There’s a certain comfort, isn’t there, in imagining that somewhere out there is a man who carries the weight of spiritual certainty on his shoulders. He sits robed, enthroned, vested in centuries of tradition and expectation. His words ripple across continents. His gestures become symbols. His presence is treated as if heaven leaned just a little closer to earth.
It’s appealing.
Deeply appealing.
Because human hearts are drawn to clarity, to leadership, to something — or someone — we can see. A visible anchor. A touchable authority. A living embodiment of confidence. When the world feels unstable, having a single figure held up as “the Rock” feels like a relief. One voice above the noise. One throne above the struggle. One man elevated, honored, almost glowing beneath the weight of his office. It would be comforting to believe that he alone could steady the spiritual earth under our feet.
And the Church itself has spoken this language through the centuries. A cornerstone. A successor. A visible shepherd. A father who stands at the front so the rest of us don’t have to wrestle with the burden of discernment. It’s an idea that carries real emotional weight. It isn’t foolishness. It isn’t weakness. It’s a longing for spiritual stability.
We all feel it.
Even those of us outside that tradition can sense the appeal. After all, wouldn’t it be easier if God installed one human being to be the keeper of certainty? Wouldn’t it quiet our anxieties? Wouldn’t it simplify our faith? Wouldn’t it feel safe — so wonderfully safe — to imagine that someone else could sit in a place of unquestioned spiritual authority, so we don’t have to?
Let’s be honest:
The idea is seductive.
A spiritual father.
A visible head.
A living cornerstone.
A voice that settles disputes.
A figure who cannot err because his calling is sacred.
A Rock you can photograph.
There’s something in the human psyche that whispers:
“Yes… yes, that feels right. Give me someone to trust. Give me someone to follow. Give me one foundation, one leader, one voice. Let him carry the weight.”
And for just a moment, if we allow the thought to breathe…
it feels almost holy.
Almost.
But then the wider conversation begins — the one many Christians know all too well. The prophetic talk. The timelines. The charts. The debates that stretch from Daniel to Revelation. The centuries of questions about authority, about power, about Rome, about symbols and images and horns and beasts.
And before long, the conversation gets loud.
Very loud.
Prophecy books thicken the shelves.
Lectures fill the halls.
Presenters point laser beams at giant screens.
People count dates, compute numbers, trace lines across millennia.
Some shout “antichrist” with more passion than they speak the name of Jesus.
We talk and talk and talk.
We draw and redraw.
We highlight and underline.
We warn and argue and theorize.
And all the while, the sense of urgency grows.
“What does this mean?”
“Where does that fit?”
“Who fulfills this symbol?”
“Is this the final sign?”
“Is that the power Scripture warns about?”
The noise gets thicker.
The charts get longer.
The timelines get heavier.
The debates get hotter.
And somehow, beneath all that noise, a strange thing happens:
The heart grows quieter.
Not quieter in peace… quieter in avoidance.
Because every conversation about prophecy, every diagram of kingdoms, every debate about authority, every argument about who is or isn’t the Rock — all of it slowly pulls our eyes outward… away from the one place Scripture actually calls the true battlefield.
And we don’t even notice.
We look at institutions.
We look at systems.
We look at traditions.
We look at global powers.
We look at prophetic fulfillments.
We look at the drama of history.
Anything.
Everything.
Except the throne inside our own chest.
We would rather talk about antichrist out there than face antichrist in here.
We would rather argue about the great controversy in the world than confront the small one happening in our soul.
We would rather identify the counterfeit Rock somewhere in the distance than admit how many times we have tried to be the Rock ourselves.
And the Spirit gently, quietly whispers:
“Be still. You’re looking in the wrong direction.”
Because while we are studying prophecy, the greatest prophecy is already unfolding:
Who rules me?
While we are identifying global threats, the greatest threat sits quietly in our own heart.
While we are analyzing the loftiness of human thrones, we overlook the small, private throne we protect more fiercely than any pope ever guarded his cathedral.
Self.
The ancient rebel that never dies quietly.
The one that resists surrender more than it resists doctrine.
The one that hides behind theology.
The one that uses religious correctness as camouflage.
The one that can preach the truth and still refuse the Lordship of Christ.
And this is why the conversations get noisy.
Why the debates get heated.
Why prophecy sometimes becomes a distraction rather than a revelation.
Because if I can fill my life with external concerns, I don’t have to face the internal crisis that Jesus keeps bringing me back to:
“Who is ruling you right now?”
Choose you this day — not some future day.
Not the day the world shakes.
Not the day laws change.
Not the day beasts rise.
Not the day when charts finally make sense.
