There are moments in the life of the church when the conversation feels heavier than usual.
Not louder.
Not angrier.
Just heavier.
You hear it in the way we talk about the times we’re living in.
In phrases that surface again and again:
“Things are accelerating.”
“Prophecy is lining up.”
“We’re running out of time.”
“We need pastors who aren’t afraid to preach the truth.”
Those words don’t come from nowhere.
They come from a sincere desire to be faithful in uncertain days.
And I want to say this clearly at the outset:
that concern is not wrong.
Adventists are not casual about truth.
We were not shaped by convenience.
We were formed by conviction—by Scripture, by the belief that God has spoken and that what He has said matters, especially now.
We believe history is moving.
We believe prophecy reveals not just information, but the character and purposes of God.
We believe we have been entrusted with a message for the last days.
So when someone says, “We need Adventist pastors who have the guts to preach the truth,” what I usually hear is not an accusation—it is a longing.
A longing for clarity.
A longing for courage.
A longing for a church that knows who it is and why it exists.
But before we answer that longing too quickly, we need to slow down and ask a deeper question—one that sits underneath all the others.
Not do we believe the truth?
But what is the truth meant to do?
Because Scripture never treats truth as an end in itself.
Truth always has a purpose.
Truth reveals something about God.
Truth forms something within people.
Truth is meant to be lived, not merely held.
And that brings us to Jesus.
If we want to understand what it means to preach the truth without fear, we have to look at how Jesus Himself lived and spoke truth.
No one was more truthful than Christ.
No one was clearer.
No one was more uncompromising about the kingdom of God.
And yet His life does not resemble distance or withdrawal.
Jesus did not guard holiness by insulation.
He stepped into human life.
He ate with people whose reputations made others uncomfortable.
He touched the sick when it was risky to do so.
He lingered with the wounded.
He allowed Himself to be misunderstood rather than retreat into safety.
And something remarkable happened wherever He went.
People drew near.
Not because He softened truth.
Not because He avoided hard things.
But because truth, when embodied, became life-giving.
Sinners trusted Him with their stories.
The sick reached out to touch Him.
And children—children felt safe enough to come close.
That detail matters.
Children do not approach what feels threatening.
They do not come near what feels brittle or dangerous.
They sense instinctively whether holiness brings life or fear.
Jesus was holy—and approachable.
Clear—and compassionate.
Distinctive—and inviting.
That combination is not accidental.
It reveals something essential about the nature of truth itself.
Truth, in the life of Jesus, did not create distance.
It created invitation.
And that brings us to our own calling.
As Adventists, we care deeply about being distinct.
We believe God has given us something specific to say in the last days.
That matters.
But distinctiveness was never meant to be an end goal.
It was always meant to serve a purpose.
Our distinctiveness is found in the heart of Christ’s gospel message.
The purpose of our last-day message is to reflect the character of Christ to a world in darkness.
When truth stops reflecting His character, it may remain correct—but it loses its witness.
So today, I’m not asking whether we believe the truth.
I’m asking something more searching:
Does our truth still look like Jesus?
— PART I: When Distinctiveness Becomes Distance
If Jesus shows us what distinctiveness looks like when it is fully embodied, then we also have to be honest about the danger that always follows it.
Because distinctiveness has a shadow side.
What begins as faithfulness can slowly turn into distance.
What begins as clarity can harden into insulation.
What begins as devotion can drift into defensiveness.
Not because people stop loving truth —
but because they become afraid of losing it.
Scripture gives us language for this tension, even if we don’t always notice it.
Jesus said His followers would be salt and light.
Both images assume contact.
Salt only works when it touches what needs preserving.
Light only matters when it enters darkness.
Neither image describes withdrawal.
Neither suggests elevation for safety.
Neither functions from a distance.
And yet, when fear enters the picture, salt starts staying in the shaker, and light starts getting lifted out of reach.
We don’t call it fear.
We call it protection.
We tell ourselves we are guarding identity.
Preserving purity.
Maintaining clarity.
But slowly, without intending to, distinctiveness begins to function less like witness and more like a wall.
This is how a faith shaped for mission can quietly take on the posture of a fortress.
Fortresses don’t exist because people are cruel.
They exist because people are afraid.
Afraid of compromise.
Afraid of contamination.
Afraid of losing what matters.
So walls go up — not always physical, but cultural, theological, relational.
