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?
Please turn in your Bibles to Revelation 3:10–11.
--- You Already Have a Crown
When Jesus speaks to the church in Revelation 3, He does not begin with accusation. He does not open with rebuke. He does not threaten loss, judgment, or exclusion.
He begins with assurance—and that order matters more than we often realize.
“I am coming soon. Hold fast what you have, that no one may take your crown.”
Before Jesus says anything about danger, deception, endurance, or testing, He anchors His people in a single, stabilizing truth: something has already been given.
He does not say, Hold fast so that you might someday receive a crown.
He does not say, Prove yourself worthy of what is coming.
He says, Hold fast what you have.
That phrase tells us that the Christian life does not begin with earning, striving, or proving. It begins with receiving. It begins with security. It begins with grace.
Before pressure intensifies, before voices compete for authority, before disappointment sets in, Christ wants His people to understand that they are not scrambling to earn His approval.
They are not auditioning for salvation. They are not balancing on a spiritual tightrope, hoping one misstep will undo everything.
They already possess something of immeasurable value.
The word translated “crown” helps us understand what Jesus means.
Scripture uses two primary words for crowns. One is diadema—a ruling crown, associated with authority, power, and visible dominance. The other is stephanos—the victor’s wreath, awarded after a race, a contest, or a long endurance.
Revelation 3 uses stephanos.
This is not a crown of domination.
It is not a crown of control.
It is a crown of faithfulness.
It is the crown of life—the promise of eternal life in Jesus Christ.
Here is the crucial point: Jesus speaks of this crown as a present possession, not a future possibility. He is addressing believers who are still imperfect, still under pressure, still surrounded by difficulty—and He tells them they already have it.
That runs directly against how many Christians experience their spiritual lives.
Many live as though acceptance is always provisional. As though God is perpetually disappointed, perpetually evaluating, perpetually holding back final approval until they finally get everything right.
Under that weight, faith becomes anxious.
Obedience becomes strained.
Assurance becomes fragile and conditional.
But Jesus does not motivate His people through insecurity. He motivates them through identity.
You do not hold on in order to become loved. You hold on because you are loved.
Joe’s trouble did not begin because he rejected truth. It began when assurance quietly slipped out of the picture. The message he absorbed—rarely stated outright, but communicated consistently—was that sincerity was insufficient. That love for Christ was not enough unless it was reinforced by increasingly specific outward proofs.
Once assurance erodes, everything else begins to wobble.
Without assurance, growth turns into pressure.
Without assurance, obedience turns into fear.
Without assurance, discernment turns into suspicion.
Without assurance, spiritual life becomes exhausting.
Instead of asking, How can I walk with Jesus today?
People begin asking, What am I missing? What am I doing wrong? Who is measuring me?
Jesus knows this. That is why He starts where He does.
“You have a crown.”
Not because you are flawless.
Not because your theology is complete.
Not because your lifestyle is impressive.
But because Christ Himself has secured your standing.
The crown is not the reward for endurance; it is the reason endurance is possible. You do not endure in order to earn life; you endure because life has already been given. You do not persevere to achieve belonging; you persevere because you already belong.
Scripture consistently presents eternal life this way. Paul speaks of a crown already laid up. James calls it the crown of life promised to those who love God. Peter describes a crown of glory that does not fade away.
These are not fragile promises dangling by a thread. They are settled realities anchored in Christ’s finished work.
When this order is reversed—when warning comes before assurance—the result is almost always distortion.
Some become harsh and judgmental, measuring others to reassure themselves. Others grow discouraged and quietly disengage, concluding they will never measure up. Some grow louder. Others simply disappear.
Joe didn’t need more intensity.
He didn’t need stricter measuring sticks.
He didn’t need more voices defining faithfulness for him.
He needed to hear again what Jesus says first: You have something worth holding on to.
Before we talk about losing a crown, we must understand possessing one.
Before we talk about pressure, we must talk about promise.
Because only people who know they are secure can face testing without being crushed by it.
Jesus starts there.
So must we.
--- You Can Lose Your Grip on What Was Given
Jesus’ words are comforting—but they are not casual.
After grounding His people in assurance, He adds a sober warning:
“Hold fast what you have, that no one may take your crown.”
