny — but it’s also true.
Looking back while you’re moving forward is dangerous.
Some people try to mix the old life with the new one.
They want the comfort of the past and the promise of the future at the same time.
But it never works.
You can’t build something new while constantly revisiting what’s already finished.
That’s why Paul is so clear: this one thing I do.
He doesn’t deny his past.
He doesn’t romanticize it.
He doesn’t carry it as a badge or a burden.
He releases it.
And there’s freedom in that.
Because dragging yesterday into today doesn’t make you wiser — it just makes you heavier.
Satan understands this better than we do.
He loves to whisper early in the morning,
“Remember what you did.”
“Remember how you failed.”
“Remember who you were.”
But Scripture answers back just as clearly:
“His mercies are new every morning.”
That means yesterday does not get to define today.
So when you wake up — especially on the days when the past feels loud — it’s worth saying something out loud, even if you don’t fully feel it yet:
“God, I receive today as a gift.
I receive mercy again.
I’m moving forward.”
Because faith isn’t about pretending you’re strong.
It’s about choosing direction when you feel weak.
You will never walk on the water if you don’t get out of the boat.
You will never enter the Promised Land if you stay in the wilderness.
You will never experience what’s ahead if you insist on living where something already ended.
Abraham had to leave his father’s house.
Israel had to cross the Jordan.
Paul had to release his past.
And so do we.
Which brings us back to the heart of this message.
If you’re mourning tonight — yes, it’s OK.
But mourning is not the end of the story.
Morning comes.
Not because you force it.
Not because you deserve it.
But because God specializes in bringing light where darkness has lingered too long.
So let me ask you — not to accuse you, but to invite you:
What are you still carrying that no longer belongs in your future?
What season has ended that you keep revisiting?
What version of yourself are you trying to preserve?
What disappointment are you letting narrate your life?
You don’t have to solve everything tonight.
You don’t have to make promises you’re not ready to keep.
But you can choose direction.
You can decide that the past will inform you — not imprison you.
You can decide that what happened to you will not determine where you’re going.
You can decide to take one honest step forward.
Because the past may be familiar, but it is also finished.
And God is still doing new things — not just around you, but within you.
So let’s say it together, quietly if you need to, firmly if you can:
I will not give up.
I will not quit.
I will not live backward.
I’m moving forward — not because I have everything figured out, but because I trust the One who does.
And that’s how mourning begins to give way to morning.
Amen.