And eventually, truth becomes something we defend more than something we embody.
This is not a new temptation.
Jesus encountered it constantly.
The religious leaders of His day loved Scripture.
They cared deeply about holiness.
They believed they were protecting God’s truth.
But somewhere along the way, the truth they guarded stopped walking.
It stayed elevated.
Abstract.
Untouched by human cost.
That’s why Jesus said such unsettling things to people who were doctrinally correct.
“You tithe mint and dill and cumin, but you have neglected the weightier matters of the law — justice, mercy, and faithfulness.”
Notice what He does not say.
He does not tell them to stop caring about obedience.
He does not dismiss law or discipline.
He tells them they have lost proportion.
They have protected truth while neglecting people.
That is always the danger when distinctiveness detaches from incarnation.
Truth remains correct —
but it stops being recognizable as good news.
And here is where Adventism, of all movements, must be especially careful.
We are a people shaped by revelation.
We carry strong boundary markers.
We speak about the last days with urgency and conviction.
That is not a weakness.
But urgency, when fueled by fear rather than hope, changes how truth is carried.
Fear sharpens edges.
Fear shortens patience.
Fear makes distance feel safer than presence.
And without realizing it, we can begin to equate boldness with separation, and courage with confrontation.
But Jesus never measured faithfulness that way.
He never asked how far we stood from others to remain holy.
He showed us how close holiness is willing to come.
That’s why He healed on the Sabbath.
Not to weaken obedience —
but to reveal its heart.
That’s why He defended His disciples for plucking grain.
Not to dismiss the law —
but to protect people within it.
“The Sabbath was made for humanity,” He said.
Not humanity for the Sabbath.
That single sentence should forever shape how we carry truth.
Because it tells us something essential:
Truth exists to serve life, not consume it.
When distinctiveness begins to cost the vulnerable more than the protected, something has gone wrong — not with truth itself, but with how it is being lived.
And this is where the question quietly turns toward us.
Not are we distinct?
But how does our distinctiveness function?
Does it draw people toward Christ —
or does it require distance to remain intact?
Does it reveal His character —
or does it primarily protect ours?
This is not an accusation.
It is an invitation to honesty.
Because the goal of the last-day message has never been separation for its own sake.
It has always been revelation.
To reveal the character of God.
To reflect the heart of Christ.
To let truth walk close enough to heal.
And that means the question we must sit with is not whether we hold the truth.
It is whether our truth still knows how to walk.
--- PART 2: When Truth Meets a Human Life
There comes a moment when every theology has to leave the page.
A moment when truth is no longer discussed in principle, but encountered in a human life.
When doctrine stops being abstract and begins to cost something real.
That is the moment when faith becomes embodied.
Years ago, while pastoring in the Emirates, I encountered that moment in a way that has never left me.
We had a small home church in Ras el-Khaima. Quiet. Simple. No pretense. People came hungry—not for debate, but for hope.
One man began attending who stood out not because he spoke much, but because of what it had taken for him to be there.
He was poor.
Not metaphorically—actually poor.
His family, wife and children, parents, in-laws, cousins, uncles and aunts, first and second cousins, relatives by marriage and people who wanted to be related -- his entire village back home, had scratched and sacrificed so that he could come to work in the Emirates. Their hope was simple: that his employment would support the basic sustenance of many lives back home.
His job was not complicated. He worked as a guard at the large import-export dock. Each night, he raised and lowered a security pole that controlled truck traffic into a secured zone. Perhaps eight trucks passed through his station on a given night. He would step out of his guard shack. Ten steps to the pole. Push down on the weight and the pole would lift, letting the truck pass, then lower the gate.
That job was his lifeline - the lifeline for a whole village. Was this to be a test of faith for him? for his village?
Over time, through Scripture, through worship, through the quiet work of the Spirit, this man gave his heart to Jesus. And when he did, he came to me with a simple request.
He wanted to be baptized.
There was no hesitation in his faith. He loved Jesus.
No confusion about his commitment.
No bargaining with God.
The obstacle was not belief.
He was required to work on Sabbath.
I knew immediately what that meant.
If he had been a security guard in the United States—especially at one of our Adventist institutions—there would have been accommodations. He could have kept his job and been baptized.
But this was not the United States.
In the Emirates, refusing Sabbath work meant immediate termination. No appeals. No reassignment. No safety net.