This day.
This moment.
This breath.
Because no matter how appealing the idea of a visible Rock may be…
no matter how passionate the prophecy debates become…
no matter how convincing the confusion can sound…
In the end, God brings every soul back to the same quiet place:
A single throne.
Inside a single heart.
Belonging to a single person.
And that’s where the real sermon begins.
---
There comes a moment in every spiritual journey when God gently closes the door on all the external conversations and brings the light a little closer. Not with anger. Not with condemnation. But with a hand so steady and so kind that we almost don’t notice the shift until it’s already happened.
We sit in the quietness of that light and realize…
we can’t hide behind the noise anymore.
The debates fade.
The charts go still.
The prophetic diagrams lose their urgency.
The conversations about authority and hierarchies drift to the margins.
Because God is no longer talking about “them.”
He’s talking about me.
It’s almost disorienting.
For years, maybe decades, we’ve trained ourselves to think in the large.
The visible.
The historical.
The institutional.
The prophetic.
And then the Spirit speaks in a barely audible whisper:
“Let’s talk about your throne.”
And everything inside us winces.
Because we know exactly what He means.
There is a throne inside every human life — not large, not ornate, not gilded with earthly glory, but fiercely protected. The throne of self. The throne where our will sits with crossed arms and says, “This is mine.”
It’s not loud.
It’s not rebellious in an obvious way.
It’s subtle.
Quiet.
Deeply rooted.
It dresses itself in maturity and responsibility.
It cloaks itself in logic and caution.
It learned the language of religion long ago.
It knows how to flatter us with the illusion of control.
We rarely see it for what it is.
We say:
“I’m just protecting myself.”
“I’m just using wisdom.”
“I’m just being careful.”
“I’m just doing what’s best.”
“I’m just trying to manage my life responsibly.”
But beneath all those noble phrases sits a small, stubborn monarch who refuses to abdicate.
And this is the moment when the gospel gets painfully honest.
Because as long as self rules the heart, Christ is present — but not enthroned.
Honored — but not obeyed.
Admired — but not surrendered to.
Loved — but not followed.
Self doesn’t mind Jesus being close.
It minds Jesus being King.
This is where the story of kleros and laos suddenly comes alive.
For generations, Christians have borrowed the Greek words but forgotten their meaning. In Scripture, laos is simply “the people” — the whole church, the entire family of God. Not divided, not stratified, not sorted into classes.
One people.
One priesthood.
One Savior.
And kleros — the word often associated with “clergy” in later centuries — simply means “the portion entrusted,” the share of God’s inheritance, the people He loves and shepherds with care. It never describes an elevated class with superior authority. It never builds a staircase between believer and Savior.
There is no spiritual elite in the New Testament.
No hierarchy of holiness.
No ladder of access to God.
Just laos — the people of God.
And Christ — the Shepherd of all.
And this is where the light turns inward again:
If there is no special class with special authority,
then there is no one to shield me from the responsibility of my own surrender.
No priest to surrender for me.
No leader to choose for me.
No system to obey on my behalf.
No institution to assume my discipleship.
No figurehead to rule my heart from a distance.
I am laos.
And the throne inside me belongs to Christ or to self —
but not to both.
This is the part of the gospel we resist.
Not because it’s complicated, but because it’s personal.
We would prefer it if someone else could be the Rock so we don’t have to build on Christ ourselves.
We would prefer it if someone else could be the cornerstone so we don’t have to align our lives with Him.
We would prefer it if some external hierarchy could answer the hard questions so we don’t have to ask them before God on our knees.
And that is why the idea of a visible Rock is so appealing —
because if someone else is the Rock,
I don’t have to confront the rebellion inside me.
But God is too loving to let us outsource our discipleship.
He brings us back, again and again, to the same simple question:
“Who rules your life right now?”
Yes, Scripture speaks of beasts and horns and kingdoms that rise and fall.
Yes, prophecy warns of systems that oppose Christ.
Yes, history reveals powers that distort the gospel.
But the most dangerous antichrist is always the one that sits quietly inside my chest —
self-exaltation, self-protection, self-rule.
Not because I am evil,
but because I am human.
And that is why exposure hurts.
Not because God is shaming us,
but because He is healing us.
Light always feels like judgment before it feels like freedom.
A wound stings when it’s washed.
A fracture aches when it’s set.
A heart trembles when it yields.
A soul recoils when its idols fall.
But this is the only way Christ becomes:
Unshared.
Unrivaled.
Unequal.
Not when we preach it,
but when we live it.
When I stop saying, “I surrender all,”
and actually surrender something.
