Matthew 16 : 24-27 (ESV)
“Then Jesus told his disciples, ‘If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.’”
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The Christian life is never static. It moves, breathes, and stretches like the wind that carried Abraham from his homeland or the Spirit that drove Jesus into the wilderness. Faith is not a destination. It is a road, a rhythm, a heartbeat that keeps time with the footsteps of God. Faith is a journey, not a point. Faith is a distance, not a dot. Faith is motion, not monument. ***
There is a dangerous comfort that comes with “arrival.” We reach some plateau of belief, a system that fits neatly in the hand, and we settle. We put up fences around our certainty and start guarding it instead of growing in it. Yet the Gospel refuses to sit still. “Follow Me,” Jesus says, and the verb is always present-tense. ***
Think about how we often speak: “I found the truth.” “I joined the church.” “I was baptized.” Each is a moment of grace, yes, but none is the finish line. The Spirit who begins the good work keeps shaping it day after day. The moment we think we have arrived, we start demanding that everyone else arrive at the same point. We start to measure people instead of loving them. ***
Have you ever caught yourself saying, “I give them an inch, and they take a mile”? Beneath that complaint hides the assumption that our pace is the right one. But the Lord whispers, “You didn’t walk an inch toward Me—I carried you every mile of the way.” Grace breaks the ruler we use to judge others. ***
Once we remember that life with God is a journey, everything softens. We can look at a struggling friend and say, “God is not finished with you yet.” We can celebrate growth instead of policing perfection. Each traveler moves at a different speed, but all walk beneath the same mercy. ***
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Sooner or later every traveler comes to a wall. The road narrows, the light dims, and the soul meets its limits. The wall is not punishment; it is invitation. It is the place where the strength that once carried us can carry us no farther, where we must learn again to be held. ***
A scene from the film The Mission captures it: a broken man climbs a waterfall dragging a heavy net of weapons—his guilt—behind him. He slips and strains under the weight until another climbs beside him and, with one clean stroke of mercy, cuts the rope. The burden falls into the current and the man collapses in freedom. That is the moment many of us finally understand forgiveness. ***
At the wall we face what we would rather not see. We discover our own shadows—the impatience, pride, fear, manipulation we thought belonged only to others. Sometimes the trait that most offends us in another is the mirror of our own unhealed place. ***
Yet at that same wall we meet the astonishing patience of God. He shows us our darkness only so we can see His light. He does not expose us to shame us but to free us. We begin to whisper through tears, “Lord, I accept that You have accepted me.” That is the first brick removed from the wall. ***
The journey through the wall is rarely quick. We may move one brick at a time. But with each step the sound of chains hitting the water grows louder and the voice of love grows clearer. ***
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Peter knew that wall. One day he confessed, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” A few breaths later he rebuked Jesus for speaking of the cross. His understanding of God was still too small. He imagined glory without suffering, a kingdom without a cross. Jesus’ words cut deep: “Get behind Me, Satan.” The rock had cracked. ***
Later, in the courtyard, he swore he never knew the Man. Then came the rooster’s cry, the meeting of eyes, the rush of shame. The wall fell with a sound no one else could hear. That look from Jesus was not anger; it was mercy catching him in freefall. ***
After the resurrection, Peter returned to the only world he understood—boats, nets, the smell of the lake. But when morning broke, a voice called from shore, “Children, have you any fish?” They had none. The net came up empty until grace filled it. Peter plunged into the water, soaking in second chances. On the beach a fire already burned; forgiveness was cooking before repentance arrived. ***
“Simon, son of John, do you love Me?”
