The Weary Christian -

Daily Blog

John Mark Comer: “Wherever Jesus went, the kingdom went”

In his tremendous book, Practicing the Way, John Mark Comer notes, “Wherever Jesus went, the kingdom went,” then urges us to do the same and offers all kinds of practical ways we can do the same.

But instead of lurching forward with the practical ways, let’s just think about that brief phrase “wherever Jesus went, the kingdom went” because I read it awhile ago and it’s stuck with me in one of those good-bad-but-good kinds of ways.

The good is obvious.

This is what Jesus wants our lives to look like — advancing not a political kingdom (“my kingdom is not of this world”) but advancing a spiritual one that helps draw more souls to Christ through whatever witness we can.

We’ve heard a million sermons on that, so I won’t belabor the point there.

The bad is this.

Sometimes, it’s something I dread.

Oh, there are lots of times I’m thrilled to do whatever I can to help advance the kingdom, and even that phrase fills me with “Really, God? You’d use me? You’d be pleased to use me?” It’s really quite overwhelmingly humbling and a huge privilege if we think about it enough.

But often, again, it’s something I dread.

And here’s why.

We can’t get to be choosers on when we’re tasked with helping bring the kingdom. When you sign up for this, you’ve signed up for it.

If you’re locked in a fight with your spouse, you can’t put the whole “bring the kingdom” thing on pause.

“God, give me a minute, let me just get her/him agreeing with me and then I’ll get back to the kingdom thing.”

No, right there, in the middle of the fight, you’re supposed to advance the kingdom.

What does that look like?

Maybe something like stopping during the middle of it, saying “let’s pray about this,” and recalibrating, remembering James, remembering God doesn’t really care who’s right in this argument, only how it’s conducted.

I’m not exactly sure what it looks like, but I’m pretty sure I know what it doesn’t look like, and it’s the way most of us (including me) argue.

So again, I go back to that phrase: “Wherever Jesus went, the kingdom of God went.”

Put that someplace in your life that’s relevant and ask yourself what it means.

For me, right now, it’s not about arguing with my spouse.

For me, right now, it’s when my visceral distaste for something is looming and this phrase looms like a dark shadow, even though the sun of God’s kingdom is somewhere in it, and I pray that somehow, God will unlock it.

That’s the hospital.

I hate that place. I really do. Yeah, I know hospitals do wonderful work. But I hate going to that place because of my sickness.

I’ve been fighting a really, really bad flare and should probably have headed there a few days ago for IVs, CT’s and all that kind of thing.

But I’m just sick of going to that place, and I’m sick of being sick.

When I read that phrase “Wherever Jesus went, the kingdom went,” I’d much rather be the one visiting a patient there, to be honest. That’s how selfish I am. Viscerally, that’s how selfish I am. I’d rather be visiting a nameless patient as some kind of hospital ministry. (Not if the patient is a kid. That would change the equation entirely).

But I really hate going there.

I won’t go into all the reasons because I’m too tired to, but who likes going to the hospital as a patient? Especially, when you’re there every few months and never quite sure how long it will be, what you’ll have to go through, what kind of nurse you’ll get, what XYZ and many more alphabet letters.

Right now, my anger over this GI disease and the reality of “wherever Jesus went, the kingdom went” are colliding as I’m waiting to see whether I can actually hold down food, whether my vitals will stabilize, whether the pain will leave.

The fact is I’d much rather stay right here, inside, with my family, doing our thing and advancing the kingdom that way than being forced by this disease to go spread it somewhere where it might do someone something good.

I’m not saying it’s good to be sick. I’m saying that when sickness comes of any kind, and when we’re forced into a circumstance we hate, we’re not off the hook with trying to live up to the “wherever Jesus went, the kingdom went” thing.

No matter where we are, no matter how we’re there, we’ve got to keep Christ front and center or else we’ll wither.

Now here’s the thing.

Often, the thought of keeping Christ front and center is MISERABLE because we just want to wallow in our misery. It sounds easier. But the truth is that it will only make it worse.

Jacques Phillipe wrote that rejecting suffering adds to it.

And that’s true.

The sooner we accept it, the sooner we make peace with it, the sooner peace will start to flow into our suffering. At least that’s (mostly) my experience with the whole business.

When I first read Comer’s phrase, I made a note: “For hospital, also put on blog,” and never did it.

Why?

Because “life got in the way.” That’s often short for: “The life I wanted got in the way of doing something I should have.” In other words, there are lots of things I prioritized before writing this post. Not bad things, just things.

But now that I’m faced with this collision of the thing I hate with the thing I’m called to do, I’m writing it as a form of reminding myself that this is what I’m called to do.

And I’m writing it to tell you this — that if you’re reading this blog, it’s very likely that a) you’re a Christian and b) there are all kinds of depressing things that can make it so hard to live in the light of that sentence and by that command – to advance the kingdom wherever you go.

If that’s hard for you, I get it. It’s hard for me too.

If you feel like you’re this struggling Christian who’s surrounded by all kinds of shining examples of those who endure and do it with serenity, who are filled with the Spirit to the extent that fruit falls off their trees everywhere they walk, then I’m right there with you. (Not with the fruit-walkers).

