Introduction
We live in a time that prizes manageability above almost everything else. We want lives that are controllable, predictable, and efficient. We value systems that reduce friction and minimize risk. We are constantly offered ways to simplify what feels demanding, streamline what feels heavy, and customize what feels inconvenient.
The promise is always the same: you can keep what you like while lowering the cost.
That instinct makes sense. Life is full. Responsibilities stack up. Most people are already tired before the day begins. So when something asks more of us—more attention, more vulnerability, more risk—we naturally look for ways to make it fit more comfortably into the life we already have.
Over time, that instinct has shaped not just our schedules and habits, but our faith.
Most people have not rejected Christianity. They haven’t turned away from belief or abandoned the language of faith.
In fact, many are deeply invested. They attend church regularly. They know the vocabulary. They can explain their beliefs clearly. They pray. They give.
From the outside, everything looks solid. And yet something subtle has changed—not dramatically, not rebelliously, but quietly.
Faith, for many of us, has shifted from something that confronts us to something that supports us; from something that interrupts our assumptions to something that reassures them; from something that reshapes our lives to something that fits neatly inside them.
We haven’t stopped believing. We’ve just learned how to manage belief in a way that feels sustainable.
We’ve become very good at maintaining a version of faith that is sincere but safe.
We know how to keep God close enough to consult but far enough not to disrupt. We know how to listen selectively, obey strategically, and surrender in principle without surrendering in practice. We’ve learned how to speak about grace in ways that comfort us without necessarily changing us, and how to talk about commitment without letting it cost us too much.
This isn’t dishonesty. It’s adaptation.
It’s what happens when faith lives inside a culture that teaches us—constantly—that the highest good is stability, and that anything demanding too much of us must be adjusted, renegotiated, or simplified.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, we begin to do with the gospel what we do with everything else: we trim it, streamline it, and make it manageable.
We don’t remove the gospel. We reduce it.
We keep the parts that reassure us and soften the parts that unsettle us. We emphasize what affirms and minimize what confronts. We grow fluent in grace while becoming increasingly uncomfortable with surrender. And because none of this happens loudly, we rarely notice it happening at all.
You can hear it in how we talk about discipleship. You can see it in how we describe obedience.
You can feel it in the expectations we place on one another. The language remains rich, but the weight has grown lighter. The vocabulary stays intact, but the demands have been quietly lowered.
Even our worship reflects this shift. Our hymnal is thinner now. Not because the songs are gone, but because they’ve been edited. We keep the opening verse—the one that speaks of hope, assurance, and promise. And we keep the final verse—the one that celebrates victory and arrival. But the middle verses, the ones that linger in confession, struggle, surrender, and costly trust, are often skipped. They slow things down. They complicate the moment. They ask too much.
We prefer resolution without wrestling, triumph without tension, resurrection without dwelling too long at the cross.
And again, this is not malice. It’s efficiency.
We want a faith that works. A faith that comforts. A faith that stabilizes us. A faith that reassures us we’re on the right path—without demanding that we change direction.
We want grace, but we want it calibrated. We want truth, but only in manageable doses. We want God present, but contained.
So we build systems—personal, communal, institutional—that help us manage God. We organize belief so it stays predictable. We structure faith so it remains useful. We lower the cost just enough to keep participation high, commitment reasonable, and discomfort minimal.
The tragedy is not that this kind of faith collapses.
The tragedy is that it works.
It works well enough to keep us religious.
Well enough to keep us informed.
Well enough to keep us comfortable.
But not well enough to transform us.
Which raises a question we rarely stop to ask—not because it is aggressive, but because it is honest:
Have we embraced a version of the gospel that we can manage, rather than a gospel we must trust?
Because the gospel was never designed to be manageable.
It was designed to be lived.
--- Part One: How We Learned to Manage God
Most of us did not wake up one morning and decide to shrink our faith. There was no moment when we consciously chose a lesser gospel. What happened instead was far more ordinary—and far more understandable.
We learned, slowly and responsibly, how to live with faith without letting it disrupt the lives we were already committed to living.
That learning did not come from rebellion. It came from survival.
Life demands consistency. Jobs require reliability. Families need stability.