If Jesus has to say don’t let anyone take it, then it must be possible to lose our grip on what was given. Not because Christ is unfaithful, but because pressure is real, voices are persuasive, and fatigue is dangerous.
Notice what Jesus does not say.
He does not say, “Be afraid that I might take your crown.”
He does not say, “Live in constant anxiety about losing your place.”
He says, “Don’t let anyone take it.”
The danger does not come primarily from God.
It comes from elsewhere.
Crowns are rarely lost in moments of open rebellion. They are not usually stolen in a single crisis of belief. More often, they slip away gradually—through discouragement, distraction, confusion, disappointment, and exhaustion.
Joe did not wake up one morning and decide to walk away from faith. He didn’t renounce Christ. He didn’t adopt a new philosophy. He didn’t storm out of the church in anger.
He simply became tired.
Tired of being measured.
Tired of feeling behind.
Tired of not knowing which voice to trust.
Tired of trying to explain decisions that no longer felt spiritual—only survivable.
And that is often how crowns are lost—not by defiance, but by erosion.
Jesus’ warning assumes there are forces—inside and outside the church—that can quietly pull believers off center. Scripture names several of them, and they remain familiar.
Crowns are taken by hypocrisy—when the gap between public faith and private reality becomes so obvious that sincerity starts to feel naïve. Watching leaders speak with confidence while hiding compromise doesn’t just disappoint; it disorients. It makes people wonder whether faith itself is performative.
Crowns are taken by disillusionment—when care is promised but not delivered, when absence goes unnoticed long enough to feel intentional. People rarely leave because they are angry; they leave because they conclude they are invisible.
Crowns are taken by comparison—when faith becomes a competition. Who knows more. Who sacrifices more. Who is more “awake.” Comparison turns grace into a scoreboard and leaves most people feeling perpetually behind.
Crowns are taken by noise—when the sheer volume of opinions drowns out the quiet voice of Christ. Podcasts, livestreams, lectures, warnings, timelines, insider revelations—all competing for authority. Certainty grows louder. Humility grows thinner. Discernment becomes exhausting.
Crowns are taken by fear, especially fear dressed up as faithfulness. Fear of being deceived. Fear of missing out. Fear of being on the wrong side when Jesus returns. Fear-driven faith always demands more, but it never gives rest.
Joe absorbed that pressure slowly. What once felt like guidance began to feel like surveillance. Choices were no longer expressions of trust; they became defensive maneuvers. Faith stopped being relational and became tactical.
Then came the deeper wound.
When Joe finally reached out for help, he found silence. And when answers did come, they came too late—or from voices that later proved compromised themselves. That is another way crowns are lost.
When spiritual authority collapses publicly, believers are left not only with disappointment, but with confusion about whom to trust.
If those who speak most confidently fall most spectacularly, people begin to suspect certainty itself.
Jesus knows this landscape. That is why His warning is not abstract. He does not say, “Be careful.” He says, “Don’t let anyone take your crown.”
That does not mean truth is fragile. It means people are.
It means faith must be protected—not from honest questions, but from corrosive pressures that replace trust with anxiety.
One of the most dangerous assumptions in spiritual life is that faithfulness should always feel intense. Intensity can be intoxicating, but it cannot be sustained.
When intensity becomes the measure of devotion, exhaustion is interpreted as failure.
Joe wasn’t failing.
He was burning out.
And burnout often masquerades as backsliding.
Jesus does not shame tired believers.
He warns them.
Because crowns are lost not only through temptation, but through neglect—through the slow acceptance of a distorted story: that faith is a constant emergency, that belonging is conditional, that rest is suspicious, that grace must always be defended rather than trusted.
The enemy does not need to destroy faith if he can simply weary it.
Joe didn’t stop believing in Jesus.
He stopped believing that faith was a place where he and his family could breathe.
And when that happens, people don’t fall—they drift.
That is the danger Jesus names.
Not rebellion.
Not heresy.
But erosion.
--- There Is a Way to Keep What You Have
Jesus does not warn His people in order to frighten them.
He warns them in order to steady them.
After assurance, and after warning, He gives a simple, grounding instruction:
“Hold fast what you have.”