If you feel like you’re lost and only holding onto Jesus because he’s the only one you know of to hold onto, I’m right there with you.

If you feel like you’re tired, so tired of the clouds of whatever you’re dealing with, I’m right there with you.

If you have blessing after blessing that you don’t appreciate the way you should, I’m right there with you.

If you don’t like suffering and you think, “C’mon, by now, I should have this thing sorted out,” then I’m right there with you.

If you have moments of doubt, of anger, of grief, of all of that, I’m right there with you.

But guess what’s more important.

Jesus is right there with you too.

He’s right here with me too.

Go to him. I’ll go to him too.

It’s in these moments, in these times, that we say “Who else has the words of eternal life?”

Others might scoff that it’s one giant cope. Maybe. This is a faith. But I’d rather stake my life on Christ than on anyone or anything else in life. By God’s grace and only by God’s grace, that won’t change.

So if you’re staking your life on him, remember to keep going to him, and when you do, beg, just as I’m begging, just as all Christians should be begging, “Lord, help me. Have mercy on me, and please Lord, help me advance your kingdom, because there’s nothing greater in life I can do. You gave me everything. Give me the strength to do just this something – no matter how small it is.”

And just to be honest – guess what? I finished the post with that prayer, and now I’m having a panic attack.

That’s the way it goes sometimes, right?

May God bless you – just as he has me. You and I have both been through dark nights. There will be many more. But there have also been remarkable moments where the sun has broken through. And if I’m honest, those days are more common than the dark ones.

The line between gratefulness and bitterness is very thin. At least for me.

If you’re depressed, or struggle with any aspect of mental health…

For readers from the United States….

Find a psychiatrist here.

Find a therapist here.

For readers, internationally, seek help from a local resource.

For salvation, Christ and Christ alone.

*PS. Because I’m having a panic attack, and am tired and sick too, I’m not taking time to put a pic with this post, and didn’t spell check or edit it. And sorry if it sounded selfish or whiny. But at the same time, yeah, I’m a selfish sinner who whines, hence I needed Jesus, I need him, and I always will need him).

April 22, 2026

Ann Voskamp: “Jesus saves you for Himself”

written by Christian Heinze

Drawing from Jesus’ life-changing discourse on The Good Shepherd in John 10, Ann Voskamp offers a line for us to live today and everyday from.

“Jesus does more than save you from hopelessness; Jesus saves you for Himself.”

Read that again.

“Jesus saves you for himself.”

Really?

Well of course.

That concept permeates the New Testament; in fact, it’s baked into the personal salvation cake, of being adopted as children, joint-heirs, it’s made explicit in John 17:12 (“I guarded them so that not one was lost”), the basis of parable after parable, Pauline passage after passage, it lies at the core of what Jesus did and continues to do for us (save and plead for us).

And yet, despite those things we’ve known and read, just one sentence can make it all fresh in a way that makes you stop and go “for real?!” God, can that be true? Jesus, really? You save me for yourself?

So let me repeat that sentence.

“Jesus saves you for Himself.”

Does that mean he steals, locks you away, only to abuse you for his pleasure? No, he ain’t Ramsay Bolton.

Instead, he saves you from the coming destruction, from your own self-destruction, he saves you to actually save you, and he holds you because he loves you. And if he locks you away, it’s to protect you and also to give you the best of the best.

If you don’t quite believe that, think about this clip from Luke 12 that just doesn’t get enough streaming on the Christian Spotify list, because perhaps we think it’s a bit too demeaning for the God of glory in heaven to once again being a Servant-King, or maybe the whole “apron” thing, sadly, strikes some pastors as too feminizing.

Who knows.

Regardless, it’s Christ’s words and promise.

“The servants who are ready and waiting for his return will be rewarded. I tell you the truth, he himself will seat them, put on an apron, and serve them as they sit and eat!”

Think of that: “He himself will seat them, put on an apron, and serve them as they sit and eat.”

The God who washed our feet on earth is still so “knocked out about you” (as Rich Mullins once said) that when we get to heaven, he’ll don the apron, pull out the chair so we can easily slide into it, and serve us course after course of whatever Paul saw that defied words.

Christ doesn’t save us to sing hymns to him in heaven, he saves us to lavish love on us.

Think of the bride and bridegroom analogy between Christ and his church.

When my wife and I got married, my driving passion (well, really from our second date) was to serve, love, and put a smile on her face for the rest of her life.

I wasn’t thinking, “Oh, great. An amazing, beautiful woman who’s going to worship and sing my praises while I sit in the best seat in the house, while she endlessly serves me.”

I wanted to put the smile on her, and in doing so, she put the smile in me. There’s a reason for the Scriptural analogy.

Jesus saves us for Himself – not for praises we’ll offer him in heaven as he nods and says, “Yup, yup, this is me. Pure glory”, but for the delight of serving us at the Feast, for the delight of someone who wants to show us what he’s planned and prepared for us.

We’re joint-heirs with Christ!