When I stop admiring Jesus
and start obeying Him.
When I stop carrying charts
and start carrying a cross.
When I stop studying antichrist
and start crucifying the antichrist of self.
Because the real crisis is never global.
It is always personal.
Not “Who rules the world?”
but “Who rules me?”
Not “What powers are rising?”
but “What power am I resisting?”
Not “What will happen in the last days?”
but “What will I do this day?”
Choose you this day.
Not the day of prophecy’s climax.
Not the day the world changes.
Not the day the laws shift.
Not the day the nations tremble.
Choose you this day whom you will serve.
Because the throne of my life cannot remain empty.
Someone will rule it.
And Christ will not force His way in.
He waits.
He invites.
He knocks.
He calls.
Not with thunder.
Not with spectacle.
Not with cosmic authority.
With a whisper that pierces more deeply than any end-time diagram ever could.
A whisper that says:
“Surrender, child.
Let Me be your Rock.”
And this is where the gospel gets very quiet…
and very personal.
---
There is a moment in every honest sermon — and in every honest soul — when the conversation stops being about doctrines, systems, powers, and prophecy and becomes a mirror.
A mirror so clear, so unmistakably truthful, that even the smallest flicker of self-defense dies on our lips.
This is that moment.
Not the moment of understanding.
Not the moment of teaching.
The moment of reckoning.
We are no longer discussing Rome or history or theology or hierarchy.
We are no longer circling the globe with prophetic charts or identifying world powers.
We are no longer arguing about rocks or stones or titles or structures.
All of that has faded into a distant hum.
The room has grown quiet.
The noise of analysis has subsided.
The mind has stopped debating.
And the heart begins to answer questions it can no longer avoid.
Questions like:
“Who rules me?”
“Why do I resist surrender?”
“What am I afraid to lose?”
“Where is self still enthroned?”
This is where the gospel becomes unbearably honest — not condemning, not harsh, but truthful in a way that strips away all pretense.
Because in the end, the greatest opponent to the Lordship of Christ is not the Pope, not prophecy, not institutions, not systems, not traditions, not misunderstandings, not doctrinal errors — it is me.
Not the person across the ocean.
Not the one in the headlines.
Not the one in the pulpit.
Not the one in the history books.
Me.
Little ol’ simple me.
The one who wakes up each morning deciding, consciously or unconsciously, who will sit on the throne that day.
The one whose fears whisper more loudly than sermons.
The one whose pride quietly rebuilds kingdoms Christ already tore down.
The one whose habits resist the Spirit’s gentle intrusion.
The one who can preach truth, defend truth, love truth… and still withhold the parts of life where truth asks to reign.
Oh, how we resist this.
How we hate this exposure.
How we squirm when the light shines too close.
Because surrender is not a doctrinal position — it is a death.
Not the death of value.
Not the death of identity.
Not the death of joy.
But the death of the ruler we’ve been protecting our entire lives:
Self.
Self is the only false christ we fully believe in.
Self is the only false church we fully attend.
Self is the only false prophet we fully trust.
Self is the only throne we polish daily.
And here is the astonishing grace of God:
He exposes self not to humiliate us,
but to free us.
There is no shame in surrender.
There is only release.
There is only relief.
There is only life.
But to reach that life, something inside us has to lay down the crown we forged for ourselves long ago.
We talk so much about antichrist.
We warn about antichrist.
We study antichrist.
We debate antichrist.
Yet all the while, the Spirit whispers:
“The antichrist that endangers you most
is the one that insists on ruling your heart.”
Not global powers.
Not prophetic symbols.
Not ancient thrones.
Not towering institutions.
Self.
The small monarch with a loud ego.
The inner pope who never abdicates willingly.
The counterfeit king that claims the right to rule every decision.
And here is where Scripture takes everything we’ve been talking about — all the external authority, all the prophetic conversation, all the theological debate — and collapses it into one simple, devastatingly beautiful choice:
“Choose you this day whom you will serve.” —Joshua 24:15
This day.
Not tomorrow.
Not when crisis comes.
Not when the world shakes.
Not when the prophecies line up.
Not when truth becomes popular.
Not when the heart feels ready.
This day.
Because the throne will not remain empty.
Someone will rule it.
And the greatest tragedy in the Christian life is not that someone else might take Christ’s place.
It’s that I might keep Christ’s place.
I — the one who knows His mercy.
I — the one who knows His love.
I — the one who knows His gentleness.
I — the one who knows His patience.
I — the one who has seen His hand again and again.
And yet…
still…
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t love Him.
But because surrender is frightening.
What will He ask of me?
What will He change in me?