Not accumulate more.
Not master everything.
Not win every argument.
Hold fast.
That phrase is quieter than we expect—and far more demanding.
Holding fast does not mean gripping faith with white knuckles. It does not mean living in constant vigilance, scanning for threats, or policing every thought and choice.
Holding fast is not frantic; it is anchored. It means refusing to let go of what Christ has already given—especially when other voices try to redefine what faithfulness looks like.
Jesus is realistic. He knows pressure will come. He knows temptation will come. He knows confusion will come. Scripture never promises believers a smooth road; it promises them a faithful Companion.
Paul says it plainly:
“God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will also make the way of escape.”
Jesus Himself says:
“In this world you will have tribulation. But take heart—I have overcome the world.”
Notice the promise is not avoidance.
It is presence.
It is victory without escape.
So how do we actually hold fast?
First, we hold fast by returning to Christ Himself, not merely to Christian culture.
Culture shifts. Movements rise and fall. Emphases swing. But Jesus remains the same—patient, truthful, gracious, steady.
When faith becomes primarily about platforms, personalities, or positions, it becomes fragile. When faith remains centered on Christ—His character, His words, His way—it becomes resilient.
Joe didn’t need a better system.
He needed a clearer center.
Second, we hold fast by anchoring identity in grace rather than performance.
Grace is not opposed to effort, but it is opposed to earning.
When believers forget this, obedience turns into self-justification, and service turns into self-protection.
Grace allows us to obey without fear, repent without despair, and grow without pretending.
Third, we hold fast by staying connected to imperfect community rather than withdrawing in search of purity.
Isolation always feels safer at first. It promises relief. It promises clarity. But over time, it starves faith.
The New Testament never envisions solitary Christianity. Growth happens in community—not because community is perfect, but because it is formative. We learn patience, humility, forgiveness, and perseverance precisely because people disappoint us.
Joe didn’t drift because he loved sin.
He drifted because disconnection felt easier than disappointment.
Fourth, we hold fast by measuring faithfulness by love, not volume.
Loud faith is not necessarily deep faith. Intense faith is not always mature faith.
Scripture consistently points to love as the clearest evidence of life in Christ.
Love listens.
Love waits.
Love bears with weakness—our own and others’.
Where love grows cold, faith becomes brittle.
Fifth, we hold fast by allowing rest to be part of obedience.
Rest is not a concession to weakness; it is an act of trust. When we refuse rest, we silently confess that everything depends on us. When we rest, we confess that Christ is sufficient.
Jesus never shamed weary disciples.
He invited them to come away and rest awhile.
Joe didn’t need to quit believing.
He needed permission to breathe.
Holding fast also means remembering the larger story.
The gospel has never advanced only through strong institutions or confident leaders. It has advanced through faithful people—often unnoticed, often unsupported, often misunderstood—who simply refused to let go of Christ.
Millions have lived and died holding fast without applause. Many never saw the fruit of their faithfulness. Some were never affirmed. Some were never thanked. Some were never understood.
And yet they held fast.
Not because faith was easy.
But because Christ was faithful.
Scripture reminds us that countless people still live without knowing the story of Jesus. Thousands die every day without hearing the hope that steadies our hearts.
Across history, believers have paid for faithfulness with reputation, security, freedom, and sometimes life itself.
They were not sustained by intensity.
They were sustained by hope.
That is why Jesus’ promise matters so deeply.
“I am coming soon.”
That is not meant to create panic.
It is meant to create perspective.
The end is near—not as a threat, but as a promise that brokenness will not have the final word. The end is near—not because the world is spiraling out of control, but because Christ is moving history toward restoration.
For believers, that means this: whatever happens, we are safe in Him. To live is Christ. To die is gain. To remain faithful—quietly, steadily, imperfectly—is enough.
Joe’s story does not end with a dramatic return or a public testimony. It ends more honestly than that. It ends with survival. With small acts of faith. With a family that did not lose Christ, even though they lost momentum.
Jesus is not only the Lord of triumphant endings.
He is the Shepherd of weary journeys.
Holding fast does not mean never stumbling.
It means refusing to let go when stumbling happens.
It means trusting that the One who gave the crown knows how to keep His people—even when their grip feels weak.
