And speak as if you are from there.

Jesus, having come from heaven, spoke with the accent of heaven.

Many of us Christians try to speak as if we’ve come from heaven—like an American trying to speak with a British accent because it supposedly makes them sound more sophisticated. We try to speak with divine confidence, authority, and assuredness. We try to come across as if we’ve got the truth locked down. As if we have seen all things and know all things and understand all things.

So that someone else can take a step forward?

Can you take a back seat so that someone else can drive?

Can you move to a lower position so that someone else can take the higher position?

Can you step out of the limelight so that someone else can have a moment to shine?

Can you risk a decline in apparent success so that someone else can succeed?

Can you risk losing so that someone else can win?

Can you be quiet long enough for someone else’s voice to be heard?

Can you follow so that someone else has a chance to lead?

Can you do the grunt work so that someone else can fill the more glorious role?

We like to tell ourselves that everything is earned. That the possessions or reputation or status or success or whatever we have is because we deserve them based on our hard work or character or intelligence.

But that’s simply not true. Everything good we have can be traced back to someone else. (In the Christian view, that lineage of blessing eventually leads back to God himself).

Is time. Time is a non-renewable resource.

You can find ways to make more money. You can acquire more materials. You can hire fresh talent or strike up relationships with new partners. You can woo more clients or customers. You can explore new markets.  You can dream up new solutions or products.

But you can’t make more time.

Can be blinding. Disorienting. Even a little painful as you squint and shield your eyes. Anyone who has ever walked out of a movie theater into the summer sun knows what I mean.

So it is with walking out into the light of God. It can be temporarily blinding. And it’s usually uncomfortable for a deeper reason: You can now be seen.

Having spent most of your life in darkness, being seen feels vulnerable. You are exposed. You face the very real risk of being seen for who you truly are. You fear being unloved because you have done things that make you less lovable. Or perhaps entirely unlovable.

Belief is not mental assent to a list of doctrines. Belief is trust in a person.

It’s one thing to believe facts about Jesus; it’s another thing to trust him. It’s one thing to accept doctrine about Jesus; it’s another thing to entrust yourself to him. Doctrine matters, I suppose, but I’m beginning to suspect that it doesn’t matter as much as we suppose. It at least doesn’t carry as much real-world-weight as trust carries.

With condemnation or salvation?

Do you bring judgment, accusation, denunciation, disapproval, displeasure, criticism, and blame?

Or do you bring blessing, deliverance, pardon, emancipation, liberation, restoration, and grace?

The bad news is that far too many religious folk come to the world with all the condemnation they can muster. This stems from a misunderstanding of God as a score-keeping, punitive, and easily-angered Dictator.

“For God so resented the world.”

There’s a difference between seeing and looking.

Seeing begins with the eyes. Most of what we see is largely accidental. Something passes in front of us so that our eyes process the reflected light and send signals to our brain: A cat just ran across the street. The sun is reflecting on the water. That light bulb just burned out.

On the other hand, looking begins with the will. Looking is more intentional. What our eyes process is determined by where we choose to direct them, or what kind of thing we choose to focus them on: The book that we’re trying to finish for book club. The person that we’re in conversation with. Waldo.

Seeing just happens. Looking is a matter of desire.

Because you can’t know everything first-hand. You can’t experience everything. You can’t go everywhere. Or see everything. Or hear everything. Or touch everything. Or taste everything.

You can’t talk to everyone. Or read every book. Or attend every class. Or listen to every podcast. Or watch every documentary.

Until you are born again of the Spirit.

The thing about a womb is that it doesn’t seem like anything abnormal. Certainly not anywhere you’d choose to leave—if you could even understand that leaving was a possibility.

Imagine for a moment that you’re a fetus: The womb is your total reality. It’s nearly impossible to conceive of what it’s like “outside,” or that there even is an “outside,” let alone that this supposed “outside” is where you are meant to be.