Think about the place you love the most, think about going there on your own versus with the one you love most – that concept of shared beauty as its purest expression – and Jesus, similarly, can’t wait to show us what he’s already seen and known and there’s probably some giddy delight he must feel when he takes us to a vista that will blow us away and say, “See, you didn’t believe me, did you? But I really did have this in store for you. That’s why I said, ‘If it were not so, would I have told you’?”

So yes, as the Bible and Jesus himself makes perfectly clear: “Jesus saves you for himself.”

And the more we think of that, man. We think of this life differently.

Our trip to that vista is booked, now it’s time to prepare, get excited, live with that date always in our mind and once we pass from this earth, I don’t think we’ll enter paradise, take a long look and say, “Oh. Overcrowded. Smaller than I thought. Expensive. And Giant cruise ships blocking the view. Just wanted to get back to hotel room which was ridiculously overpriced and there was no soap either. Don’t trust Lonely Planet on this one.”

Won’t be like that.

If it were not so, would Jesus have told you?

If it were not so, what was Jesus even doing, coming to die for you and me?

Thank you, Lord. Thank you for saving me for yourself.

If you’re depressed, or struggle with any aspect of mental health…

For readers from the United States….

Find a psychiatrist here.

Find a therapist here.

For readers, internationally, seek help from a local resource.

For salvation, Christ and Christ alone.

April 13, 2026

Think you’re a “failure?” Jesus sees you unlike anyone else

written by Christian Heinze

“Then he said, ‘Jesus, Remember me when you come into your kingdom. And Jesus replied, ‘I assure you, today you will be with me in paradise.” – Luke 23:43-43

“Did you hear about Gedaliah?” Adinah asks as she sweeps the dust off her Jerusalem porch.

“No, we were praying for him last week at Synagogue Group. Is he still a…” She’s not sure if this is gossip or just sharing prayer requests, so she pauses.

Her friend, who’s the self-appointed fulcrum of information at Synagogue, quickly updates her.

“Yup, still a thief, and – listen to this. He was crucified last weekend!”

“Crucified?!” For being a thief?”

“For being a thief.”

“Crucified, for being a thief?”

That’s no ordinary thief.

It took some doing to be crucified in Israel. The church father John Chrysostom speculates that the thief on the cross might have lived in the desert where he robbed and murdered travelers.

So either the thief on the cross was the worst thief in all of Israel (a murdering one), or he was a pickpocket with the worst luck in all of Israel, which is failure, too, in a way.

I doubt his parents were at the cross that day. Either the shame of pride or the hurt of love kept them away.

Maybe old high school acquaintances came to laugh, and the thief thought, “I wish they wouldn’t remember me this way, but I’m getting crucified, naked, and now they can’t remember me any other way.”

We all leave a legacy, and when we fail miserably, we want to erase ourselves. Not just what we did, but actually erase our memory from the minds of others.

If everyone knew the worst of me, I wouldn’t want to try to repair my legacy or somehow make them think better of me.

I’d want them to forget I even existed.

And so the thief left a memory, and he must have known it was a terrible one, and who then would want to be remembered?

Now, of course, Jesus was also on the cross that day and, during their shared agony, the thief said this two word phrase to Jesus.

“Remember me.”

“Remember me” to God.

Strange. The Thief on the Cross was asking God, of all people, to remember him.

The Greek suggests that, in using “remember me,” the thief was “making an active plea for remembrance.”

So it’s the thief’s desperate desire that Jesus think, “Oh, yes! The thief!” the first thing he gets to paradise, which is odd because if I’d spent my life robbing and killing people, the last thing I’d really want is for a holy God to remember me.

In fact, you and I have lived “better lives” than the thief, but there’s something in us that’s a little iffy over whether we want God to remember us when we die.

Sure, we want heaven, but maybe by sneaking past the Judge. You know, walk in the middle of a pack of saints and hope he doesn’t see us.

But if we’re faced with him, on our own, we fear God saying, “Yes, I remember you. In fact, I remember every single thing you’ve ever done and said.”

Then God pauses, “And I remember everything you’ve ever thought.”

Then The Judge pauses again, “And I remember all the times you sinned when you knew it was sin, and yet you thought this day of reckoning would never really come, and now it’s come (did you think I was a liar?), and I remember it all.”

That terrifies me.

I’d rather God remember nothing about me than anything about me.

But the thief still says, “Remember me.”

Why would the thief, of all people, plead with God to remember him?

There’s only one reason.

Somehow the thief saw a different God than the one we fear, and in that clarity, grasped perhaps more clearly than any other human being in history that being remembered by Jesus after death was actually a good thing, and not just a good thing, but the best possible thing.

In fact, it was the thing he begged for.

Think of that. He wasn’t begging the centurion for some kind of reprieve. That would seem the thing to do, right?

After all, win Hadrias over and you’re off the cross, at physical therapy for a few months, and then your life is back.

But the thief begged Christ for mercy. Why?

There are two reasons.

First, the thief must have believed, “I’ve got a better shot with Christ’s mercy than the centurion’s.” After all, humans tend to show up for mercy at the places they think they’ll find it.

And to the thief, it wasn’t an indifferent and immoral Roman soldier with a sword, it was the righteous God on the cross who knew everything the thief had had ever done.