And unemployment for him did not mean inconvenience.
It meant collapse.
His loss of income would not only affect him, but his family—and the village that had sacrificed to send him in the first place.
So I did what pastors are taught to do. I asked for counsel. I explained the situation to church leadership. I laid out the reality on the ground.
The answer was simple -- He must take a stand.
Which meant:
lose the job,
endanger his family,
and return home having failed the very people who had believed in him.
I remember sitting with that answer, and feeling something in me resist—not rebellion, not disbelief, but weight.
Because suddenly the question was no longer theoretical.
It wasn’t does Sabbath matter?
It wasn’t does obedience cost something?
It was this: Who is bearing the cost of our theology?
The protected or the vulnerable?
Those with options or those without?
Those with institutional cover or those standing alone?
I want to be very careful here.
This is not a story about lowering standards.
It is not a story about dismissing obedience.
It is not a story about rewriting doctrine.
It is a story about incarnation.
Because Jesus never asked questions about obedience in abstraction. He always asked them in the presence of real people, with real consequences.
That’s why He healed on the Sabbath.
That’s why He defended His disciples when they were hungry.
That’s why He said, “The Sabbath was made for humanity.”
Not to erase obedience—but to protect people inside it.
Standing there, I realized something that still unsettles me.
The same doctrine, applied without incarnation, lands very differently depending on where you stand in the world.
What feels like heroic sacrifice in one context can become crushing burden in another.
And suddenly, preaching truth from the mountain no longer felt sufficient.
Because on the road, truth has a human face.
And that face matters to God.
This man was not asking for an exemption from faithfulness.
He was asking what faithfulness looked like here.
And that is a question Scripture never answers with policy alone.
It answers it with presence.
This moment did not give me a clean resolution.
It gave me a deeper reverence for what it means to shepherd truth.
Because truth that does not pause to see who is standing beneath it has not yet learned how to walk. And that realization changed the way I preach, the way I listen, and the way I carry conviction. Not because I believe less. But because I now believe that truth must always reflect the character of Christ— especially when it costs someone something real.
— PART 3: A Church That Lets Truth Walk
So where does this leave us?
Not with a policy to adopt.
Not with a rule to revise.
And not with a tension neatly resolved.
It leaves us with a posture to inhabit.
Because the real question before the church is not whether truth matters—we settled that long ago. The question is what kind of people truth is forming us to be.
If the pattern of Christ teaches us anything, it is this:
truth was never meant to hover above human life.
It was meant to enter it.
Which means the church that follows Jesus cannot remain only on the mountain.
We must listen there.
We must receive revelation there.
But we cannot live there.
The gospel takes flesh on the road.
It shows up in workplaces that don’t accommodate faith.
In economies that punish conviction.
In systems people cannot escape.
In lives where obedience carries unequal weight.
And that means the calling of the church is not simply to announce truth, but to walk with it—slowly, carefully, humbly—alongside real people with real costs.
This is where courage looks different than we often imagine.
It is easy to be bold from a distance.
It is easy to preach certainty when the consequences are abstract.
It is easy to call for sacrifice when someone else bears the burden.
But the courage of Christ looks like something else entirely.
It looks like staying close when things are complicated.
It looks like refusing to reduce people to examples.
It looks like letting doctrine kneel long enough to see faces.
This is not a weakening of conviction.
It is the strengthening of witness.
Because when truth is carried without incarnation, it becomes brittle.
It may remain correct—but it loses resonance.
People don’t encounter it as good news.
They encounter it as pressure.
And Scripture never describes the gospel as pressure.
The gospel is light.
The gospel is bread.
The gospel is healing.
Light doesn’t blind—it reveals.
Bread doesn’t burden—it sustains.
Healing doesn’t crush—it restores.
That is why Jesus was so relentless about protecting people inside obedience.
“The Sabbath was made for humanity.”
Not humanity for the Sabbath.
That sentence is not a footnote. It's a lens.
It tells us that God’s commands are never weapons.
They're instruments of life.
So when obedience begins to consume the vulnerable, something has slipped—not in the law itself, but in how it is being lived.
This is where the church must learn discernment rather than default.
Not compromise. Discernment.
Discernment listens before it concludes.
Discernment asks where people are standing before it demands where they must go.
Discernment refuses to confuse uniformity with faithfulness.
