Unshared Unrivaled Unequaled

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.