“Hold fast what you have.”
Not because everything else is stable. But because He is.
--- All the Way Home
There is a reason Jesus ends His counsel the way He does.
He does not conclude with a checklist.
He does not conclude with a threat.
He does not conclude with an argument.
He concludes with a promise.
“I am coming soon.”
Those words are not meant to make believers anxious. They are meant to make believers steady. They are not a warning meant to frighten us into compliance; they are an assurance meant to anchor us when everything else feels uncertain.
Jesus knows His people will live between tension and hope. He knows they will face disappointment, confusion, failure, fatigue, and seasons where faith feels quieter than it once did. And He knows that what sustains them will not be intensity, but trust.
That is why His instruction remains simple:
“Hold fast what you have.”
Not what you might someday become.
Not what others say you should be.
Not what fear demands you prove.
Hold fast to what Christ has already given.
James M. Black understood something about that kind of faith. As a Sunday School teacher, he walked past a broken home on his way to the post office—a place marked by poverty, addiction, and neglect.
One day he invited a young girl from that home to attend Sunday School. Quietly, faithfully, the church clothed her. Included her. Loved her. No speeches. No campaigns. Just care.
Then came a Sunday when her name was called during roll call.
No answer.
Silence filled the room.
Black closed the meeting, but the silence followed him home. It stayed with him through the gate, into the house, and finally to the piano. And there, out of grief and longing and hope, words came that would outlive him:
“When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more…”
That song was not born out of triumph.
It was born out of absence.
Out of longing.
Out of faith that refused to let go.
That is what holding fast looks like.
Not loud certainty.
Not dramatic declarations.
But quiet perseverance when answers are incomplete and outcomes are unseen.
Joe’s story does not end with applause. It doesn’t end with a platform or a testimony tour. It ends more realistically than that. It ends with a man and his family who did not abandon Christ—even though they lost momentum, clarity, and connection for a time.
They did not stop believing.
They simply became weary.
Jesus does not discard the weary.
He invites them to rest.
He invites them to trust again.
He invites them to keep holding on—not because their grip is strong, but because He is faithful.
Some of the most faithful believers you will ever meet are not the loudest ones. They are not the most visible. They are not the most certain. They are the ones who keep showing up quietly, loving imperfectly, praying honestly, and refusing to let go of Christ even when faith feels thin.
History is filled with such people. Many lived without recognition. Many died without seeing results. Many never knew how far their quiet faithfulness would ripple. And yet they held fast.
Not because faith was easy.
But because Christ was enough.
Jesus reminds us that the story is not over. The brokenness we see is not permanent. The confusion we experience is not final. The silence we endure will not last forever.
“I am coming soon.”
For the faithful, that means this: whatever happens, we are safe in Him. To live is Christ. To die is gain. To remain faithful—steadily, imperfectly, quietly—is enough.
Holding fast does not mean never stumbling.
It means refusing to let go when stumbling happens.
It means trusting that the One who gave the crown knows how to keep His people—even when their grip feels weak.
So hold fast.
Hold fast to grace when pressure rises.
Hold fast to Christ when voices compete.
Hold fast to love when disappointment tempts you to withdraw.
Hold fast to hope when faith feels small.
The crown was never about proving worth.
It was always about belonging.
And the One who promised it is faithful.
“Hold fast what you have.”
He is coming soon.
--- Appeal
If your faith feels quieter than it once did…
If you are tired rather than rebellious…
If you have not walked away from Christ but have struggled simply to keep pace…
Hear Jesus’ words as they were meant to be heard—not as a threat, but as an invitation:
“Hang on to what you have.”
Not what you wish you were.
Not what others expect you to prove.
But what Christ has already given you.
Choose today to stop measuring your faith by intensity and start anchoring it in grace.
Choose to remain—imperfect, honest, faithful.
Choose to hang on.
--- Prayer
Lord Jesus,
Thank You for beginning with assurance and not accusation.
When our strength feels thin and our grip feels weak, remind us that You are faithful.
Teach us to hang on—not in fear, but in trust.
Keep us anchored in grace, steady in hope, and faithful in love until the day You come.
We place our confidence not in ourselves, but in You.
Amen.