That’s the way we’re all supposed to see Christ’s mercy, and yet I find myself believing the Roman more possible of mercy than Christ.

Now — not to call my wife a Roman centurion — but to call her a Roman centurion for a second – Katie shows me mercy every day, and it doesn’t surprise me. Sometimes, I think, “Wow, she’s a merciful woman,” but even in that brief marvel, I don’t struggle to believe the veracity of her forgiveness.

But her mercy has nothing on Christ’s.

And yet, if I died, and you asked whose mercy I’d prefer — God’s or my wife’s, I would instinctively choose my wife’s.

Wouldn’t you pick the nice human, too, and not the Burner of Bushes, the Fire Throwing Deity who destroyed Cities?

I’d pick the nice human. But it’s terrible theology, and the thief recognized it as such – not because his mind finally grasped the theological supremacy of Christ’s mercy, but because his heart simply saw it.

He must have seen something in Christ’s eyes, or the way he spoke, so deeply and lovingly, to those cursing and killing him – something that led him to believe that nothing else merciful was possible that day, except what lay in the heart of the God we fear.

And that’s why he asked Jesus, “Remember me.” He knew that Jesus saw his “Me” unlike anyone else in the world.

And Jesus sees our “me” unlike anyone else in the world, too.

We’re not the “me” the rest of the world sees. We’re not the “me” that I see. We’re a “me” that is so beautiful and easily forgiven that the thief longed for Jesus to remember it.

There’s something else behind the thief’s request that gives us a glimpse of Jesus.

Usually, if we’re confronted with someone powerful and big, we squirm. Even if they’re loving and good, we still squirm.

Christians love to compare God to C.S. Lewis’ lion, Aslan (or Aslan to God – I’m not sure who has primacy these days).

And one of Christians’ favorite lines comes from The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe when Mr. Badger tells the children that Aslan isn’t safe, but he’s good.

That’s supposed to be comforting.

I’m not sure why that’s supposed to be comforting because if the thief thought Christ was like Aslan (not safe, but good), I doubt he’d have turned to Jesus instead of the centurion.

“Better to take my chances with the immoral centurion who’s got the power to free me from death than the Good One who might not save my soul from eternal death.”

But there’s no indication the thief turned first to the centurion, or that he squirmed or worried about Jesus’ answer, and there’s absolutely no indication Jesus gave him any reason to.

The thief saw Jesus as good and safe that afternoon.

And that is the way we’re to see our Jesus every afternoon.

In John, Jesus says we’re now his friends. If you were to boil friendship down to one word it would be safety. That a friend might see all of you today, and would still want to see more of you tomorrow, no matter what they saw of you today.

So Christians, let’s stop the Aslan thing! In fact, Jesus himself says we’re supposed to come to Christ as a child, and a child only comes to those they see as good and safe. In fact, children tend to view everyone as good, but very few as safe, but they flocked to Jesus. We can only feel safe with someone who is good, so the two go hand-in-hand. A child cannot come to anyone they do not feel is both good and safe.

There’s one more thing about this story.

I’d like to think the thief’s confession was somehow the lone bright spot in the horror of Christ’s crucifixion, he was the Father’s final mercy to his son before the moment of total excommunication. That the Father put the thief there to remind Jesus of why he came — because when you and I see visible fruit from our suffering, it gives the pain meaning.

“My son, this is why you came. You see that dying, wounded one there on the cross? That thief? He’s why you’re here. Push on a bit longer, my beloved son, and you’ll both come home.”

So the thief’s last gasp plea didn’t put off Jesus; instead, it must have touched him deeply, and so Christ’s proclamation that “today you will be with me in Paradise” might have sounded intimate and wistful — the way suffering soldiers often remind themselves of home, and in that longing, mixed with suffering, a kinship and intimacy is born that’s impossible to produce in our normal lives.

Jesus is your brother, your fellow soldier, too, and he still feels his cross, as you carry yours. He is good, he is safe, he is “your loving ally.”

So don’t look down to the centurion for mercy.

Look to Christ, the good and safe one who sees all of you, and forgives you with relish, as proof that his suffering was all worth it.

Turn to him and say, “Remember Me” and it doesn’t matter how the world remembers you, or even you how you remember you.

The only one who matters will remember you in a way they won’t, in a way that only he can, in a way that sees you as the beautiful masterpiece he loves, and he will say: “You will be with me in Paradise.”

[Painting: Christ and the Good Thief, Titian]

If you’re depressed, or struggle with any aspect of mental health…

For readers from the United States….

Find a psychiatrist here.

Find a therapist here.

For readers, internationally, seek help from a local resource.

For salvation, Christ and Christ alone.

(Note: I re-post this every year, because the thief is my favorite story and reminder for times whenever I feel I’m a spiritual and personal failure, which is quite often. Jesus is only a “remember me” away from both you and me).

April 2, 2026

A Holy Week exercise

written by Christian Heinze

Each year, our youngish kids grow older and as a parent, I’m forced to look at the passion and resurrection of the Lord – not only through my own eyes but theirs.

Their minds have expanded so much in the past year, and so while my message to them remains the same, the articulation changes.