Communities function best when people are predictable. In that kind of environment, anything that introduces too much uncertainty begins to feel irresponsible.
Faith—real faith—has a way of doing exactly that. It asks questions we cannot fully answer. It leads us toward obedience before outcomes are clear. It invites trust at moments when control would feel safer.
So, without meaning to, we begin to negotiate.
We keep God in our lives, but we reposition Him. We move Him from the center of decision-making to a consultative role.
We still pray, but prayer becomes a place where we inform God of our plans rather than risk being interrupted by His.
We still read Scripture, but we gravitate toward passages that reassure us more than those that unsettle us.
We still believe—but belief becomes something we manage rather than something that manages us.
None of this feels dishonest. In fact, it often feels wise.
We tell ourselves that faith must be practical, realistic, balanced.
We speak about discernment and responsibility. We talk about timing.
We remind ourselves that God understands our circumstances.
And in many ways, He does. The problem is not that these thoughts are false. The problem is that they quietly train us to keep faith on a short leash.
Over time, we become fluent in a version of Christianity that is highly functional and carefully contained.
God becomes someone we agree with more often than we obey. Scripture becomes something we interpret in ways that confirm the direction we were already moving. Grace becomes a reassurance that we are accepted, rather than a power that reshapes us. And discipleship becomes an idea we affirm, rather than a path we actually walk.
Again, this is not hypocrisy. It is accommodation.
We learn how to live close enough to God to feel secure, but far enough away to avoid risk. We learn how to honor Him without surrendering control. We learn how to talk about trust while quietly maintaining contingency plans.
Because this version of faith is stable, respectable, and socially acceptable, it rarely raises alarm.
In fact, it often looks like maturity.
We mistake familiarity for depth.
We confuse knowledge with intimacy.
We assume that because faith feels settled, it must be strong.
What often happens instead is that faith becomes thinner—not weaker in belief, but lighter in weight. It demands less, asks less, interrupts less.
You can believe everything and still be untouched.
That is the danger of managed faith.
When faith is managed, obedience becomes conditional.
We obey as long as the cost remains reasonable.
We trust as long as outcomes stay within acceptable boundaries.
We follow as long as the path feels safe.
When something threatens that balance—
When God presses too close, asks too much, or disrupts our carefully arranged lives—we instinctively step back.
Not away from God.
Just back into management.
This is where the language of faith becomes especially important. We begin to speak in ways that sound faithful while creating distance. We talk about waiting when we mean avoiding. We talk about wisdom when we mean hesitation. We talk about prayerful consideration when we mean we are not yet ready to trust.
Because all of this sounds spiritual, it goes largely unchallenged.
Even our institutions adapt to this posture. Churches learn how to communicate grace without expectation.
Communities learn how to affirm belief without pressing for change. Structures develop that allow people to remain comfortable participants without ever needing to risk transformation. The system works. Attendance remains steady. Conflict stays low. Everyone feels included.
No behinds are left.
But movement slows.
What gets lost in all of this is not belief, but surrender. Not doctrine, but trust. Not faith language, but faith risk. And because nothing visibly collapses, we assume nothing essential has been lost.
Yet the gospel was never meant to be efficient. It was never designed to fit neatly into lives we refuse to reconsider. It does not exist to stabilize us where we are. It exists to call us forward—often before we feel ready, often before we feel secure.
And that is precisely why we are tempted to manage it.
Because unmanaged faith changes us.
--- Part Two: What Real Grace Does to a Chair
The problem with managed faith is not that it lacks sincerity. It is that it rarely requires movement. It allows us to remain seated—thoughtful, reflective, informed—without ever needing to stand up and follow. And because comfort can feel so much like peace, we often mistake stillness for faithfulness.
But the gospel has never been friendly to chairs.
From the beginning, God’s call has always involved interruption. Abraham is called while settled. Moses is summoned while working. Isaiah is undone while worshiping. The disciples are invited while mending nets, collecting taxes, living ordinary lives. In every case, grace does not affirm them where they are and leave them there. Grace meets them—and then dislodges them.
That dislodging is what we resist.
We prefer a version of grace that reassures us while we remain seated. We like forgiveness that soothes the conscience but doesn’t rearrange priorities. We want mercy that comforts without requiring trust. We want belonging without disruption. And so we quietly redefine grace as acceptance without movement.