Three times the question, three times the healing. Grace matched failure wound for wound, brick for brick. ***
Breakfast became sacrament. Forgiveness was served with bread and fish, and the man who thought himself disqualified heard the words, “Feed My sheep.” When you believe you are no longer capable of love, you lose everything. But when you realize God still trusts you to love, you begin to live again. ***
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Our faith can only rise as high as our vision of God. A small God produces anxious religion. A severe God produces fearful obedience. But a gracious God births joyful faith. ***
That is why Scripture calls us to renew the mind. “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind.” (Romans 12:2) Transformation is not self-improvement; it is God-impartation. Every morning we need a fresh picture of who He really is. ***
The world shouts old lies: You’re behind. You’re not enough. God is disappointed. The Spirit whispers truth: You are My beloved child; walk with Me today. To renew the mind is to let God correct the portrait we keep painting of Him. ***
We become what we behold. Paul says in 2 Corinthians 3 : 18 that as we behold the glory of the Lord we are transformed into the same image. If we stare at fear, we become fearful; if we gaze at grace, we become gracious. Renewal begins with attention. ***
So moving on up is not climbing higher than others; it is seeing God more clearly and letting that vision lift the soul. ***
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When we begin to see God rightly, the whole landscape of our journey changes. Suddenly, the very wall that once blocked us becomes the platform from which we can finally see over ourselves. The hard climb becomes the hill of transformation. We start to notice that grace was always the ground beneath our feet, even when we stumbled. ***
Faith, then, is not measured by how far ahead we seem but by how much further we are willing to be led. The mature believer is not the one who boasts of arrival but the one who still marvels at mercy. That kind of wonder renews the mind. It softens our judgments and heals our comparisons. We begin to bless rather than compete, to pray rather than critique. ***
Sometimes the renewal of the mind looks like repentance; other times it looks like rest. When we have been running on anxiety, renewal feels like Sabbath. When we have been defending our walls of certainty, renewal feels like surrender. And every time, it feels like coming home. ***
I have seen it happen in quiet ways. A couple who could not speak without arguing finally pray together and realize that the argument was never really with each other but with the fear inside both of them. A church member who has carried resentment for years suddenly lays it down because she sees that God did not hold her sins against her either. These are small resurrections—the daily renewal of mind and spirit that keeps faith alive. ***
If we neglect that renewal, faith calcifies. It becomes brittle, doctrinal, self-protective. We start quoting verses like bricks, building walls instead of windows. But the Spirit’s wind loves open spaces. Renewal happens whenever we let that wind blow through again. ***
The hymn writer prayed, “Draw me nearer, blessed Lord, to Thy precious bleeding side.” That is not the prayer of someone who has arrived; it is the cry of a traveler who knows the destination is the Companion Himself. Closeness to Christ is never once-for-all; it is morning by morning, mercy by mercy. Even heaven will not be an end but the endless beginning of knowing Him. ***
Sometimes we worry that if we give others that same freedom to journey, they will abuse it. “I give them an inch and they take a mile,” we sigh. But grace measures differently. God gave us eternity and we have barely learned to walk. Still He keeps loving, keeps leading. The mile we fear to lose is nothing compared to the miles He has already carried us. ***
So let us travel gently with each other. Let us be content to walk beside those who are still finding their pace. The gospel road is wide enough for all who hunger for Christ. If someone wanders, call to them, not with condemnation but with invitation. Because the moment we start policing another traveler’s steps, we forget who guides the way. ***
Peter eventually understood this. When he wrote his first letter decades later, he spoke not of strength but of humility: “Clothe yourselves, all of you, with humility toward one another, for ‘God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.’” The man who once argued about greatness now urged the flock to be shepherds of grace. He had learned that to move up in the kingdom means to kneel lower in love. ***
And that is the paradox of our faith. We move upward by descending into service. We rise by kneeling, win by surrendering, live by dying. The ladder of grace has rungs shaped like the cross. ***
Paul captured it perfectly in Philippians 3: “Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me His own.” There is the secret: we move on up not to earn Christ, but because we already belong to Him. The upward call of God is the daily echo of His downward grace. ***
So wherever you stand today—whether at the beginning of the road, before the wall, or beyond it—remember: you are not stuck; you are being shaped. The wall you fear may be the workshop of your next joy. The weight you drag may soon be the testimony you share. The tears you shed are watering the roots of tomorrow’s compassion. ***
To move on up is to keep trusting when understanding lags behind. It is to wake each morning and whisper, “Renew my mind, Lord; show me again who You are.” It is to face another day of ordinary life and believe that grace still hides in the ordinary. It is to meet one more person and love them without measuring how far they’ve come. ***
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Perhaps today you need to hear again the voice that met Peter on the beach: “Do you love Me?” It is not accusation—it is invitation. “Then feed My lambs.” Keep loving, keep serving, keep moving. The same eyes that saw your failure still see your future. The same hands that were pierced for your sin are stretched toward you even now. Take them, rise, and walk. There is more road ahead. ***
When we gather here each Sabbath, it is not to celebrate arrival but to rest for a moment on the road together. The hymns we sing are not the songs of the finished but the marching songs of pilgrims. The bread and the cup we share are the traveler’s meal that reminds us who walks beside us. And when we leave, we go not back to the world but forward into it—carrying the grace we have tasted. ***
So, beloved, move on up. Move from pride to humility, from fear to trust, from striving to surrender. Move from judging to understanding, from theology as wall to theology as window. Move from knowing about God to actually knowing God. Let the Spirit renew your mind until grace becomes your reflex and love your language. ***
And when the journey feels long, remember this: Christ has already walked it all. He stands at the end, yes, but He also walks beside you and, when needed, carries you in His arms. The way upward is the way inward, and the way inward is the way home to His heart. ***
Draw me nearer, blessed Lord. Draw me nearer to Thy precious bleeding side.
Amen.
