> Here is the patience of the saints; here are they who keep the commandments of God and the faith of Jesus.
— Revelation 14:12
> I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me.
— Galatians 2:20
> For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God — not of works, lest anyone should boast.
— Ephesians 2:8–9
(Prayer)
“Father in heaven, may these words become more than verses on a page. Let them live in us. Let the faith of Your Son be born again in our hearts this morning. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
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> > Introduction
There are passages we think we already understand until the Spirit whispers, “Look again.”
For me, one of those verses is Revelation 14:12: “Here are they who keep the commandments of God and have the faith of Jesus.”
For years I preached that text as an identity badge — proof of who we were. But as life unfolded, as my own faith trembled, I discovered John wasn’t describing a slogan; he was describing survival.
These are people who endure because they live by the faith of Jesus — not merely faith in Jesus, but the faith that belongs to Him, the faith that carried Him through Gethsemane and Calvary. That same faith still carries us when ours runs out.
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> > Power That Flows
Do you remember the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years?
She was exhausted, broke, and out of options. The crowd pressed so tightly that the disciples said, “Lord, everyone’s touching You.”
But Jesus stopped and said, “Someone touched Me; I felt power go out from Me.”
That power didn’t drain Him — it revealed Him.
The faith of Jesus — the perfect trust He carried in the Father — became a living current that passed into her need.
She reached out in weakness, and His faith supplied what hers could not.
That’s what saving faith looks like.
It’s not my hand holding Him so firmly; it’s His heart reaching back.
The real strength in faith comes from the One we touch.
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> > Righteousness Rediscovered
There was a time when our own movement felt that same current again.
In the mid-seventies the church realized it had grown fluent in behavior and rules but vague about grace. Then came a deliberate turn back toward the gospel.
A special issue of our church paper appeared with three words on its cover: “Righteousness by Faith.” It reminded us that obedience is not the price of salvation but its fruit.
On campuses and at camp meetings, Pastor Morris Venden’s gentle humor and simple message revived a generation: “You’re saved by a relationship, not by behavior modification.” People believed him. Grace felt new again. The Spirit was moving — like that current that flowed from Christ when the woman touched Him.
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> > After the Storm
But springtimes can be short. The same message that set hearts free unsettled others who feared the church might drift toward “cheap grace.” Discussions turned tense. Questions echoed: “Can we still preach judgment if salvation is by grace?” “Does grace weaken obedience?”
Good people stood on opposite sides of the same gospel. And when fear drives theology, love grows quiet. Many of us, young and idealistic, stood in that crosswind wondering how to keep both truth and mercy alive.
For me, that storm came close. I was at the Seminary, studying, serving, trying to find my voice. I believed that if we looked closely enough at Jesus, the contradictions would fade. But the louder the debate became, the less anyone listened.
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> > The Researcher’s Dilemma
The timing of my research could not have been harder. It was the season when questions about Ellen White’s inspiration were shaking the church. A book had just been released claiming her writings couldn’t be trusted. In that noise, I was asked to examine every passage she wrote that might reveal her emotional or mental health — to see whether her stability changed over time and why.
I approached it as sacred, careful work. My background in psychological testing, including the Sixteen-Personality-Factor inventory, helped me look for evidence of instability or stress. What I found was not instability but resilience — a woman who endured pain, loss, and misunderstanding yet stayed centered in faith.
That study deepened my respect for her humanity and confirmed that prophets are still people, and that inspiration works through personality, not around it.
So when I was later asked whether I believed her writings were equal in canonical authority to Scripture, I couldn’t say yes — not out of defiance, but because the Bible alone must remain supreme.
In that atmosphere of fear, nuance wasn’t welcome. My work ended, and so did my employment. I left the Seminary with a full notebook and an empty future.
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> > Loss and Exile
When you lose your place in something you’ve loved, it feels like the floor drops out from under you.
I told myself I was fine, but I was hurt, and hurt people hide.
I left for a season of work on Mackinac Island — a quiet place between Michigan’s peninsulas where the sound of horses, buggies, and bicycles replaces engines. The air smelled of lilacs and lake water. I told myself it was just a job, but deep down it felt like exile.
One night I wandered into a bar, trying to act casual, trying to disappear. The music was loud, the lights dim. A waitress looked straight at me and said, “You don’t belong here.” She walked on. I moved to a darker corner. A man nearby leaned across the table, shouting over the rock music, “You don’t belong here!”
Two strangers. Same words. It wasn’t condemnation; it was calling. Christ had come looking for me in the noise.