But grace, biblically speaking, is never passive.
Grace forgives—but it also calls. Grace welcomes—but it also sends. Grace heals—but it also reorients. Grace does not merely invite us to feel better about where we are; it invites us to step into who we are becoming. And that invitation almost always involves getting up from somewhere we have grown comfortable.
This is why Jesus rarely says, “Stay.”
He says, “Follow.”
Following assumes movement. It assumes direction. It assumes leaving one place in order to go somewhere else. And that is precisely why we are tempted to soften discipleship language, spiritualize obedience, and turn following into agreement.
Agreement is comfortable. Following is not.
You can agree with Jesus without ever standing up. You can admire Him without leaving your chair. You can affirm His teaching, quote His words, and still remain exactly where you are. But following Him always requires a shift—sometimes physical, often internal, always real.
This is where “no behinds are left” reveals its cost.
When we structure faith so that no one ever feels pressed, challenged, or unsettled, we may succeed in protecting comfort—but we also eliminate momentum. We remove the very conditions under which transformation happens. We make it possible for people to remain included without ever being changed.
And again, this sounds loving. It feels kind. It avoids embarrassment and pressure. But it also quietly teaches that staying seated is a valid spiritual posture.
The irony is that the gospel never shames us for where we begin. It meets fishermen in boats, sinners at tables, doubters in locked rooms. But it never pretends that beginning is the destination. Grace does not humiliate us for sitting—but it does invite us to stand.
Not abruptly. Not violently. But unmistakably.
There comes a moment in every genuine encounter with God where comfort is no longer the highest value. Where safety is no longer the controlling concern. Where trust replaces management. And in that moment, something in us has to move.
This is why managed faith feels stable but thin. It never reaches that moment. It stays forever in preparation, forever in consideration, forever in discussion. It talks about trust without risking it. It affirms discipleship without practicing it. It celebrates grace without allowing grace to lead.
Real grace does not leave us exposed—but it does leave us changed.
It presses gently but firmly against the places where we have settled too comfortably. It challenges the assumption that faith exists to protect our routines rather than reorient them. It asks us to loosen our grip on control, outcomes, and self-management—and to trust God enough to follow where we have not yet planned to go.
And here is the hard truth we often avoid:
If nothing in our lives ever requires us to stand up, something essential is missing.
Not because we are bad.
Not because we are insincere.
But because faith that never disrupts comfort is faith that has been domesticated.
Jesus does not call people out of their chairs to embarrass them.
He calls them out because movement is how life begins.
And that raises the question we can no longer avoid:
What chair have we decided is too comfortable to leave?
--- Part Three: The Risk We Call Trust
If the gospel only asked us to believe the right things, we could remain seated forever. Belief alone does not require movement. It can be sincere, thoughtful, even passionate—and still leave us exactly where we started.
What makes the gospel unsettling is not what it asks us to accept, but what it asks us to entrust.
Trust is the point where management fails.
You can manage ideas.
You can manage systems.
You can manage beliefs.
You cannot manage trust.
Trust begins precisely where control ends. And that is why so much of our spiritual energy is spent negotiating the boundaries—how much trust feels reasonable, how much surrender feels safe, how much obedience feels prudent. We do not mind trusting God with abstractions.
We hesitate when trust becomes concrete.
Concrete trust involves decisions.
Concrete trust affects relationships.
Concrete trust rearranges priorities.
Concrete trust risks outcomes we cannot predict.
That is why we delay it.
We tell ourselves we are not ready. We tell ourselves we need more clarity, more time, more confirmation. We tell ourselves that trust will come later—once things settle, once circumstances improve, once faith feels less costly.
But Scripture is remarkably consistent on this point: trust is almost never invited at a convenient moment.
It is invited at crossroads.
It is invited when options narrow.
It is invited when clarity is incomplete.
It is invited when control feels most attractive.
This is where managed faith quietly breaks down.
Managed faith wants guarantees.
Trust accepts direction.
Managed faith wants certainty.
Trust accepts faithfulness.
Managed faith wants outcomes.
Trust accepts presence.
This is why Jesus’ call remains so difficult to soften. He does not say, “Understand me.” He says, “Follow me.” He does not say, “Agree with me.” He says, “Leave, come, trust.”