Discernment is not weakness. It is maturity.
Hebrews tells us that mature believers are those who have learned to distinguish good from evil—not by rules alone, but by practice.
Practice requires presence.
Presence requires proximity.
Proximity requires humility.
Which brings us back to our distinctiveness. Our distinctiveness does not exist to set us above the world. It exists to serve the world.
We are distinct so that the character of Christ can be seen more clearly through us—
not so that we can remain untouched by the lives around us.
Salt that never touches food is still salt.
But it does nothing.
Light that stays elevated is still light.
But it warms no one.
And a church that guards truth without letting it walk
may remain correct—
but it will not remain compelling.
The world does not need a church that shouts louder.
It needs a church that stays closer.
A church that knows how to hold conviction without losing compassion.
A church that can speak clearly without hardening.
A church whose truth still smells like bread, still sounds like mercy, still looks like Jesus.
This is not a call to abandon the mountain.
It is a call to come down from it.
To walk dusty roads.
To stand in doorways.
To sit at tables we did not design.
To let truth meet struggle without fear.
Because this is where the last-day message finds its purpose.
Not in standing apart for its own sake,
but in reflecting the character of Christ to a world in darkness.
If our message does not look like Him,
it does not matter how correct it is.
But if it does—
if it carries His patience, His mercy, His courage, His nearness—
then even hard truth becomes good news.
So the invitation before us is not to resolve every tension.
It is to become a people who let truth walk.
And that kind of church—
quietly, faithfully, courageously—
will always reflect Jesus.
--- CONCLUSION: Truth That Reflects Christ
So where does this leave us?
Not with a checklist.
Not with a policy statement.
And not with every tension resolved.
It leaves us with a clearer picture of what our distinctiveness is for.
Our distinctiveness was never meant to be an edge we defend.
It was meant to be a character we reflect.
The purpose of our last-day message has never been to separate ourselves from the world, but to reveal the heart of Christ to a world in darkness. Everything else—every doctrine, every conviction, every prophetic insight—serves that purpose.
This is why Jesus remains our measure.
He did not compromise truth.
He did not soften obedience.
He did not retreat from clarity.
But He also refused to let truth become detached from people.
He allowed holiness to get close enough to heal.
He allowed obedience to bend toward mercy.
He allowed love to carry authority.
And because He did, people were not driven away from God—they were drawn toward Him.
That is the kind of distinctiveness Scripture points us toward.
Not a holiness that withdraws,
but a holiness that enters.
Not a truth that hovers above life,
but a truth that walks alongside it.
This does not make faithfulness easier.
In many ways, it makes it harder.
Because it means we cannot hide behind abstraction.
We cannot rush past complexity.
We cannot speak without listening.
It means we must be willing to carry truth into places where the costs are real, uneven, and deeply human.
And that requires courage of a different kind.
Anyone can preach truth from the mountain.
That is safe.
That is admired.
That is easy.
But Jesus did not save the world from a height.
He came down.
He walked dusty roads.
He ate with sinners.
He touched the sick.
He stayed with the wounded.
And in doing so, He showed us what truth looks like when it reflects the heart of God.
So if we are serious about being a last-day people, then we must be serious about reflecting His character—not only in what we proclaim, but in how we live, how we listen, and how we walk with others.
This is not a call to lower conviction.
It is a call to deepen it.
It is a call to let our truth become recognizable as good news.
Because when truth reflects Christ, it does something remarkable.
It steadies rather than agitates.
It draws rather than repels.
It heals rather than wounds.
And it gives people something they desperately need in uncertain times—not just answers, but hope.
So perhaps the question we should carry with us is not,
“Are we distinct enough?”
But something more searching:
“Does our distinctiveness still look like Jesus?”
Does it reflect His patience?
His mercy?
His courage?
His nearness?
Does it reveal a God who is not afraid to get close?
That is the kind of church the world is watching for.
Not a church without conviction,
but a church whose conviction is shaped by love.
Not a church without clarity,
but a church whose clarity reflects the character of Christ.
If we can be that kind of people—
a people who climb the mountain to listen,
and then walk the road to love—
then our message will not need to be defended.
It will be seen.
And when the character of Christ is seen clearly,
even hard truth becomes light.
Even costly obedience becomes hope.
And even in the darkness,
people will know where to find Him.