So by necessity, I find myself every year in a strange dilemma — I can’t express the weight and gravity of the week as I, an adult, experience it, and yet I’m forced to confront the story in a new way that accommodates their brain’s mental and emotional capacity to absorb it.

As I think about how to do it, what happened that week grows weightier.

I hadn’t expected this! I thought this additional layer of thinking – “through their eyes” – would make it lighter, but actually it’s done the opposite.

No, I’m not showing them scenes from the Passion of the Christ, or describing the full horror of Roman crucifixion, the slow agony of the death of Jesus, dwelling on the sobering finality and certainty of dust-to-dust but joy of raised in glory. That’s a lot to take in for young minds still making sense of the world.

Yet I’m thinking of each of those new things more seriously.

So in putting this all together, I’ve decided this is what I’m, personally, and as as family, going to do.

At the beginning of the week, I wrote these simple introductory phrases.

Because Christ suffered and died, I can……… (fill in)

And then…

Because Christ rose again, I can….. (fill in).

Tell the kids they can write their own list (keep private or public from us), and I’ll do mine (sharing some and keeping others private).

Feel free to join me, if this is something that you think is helpful.

You can get as broad or as deeply personal as you want.

My list won’t look like yours, although there will probably be overlap, and vice versa.

Now if you do, here’s the key – be as extravagant as you want. Not as spiritual as you think you need to be.

Remember Hebrews 4:16, where we’re promised the right to come with “boldness” to the throne of grace.

The Greek for boldness implies “all out-spokenness, i.e. frankness, bluntness, publicity.”

I love that. Frankness. Bluntness. Be as blunt as you want about your own personal “thank you God’s”.

For example, I’ve been stuck on a miserable diet since my gastrointestinal perforation 3 years ago. I’m going to say, “Because Christ rose again, I will one day eat a Whopper again.”

Sure, I’ll get to do bigger things like see my dad again, feel Christ’s embrace at long last, knowing I’m home, but I’ll also just be blunt about all those things I’m excited for with a new body.

Do the same!

God is excited for you too! If a Whopper is good on earth, it’s going to be better in the new earth, and all good things will be better, so just have at it with bluntness.

Don’t feel you have to anticipate the joy of the resurrection in some Platonic “the body is a bad, the soul is good,” boxed in kind of way.

If you’re depressed, if you’re unable to be moved by anything on this earth, then just say, “I can be happy again.” Use that word happy. You don’t need to use the Christianese “joyful.” It’s great to feel happy!

It is the Good News after all.

There is nothing too small the Good News finds worthless to include and nothing too large it finds impossible to exclude.

[Painting: Entry of Christ into Jerusalem by Anthony van Dyck]

April 1, 2026

Philippe: “Refusing to suffer means refusing to live”

written by Christian Heinze

In his wonderful little book Interior Freedom, Jacques Philippe, builds on a running theme you’ll find throughout his oeuvre – how to suffer as Christian.

Let me preface this by saying – if you’re suffering, look for help. There are treatments available.

But sometimes all the treatments in this world can fall short, and that can be additionally depressing until we realize that the world is not our home, that as long as we’re living in it, suffering is here and is sort of part of the deal.

Wherever you find yourself, for whatever reason, you’re reading this site, and you know what it’s like.

Philippe:

“Refusing to suffer means refusing to live.

Present-day culture, through advertising and the media, serenades us endlessly with its ‘gospel’: avoid suffering at all costs, seek pleasure alone. It neglects to say that there is no surer way of making oneself unhappy than by doing just that.

Suffering should be remedied whenever possible, but it is =part of life, and attempting to get rid of it completely means suppressing life, refusing to live.”

In light of all this, he then offers some practical advice:

“We need to develop this kind of realism and, once and for all, stop dreaming of life without suffering or conflict. That is the life of heaven, not earth. We must take up our cross and and follow Christ courageously every day; the bitterness of that cross will sooner or later be transformed into sweetness.”

He finishes a long stretch this way:

“We must make acts of faith…. the attitude expressed by the prophet Jeremiah: ‘It is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord’.”

In another book, Trusting God in the Present, he gets even more into the “HOW DO I, LORD?!!” of the day-to-day of suffering that seems inexplicable and endless, and asks us to ask ourselves this question each morning.

“In this life it is sometimes absolutely necessary that we consent to go forward without understanding.

…. when preoccupied with a question to which you can’t find the answer, ask yourself: ‘Do I absolutely need an answer to that in order to know how I should live my life today?’

You’ll realize that you usually don’t.

….We accept the situation as it is, without aiming to understand it entirely and ask, ‘What does God want of me here? What is the right way to live through this? Which part of the Gospel am I called by this situation to put into practice now? What acts of faith and hope, what progress in love, am I being asked to make today.”

Note that: “What acts of faith and hope, what progress in love, am I being asked to make today?“

Jesus always emphasized the immediate in light of our eternal future. Yes, the latter is our hope. But today is the day we live. “Today is the day of the salvation,” “give us this day our daily bread.”