What will He take from me?
What will He reveal in me?
But everything Christ asks us to surrender is something that was already poisoning us.
Everything He asks us to release is something we could not carry without harm.
Everything He asks us to yield is something He intends to replace with freedom.
Because Christ does not dethrone self to diminish us.
He dethrones self to restore us.
He dethrones self so His peace can rule.
He dethrones self so His joy can live.
He dethrones self so His Spirit can breathe again within His temple.
He dethrones self so that the Rock —
the true Rock,
the eternal Rock,
the unshared, unrivaled, unequal Rock —
can finally stand where He belongs.
And suddenly, the whole sermon narrows to a point so sharp, so precise, so unavoidable that it pierces like light:
It’s not about Robert Prevost.
It’s not about prophecy.
It’s about me.
Me — the one Christ loves.
Me — the one Christ calls.
Me — the one Christ gently invites to step off the throne.
Little ol’ me.
Standing before a God who has never forced Himself on anyone.
Standing with one simple question resting on my heart:
“Will you let Me rule you today?”
Not rule the world.
Not rule the church.
Not rule the nations.
Just rule me.
Because when Christ rules me,
every fear loses its power.
Every lie loses its grip.
Every timeline loses its urgency.
Every counterfeit authority dissolves.
Every prophetic crisis finds its meaning.
Every shadow of self fades in the brilliance of His glory.
Christ is not asking me to understand everything.
He is asking me to surrender everything.
Not tomorrow.
Not when I feel strong.
Not when life settles.
Not when the answers come.
This day.
This moment.
This breath.
Choose you this day whom you will serve.
Because surrender is not an event.
It is a throne transfer.
The throne transfer.
The one that changes everything.
And Christ is waiting —
not with pressure,
not with threat,
not with force,
but with that same whisper that has echoed across every page of Scripture:
“Let Jesus be your Rock.”
---
APPEAL
My friend…
after all the noise of prophecy,
after all the talk of authority,
after all the questions about who sits on what throne…
it comes down to one small, sacred place:
your heart.
Not the heart of the church.
Not the heart of the world.
Not the heart of history.
Your heart.
And the throne inside it.
All of heaven leans near that throne right now.
Not to condemn you.
Not to expose you for shame.
Not to overwhelm you.
But to ask — gently, clearly:
“Who will rule you this day?”
Not in some future crisis.
Not in the pages of prophecy.
Not in the grand sweep of world empires.
But today.
Right now.
With this breath.
Christ is not asking you to dethrone someone else.
He’s asking if you’ll step down from the throne you’ve held onto — sometimes fearfully, sometimes proudly, sometimes unknowingly.
He is not asking for your brilliance.
He is not asking for your strength.
He is not asking for your mastery of doctrine.
He is asking for your throne.
He is asking for the one thing no one else can surrender for you.
So I make this appeal with tenderness:
If you sense the Spirit whispering in your soul…
If you feel the quiet nudge of surrender…
If something inside you knows that self has ruled long enough…
If your heart is tired of the weight of its own kingship…
Then today — this day —
would you give Christ His rightful place?
Would you let Him be:
unshared,
unrivaled,
unequal
in you?
If that is the desire of your heart,
you don’t have to raise a hand,
you don’t have to walk an aisle,
you don’t have to make a dramatic gesture.
Just whisper to Him in your spirit:
“Jesus… I step down.
You take the throne.”
That whisper, my friend,
is the beginning of everything.
---
PRAYER
Let’s pray.
Father…
we have talked about great things today —
thrones, authority, prophecy, powers.
But now we come to the smallest throne of all,
the throne inside our own hearts.
And we confess —
it is the hardest one to surrender.
We have defended it.
We have hidden it.
We have guarded it.
We have filled it with our fears, our pride, our wounds, our desires.
And yet…
You still come to that throne with gentleness.
You don’t break the door down.
You knock.
You wait.
You invite.
Tonight, Lord, we hear Your whisper.
We acknowledge the truth:
it’s not the powers of the world
but the power of self
that has resisted You most.
So we lay it down.
We step off the throne.
We open our clenched hands.
We release our illusion of control.
Jesus…
be our Rock —
unshared, unrivaled, unequal.
Sit where only You belong.
Rule where only You can rule.
Heal what only You can heal.
Free what only You can free.
We choose You
this day.
Not in theory.
Not in doctrine.
Not in prophecy.
But in the quiet, present moment
of surrender.
Thank You for loving us enough
to expose us,
to invite us,
to receive us,
and to reign in us.
We give You the throne.
In Your holy, gentle, victorious name we pray —
Amen.