Over and over again, He invites people not into a system of belief, but into a relationship that cannot be managed without being diminished.
Following Him requires movement—not because movement earns anything, but because movement reveals where trust actually lives.
This is where grace does its deepest work.
Grace does not shout us out of our chairs. It does not humiliate us or rush us. It meets us exactly where we are, with full knowledge of our fears, hesitations, and self-protective instincts. But grace does not pretend that remaining there is the goal.
Grace forgives us where we are.
Grace does not leave us where we are.
This is the point where the gospel refuses to be half-sized.
A half gospel reassures without redirecting.
A half gospel comforts without confronting.
A half gospel includes without calling.
The full gospel does all three—and then asks us to move.
Not all at once.
Not without mercy.
But not without decision.
Movement in the gospel is rarely dramatic. It is often quiet, ordinary, and costly in ways no one else notices. It looks like obedience when it would be easier to delay. It looks like truth when silence would be safer. It looks like generosity when self-preservation would feel wiser. It looks like forgiveness when bitterness has become familiar. It looks like trust when control has felt necessary for a long time.
And this is why we resist it.
Because getting up from the chair means leaving something behind.
It means relinquishing the illusion that faith exists to keep us comfortable.
It means admitting that the gospel was never meant to be managed—it was meant to be lived.
The irony is that this kind of faith does not make life smaller. It makes it truer. It does not remove difficulty, but it restores direction. It does not guarantee safety, but it grounds us in something stronger than comfort.
Jere is the quiet promise at the heart of it all:
God does not call us forward to abandon us.
He calls us forward to meet us.
The chair we are being invited to leave is not removed out of cruelty. It is left behind because it can no longer carry the life God intends to give. What waits ahead is not punishment, not loss, not rejection—but presence.
Not a managed God.
A trusted one.
So the question before us is not whether we believe enough, know enough, or attend enough.
It is simpler—and harder—than that:
Where is God inviting us to trust Him enough to stand?
--- Appeal
This is not a moment for a show of hands or a walk down an aisle. It doesn’t need music underneath it, and it doesn’t need urgency layered on top of it.
What it needs is honesty.
Because the question before us tonight is not whether we believe in God. Most of us do. It is not whether we value grace, attend church, or understand the gospel.
The question is simpler—and far more personal than that.
Where have we learned to remain seated?
Where have we arranged our faith so that it reassures us without requiring us to trust?
Where have we told ourselves that staying put is wisdom, that delay is discernment, that comfort is peace?
Where have we become so good at managing God that we no longer recognize the quiet invitation to follow Him?
This is not about doing more. It is not about proving sincerity. It is not about earning anything.
It is about recognizing the chair.
The place where obedience feels unnecessary.
The place where surrender feels optional.
The place where trust has been postponed because control feels safer.
Grace is not calling you out of that chair to embarrass you.
Grace is calling you because staying there will eventually cost you more than leaving it ever could.
So the invitation is this—
not to move publicly,
not to respond visibly,
but to answer honestly:
What would change if you stopped managing God and started trusting Him?
What conversation would become unavoidable?
What decision would need to be made?
What obedience have you delayed under the name of wisdom?
You don’t need to answer out loud.
But you do need to answer.
Because faith does not begin when we feel ready.
It begins when we stand.
--- Prayer
God,
You see us more clearly than we see ourselves.
You know the places where we have learned to stay comfortable.
You know the ways we have protected ourselves—not out of rebellion, but out of fear.
You know how easily we confuse familiarity with faith, and stillness with trust.
Thank You for meeting us where we are.
Thank You for grace that does not shame us for sitting.
And thank You for love that refuses to leave us there.
Give us the courage to recognize the chairs we have grown attached to.
Give us the honesty to admit where we have been managing You instead of trusting You.
And give us the faith to stand—not dramatically, not perfectly, but sincerely.
Teach us to trust You where outcomes are unclear.
To follow You where control must be released.
To move forward not because we are confident, but because You are faithful.
We do not ask for comfort.
We ask for truth.
We do not ask for safety.
We ask for Your presence.
Lead us forward, Lord—not away from grace, but deeper into it.
Amen.