There’s a synergy between the Scripture of ancient times and psychology of now that says of suffering, “Stop all this stuff about tomorrow and focus only on what’s now.” Or as Elisabeth Elliot famously said of her incomprehensible suffering, “Do the next thing.”

But there’s also a difference between the Scripture and psychology you might read on X.

Without Christ, there’s ultimately a slow drain of purpose from ceaseless suffering.

There’s a reason we long for purpose. God put it there, and he put us here for a purpose.

If we see ourselves consenting to whatever is going on today, and if we apply that simple heuristic: “What can I do that shows faith, hope, and love today,” then both today will be changed, as well as our future days.

Now having said that, I will say two things.

First, it has genuinely blessed, motivated, and filled me with purpose on the darkest days to simply pare it down to “Okay, God, what simple small thing can I do today that shows faith, hope, and love?”

I can’t think of anything more centering.

Second, I can’t pretend that’s going to provide you centering today, because often, I still sink into a kind of nihilistic depression, wherein lofty thoughts themselves just grow wearisome.

When Hezekiah was struck down with sickness, depression, darkness, he said his eyes grew weary looking upwards, and yeah, in the midst of perpetual suffering, sometimes upward feels looking at dark sky and not divine hope.

Don’t feel shame over that. In fact, the greatest acts of faith are when we struggle for faith and still choose to turn to and not away from God.

So just as the Bible is brutally honest about suffering, I don’t want to portray a blue-sky Christianity for your everyday.

I mean, you’re reading this. You’re here. You know this. You’ve felt it. And, whether they admit it or not publicly, every Christian has faced this.

Nevertheless, I can’t think of a mental map that’s helped me more on the everyday than the one Philippe offers: Right now, how can I advance faith, hope, and love?

Maybe the suffering is a given today, but what can we try to give to those we love? To the God we serve.

The Spirit will tell each of us different things, depending on our circumstances, but there is no more grounding ground than the foundation of Christ.

And finally, I have to mention, once again, that depression and mental health issues are actually “brain health” and medical conditions and sometimes medical treatment will enliven your spiritual life in radical ways. I’d be dead if it weren’t for my antidepressant.

And praise God for antidepressants that work, and therapy that enlivens.

But primarily, praise God for the salvation that promises to one day wipe away every tear and use each of those drops as redemptive washing, for the here, and the forever.

If you live in the United States and struggle with depression, anxiety, or any other such disorders…

Find a psychiatrist here.

Find a therapist here.

For readers, internationally, I pray you can find help from a local resource.

For salvation, Christ and Christ alone.

March 25, 2026

“In darkest night, you were there like no other”

written by Christian Heinze

One of the reasons I know our faith is true is that we can go through the valley of the shadow of death for years, to the point where it almost becomes our address and we might as well take our mail there, and yet we can still end up singing this song, called “The goodness of God.”

What?! It seems so counterintuitive to live in that valley, and yet this song feels as home to us as the shadow of our minds, and we will often find ourselves literally singing with tears in our eyes, “I believe in the goodness of God.”

And we do believe in it. With all our heart.

That’s because of our Good Shepherd, that’s the Holy Spirit who won’t let us go, that’s certainly not of us, only him – the fact he never gives up on us because we’ve known the words, “he is close like no other” and that when we look at the course of our lives, we can somehow still say, “all my life you have been faithful.”

Some nights, yes, he seems cold and distant, a God of deism and not friendship, and we feel like David and ask how long, oh how long, oh Lord, will you turn your face from us?

But so many other nights, throughout our lives, he has been with us in moments when others simply can’t, aren’t, or won’t — and it’s then the mysterious stranger who’s no stranger, really, at all, comes to us in love, “as a Father, as a friend.”

The Father you’ve needed all your life is the Father you’ve actually had, and the friend you looked for all your life is holding your hand and if you were to see him now, he would be smiling at you, because that’s what we do when we see the ones we love.

So here are a few beautiful lyrics from the song, and the cover I like best.

“The Goodness of God” by Jenn Johnson

‘Cause all my life You have been faithful
And all my life You have been so, so good
With every breath that I am able
Oh, I will sing of the goodness of God

I love Your voice
You have led me through the fire
In darkest night
You are close like no other
I’ve known You as a Father
I’ve known You as a Friend
And I have lived in the goodness of God

Here’s another poignant cover — from a man who now lives forever, living of that which he sings.

In life, we might sometimes struggle to sing this song. But there, in paradise, we will be able to sing nothing else.

If you live in the United States and struggle with depression, anxiety, or any other such disorders…

Find a psychiatrist here.

Find a therapist here.

For readers, internationally, I pray you can find help from a local resource.

For salvation, Christ and Christ alone.

February 5, 2026

Calling out the brain on catastrophizing

written by Christian Heinze

Lybi Ma has a brief, accessible read on the phenomenon known as of catastrophizing, which if you haven’t already guessed, is when your brain biases you towards thinking the WORST POSSIBLE OUTCOME on anything uncertain that you’re worried about.

For example, years ago, I told my therapist, “I go from A to Z without thinking of any of the other letters along the way.”

In other words, there’s some uncertainty ahead that could turn out to be good or bad, and my mind just naturally goes to a worse-than-bad place. A catastrophic place. Z.