Later I rode a bicycle around the eight-mile loop that circles the island. At mile marker four, facing the Mackinac Bridge, people often stop and turn back, saying, “It’s too far to go on.”
I stood there, watching the waves slap the rocks, and heard it again: “You don’t belong here. Keep going.”
Sometimes faith is nothing more than deciding to keep pedaling when you can’t see what’s ahead.
I left Mackinac Island on a Friday — after my friends had come to visit and pray with me. They’d reminded me that God’s call doesn’t expire. That morning I packed my bags, took one last ride along the shore, and stood on the dock as the ferry horn echoed across the water.
The horses were already clopping in the distance, and the first wave of tourists — locals called them Fudgies because of the mountains of fudge they bought and devoured — were spilling out of the candy shops. The smell of chocolate and caramel hung in the air. It made me smile. For the first time in a long while, I felt at peace.
I stepped aboard, watched the island grow smaller, and felt both relief and sadness. I never went back.
Two weeks later — the news spread across northern Michigan like a chill wind. The small plane my boss was flying in had gone down in Lake Petoskey while photographing a yacht race.
There was one survivor — barely — but my boss, Tom, didn’t make it.
We’d known each other most of our lives. His wife and I had grown up together in Burma. Our families had shared mission stations, stories, and Sabbath meals.
That summer on the island, Tom would sometimes let me take the controls while he handled the camera. I had learned to fly in high school, soloing before I even earned a driver’s permit. Flying was second nature to me.
On that final flight, the pilot’s side — the side where I would have been sitting — took the main blow when the plane struck the lake.
When I heard the report, I just sat down and wept. The voice that had found me in that bar on Mackinac Island — “You don’t belong here” — suddenly took on new meaning. It hadn’t been a lecture; it had been a rescue.
God had not only spared my calling; He had spared my life. And when you’ve been spared like that, there’s only one reasonable response: you give the rest of your life back to the One who gave it to you.
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> > Sweetness After Bitterness
A Eastern conference invited me -- they needed a pastor for the Hershey–Lebanon district. I hadn’t been looking, but grace came looking for me again.
Driving east with my family, I smiled at the irony — Hershey! After years of bitterness, the Lord sent me to the town built on sweetness.
The people were kind; the pulpit felt like home. I stood there that first Sabbath realizing that grace not only found me — it trusted me again.
Restoration doesn’t erase the past; it lets God use the same hands that were once broken to hold His message of mercy.
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> > Saved by His Faith
For years I thought Revelation 14:12 described two separate things — commandments on one side, faith on the other.
But they’re rhythm and melody in the same song.
The commandments describe what love looks like; the faith of Jesus gives the power to live it.
The faith of Jesus means the trust that beat inside His heart. His confidence in the Father never failed. That faithfulness — His faith — became the bridge between divine power and human weakness.
When my world collapsed, it wasn’t my faith that saved me; it was His. His faith held fast when mine faltered. The faith of Jesus doesn’t just inspire us; it inhabits us.
Grace is not permission to live carelessly; it is power to live faithfully.
Before we can keep the commandments, we have to be kept by grace.
At the end of time there will be people who live their lives for Jesus — trusting the Father when the world shakes, loving when love costs, obeying because grace has already won their hearts.
They keep the commandments of God because they have been saved by His faith.
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> > Appeal and Benediction
Maybe this morning someone here is at mile marker four.
You’ve come halfway around the island of faith and you’re tired.
You can see the bridge in the distance and you’re wondering if it’s worth the rest of the ride.
Listen — Jesus is still asking, “Who touched Me?”
He’s still letting His power flow toward anyone who will reach, even if the reach is trembling.
You don’t have to prove the size of your faith; you only have to trust the size of His.
If He could find me in the noise of a bar on Mackinac Island, He can find you where you sit this morning.
He will meet you at your halfway point and whisper, “You don’t belong here. You belong with Me.”
If you’ve been holding on by a thread, let His hand take yours.
Let His faith hold you.
Let His obedience become your joy.
The commandments will no longer feel like weight; they’ll feel like wings.
(Prayer)
“Father in heaven, thank You for the faith of Jesus — faith that never faltered and still flows with power. For those who feel tired or far from home, let that faith become their own. Teach us to live from His trust, to love from His heart, to obey from His joy. And when the road seems long, remind us that Your grace can carry us the rest of the way. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
And now, may the Lord bless you and keep you;
may His face shine upon you and give you peace;
and may the faith of Jesus be your strength, your courage, and your song —
until the day you see Him face to face.