Maybe you can relate.

I’ve been this way since I was a small kid, and there’s a genetic tendency and a nurture thing to this, as well (it’s estimated that 36-40% of this comes from genetics with environment filling in the gap).

Now, in her article Ma notes that most humans have negative bias. A study from 2019 showed that the brain lights up brighter when showed a negative image than a positive one.

And humans tend to focus on negative events far more than positive ones.

You know the drill.

One million things can go right in a day, but if just one goes wrong, it throws us off.

But catastrophizing is when our anxiety gets so out of control that it doesn’t just brood on the bad, it anticipates the very worst.

Ma suggests we “call out the brain” when we recognize what’s happening to us. You can read her tips in the piece, but essentially, we need to stop and get some distance from what’s going on in our brain, analyze it, do so almost as a neutral observer, and call it out.

Then it becomes a little easier for us to treat our own cognitive processes the way we would someone else’s. Less biased.

For example, if you meet someone who’s catastrophizing about an event, it’s pretty easy to see the mountain of the molehill they’re making and think “oh, if they could just think about it realistically,” and it all seems so simple to us if we’re not going through it.

But then something hits us personally — some potentially negative thing, some uncertainty — and we’re unable to apply the same realism to ourselves.

If you’re reading this website, none of these feelings surprise you and I doubt if, intuitively, any of us really needs a study to confirm this phenomenon (it’s a bit like one of those headlines “Study: Getting more sleep helps your body.”)

But what do we do about catastrophizing beyond the tips she gives (I’d also recommend reading Dr. Maggie Kang’s piece on “3 ways to retrain your catastrophizing brain“)?

Well, I’d suggest getting in touch with a psychiatrist who can address the brain condition component (if there’s one) and a therapist who can teach you techniques like the ones in these articles.

There’s no one-size-fits-all on this.

I’ve found the app Headspace to be helpful, exactly because it helps you learn to look at your irrational thoughts from a more objective space (and teaches pretty helpful breathing techniques).

And, of course, loading your mind with Scripture helps, as well. Prayer. Seeking God’s help with all you’ve got.

The minute I forget to do this, the more troubling the hours ahead.

A few years ago, I was going to have a medical procedure that I was quite nervous about. It was only 7 months after a simple medical test that went wrong and changed the course of my physical life.

Of course, between my natural tendency to catastrophize and the fact that the thing that had a .004% chance or whatever had just happened, I catastrophized pretty hard about the upcoming medical test.

However, a few days before the upcoming appointment, I prayed: “Jesus, I don’t know the outcome. But I do know you will come.”

I don’t know if that prayer is helpful to you, but I’ve prayed it numerous times since then, because yes, even though I trust in Christ, my faith is also very weak – very, very weak – and I will always struggle, I’m afraid, with this tendency to go to the worst possible place. The A to Z, without stopping along the way.

So I need to constantly remind myself: “Jesus, even if I don’t know the outcome, I know you’ll come.”

But like I said, this tendency to catastrophize is genetic and also there’s an environmental thing growing up with it too. So if you struggle, don’t beat yourself up. Most likely, you didn’t even have a chance with coming down with this medical condition of catastrophizing.

A few, final things on all this.

First, have you seen the commercial where Matthew McConaughey says “What if” are the two most powerful words around?

They are, indeed, powerful, and I’ve noticed there are some people who think “what if?” and their eyes light up with optimistic possibility. I envy them. And I’ve had plenty of times where that’s the case for me too.

But “what if” can also take us to a dreadful place, too, can’t it? The what-ifs can dominate our lives so much, the potential catastrophes become so frequent that it almost becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Which is exactly why we need to seek medical help for this medical condition.

Soon after we were married, my wife and I noted that she said “What’s the worst that can happen?” with a “Meh, it’ll be ok” about some uncertain thing ahead, and I tended to say “What’s the worst that can happen?” and then call an insurance company and ask about a personal umbrella liability insurance policy for the most unlikely, worst possible thing.

We laughed about it, but there was a lot of truth too (somehow, we’re still married).

There’s nothing wrong with being the latter kind of person (of course I would say that, being the latter kind of person).

It’s how some of us are wired. It’s the way some of us were raised. Again, it’s not our fault.

But remember there are agents of mercy out there, ways to help us as we sort through this difficult medical condition.

Psychiatrists, therapists, exercise, prayer, breathing, Scripture, social interactions, so many things.

I’d be lying if I said “Scripture has helped me more than my medication.” I’m really not sure what has helped more. I wish I could claim the level of spirituality where Christ has so permeated my being that I have perfect confidence in every outcome. But medication has balanced me out in an inexplicable way, and why not? This is a medical condition.

And Jesus has used that medication in much the same way we would say, “Oh thank the Lord, he sent that rescue boat when I was drowning.”

Finally, when we catastrophize, remember — we know how this all ends. Maybe not this event. But our story on earth. It ends in a death that Christ has turned into a wonderful portal to reach paradise where we will be with him forever.

Nothing has helped me more than knowing that if all of it goes terribly wrong, I’ll still end up in the arms of Jesus, and that is the farthest place from a catastrophe you could be.

If you live in the United States and struggle with depression, anxiety, or any other such disorders…

Find a psychiatrist here.

Find a therapist here.

For readers, internationally, I pray you can find help from a local resource.

For salvation, Christ and Christ alone.

[Photo: Pexels, Free stock photography, Nicola Barts].

February 2, 2026

Thanksgiving for his brokenness

written by Christian Heinze

It’s an odd title to a post – it seems very unloving, doesn’t it?

We say we’re thankful Jesus died for us, but to write “thanksgiving for his brokenness” almost seems cruel.

But that is to be among our constant responses to the fact he said, “This is my body, broken for you.”

Thankfulness.

In her book Liturgy of the Ordinary, Tish Harrison Warren puts it this way:

“The word Eucharist literally means ‘thanksgiving’. The Eucharist is the thanksgiving feast of the church, and it is out of that communal practice of thanksgiving that my lunchtime prayer of thanks flows.

The Eucharist — our gathered meal of thanksgiving — for the life, death, and resurrection of Christ — transforms each humble meal into a moment to recall that we receive all life, from soup to salvation, by grace. As such, these daily, small moments are sacramental.”

Later, she continues:

“We recall and reenact Christ’s life poured out for us, and we are transformed into people who pour out our lives for others…. in this alternative economy of the true bread of life, we are turned inside out so we are no longer people marked by scarcity, jockeying for our own good, but are new people, truly nourished, and therefore able to extend nourishment to others.

…. In Christ there will always be enough for us, with so much leftover.”

I read that tonight, while feeling sad and ungrateful, and it provided a temporary “Ah, back on track” moment, but as in so much of our day-to-day spiritual lives, that was quickly replaced by the flat sadness of what I call the “all is vanity depression,” and which clinicians call “anhedonia,” a scientifically validated phenomenon.

But I want to draw attention to something…

That phrase: “In Christ there will always be enough for us, with so much leftover.” How beautiful. But again, it doesn’t always feel enough, let alone offering leftovers.

But the truth remains, and it’s why I wanted to post this — that indeed, “in Christ there will always be enough for us, with so much leftover,” and whether we feel that or not doesn’t change the fact that his body was, in fact, broken for us, and that he will always be enough for our salvation, no matter how we feel.

Christ’s love doesn’t ebb the way ours does.

He’s always enough, whether we feel it or not. Our names are written in heaven, and though you may feel flat tonight, he is with you just as surely as he was when he thought of you as he bled and died to make you an heir to his riches in heaven.

Our feelings – ha – the idea they could change that? What are we thinking?

Now, if you’re still feeling gloomy because you’re still flat and now you wonder how you could be a Christian at all, I’d suggest reading Spurgeon’s Sorrows.

There was never a man (except King David) who wrote so movingly about feeling both moved and unmoved by the fact the tomb was moved. Depending on the day.

Take heart that you’re not alone, if you feel alone in feeling this way.

Finally, this is why it’s so important to tend first to our own spiritual lives, because as Warren says, we serve others life-giving nourishment only after we’ve eaten the body ourselves. If we are flat, our service will be flat.

That’s why it’s so important to our spiritual lives that we get help for our depression — it’s not just some myopic “I want this for me” selfish American mindset.

It’s an “I want this for me, so I can better live it for you and my loved ones and my enemies, as well.”

John Piper once said we pray as if we’re in the solar system, and we pray first for ourselves, our own hearts, then we move outwards towards our family, then community, and so forth.

So we have to guard our hearts, tend to them, and celebrate the Eucharist in every meal.

No matter how small. Because that is how the big things begin. With the mustard seed of a meal.

Thank you, Jesus, that you were broken for us.

And if you feel broken tonight, he feels that for you too. He was broken, after all, too.

Finally, this is an absolutely lovely song for the broken, struggling, and the ones longing for God and turning their hearts to him and begging.

Listen to it a few times, and then a few times more. It’s meant the world to me. Heaven, to me, really.

If you live in the United States and struggle with depression, anxiety, or any other such disorders…

Find a psychiatrist here.

Find a therapist here (preferably, a medically trained Christian, but medically trained non Christians can be fantastic too).

For readers, internationally, I pray you can find help from a local resource.

For salvation, Christ and Christ alone.

January 31, 2026

Esther Smith: “All he wants is you”

written by Christian Heinze

In her wonderful book, Chronic Illness: Walking by Faith, Esther Smith offers a strangely hard truth — one we often hear, theoretically, but do we really believe it?

Smith:

“God doesn’t want the things that you could be doing if you were healthy. All he wants is you.

He wants your faith, not your works. He wants your company, not grand feats. He wants to get to know you, and this is something you can do no matter what your daily life with illness looks like.

As I began to write this book, I asked myself a question. What is the number one message that people with chronic illness need to hear? What is the most important lesson that my own experience has taught me? In the end, I realized it was this: Your relationship with God is vital for your survival. People will let you down. Symptoms will come and go. Life will be painful and filled with grief. God is your only certainty.

Seek God, and you will find him (see Deut. 4:29). Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you.”

Amen. Also hard and also a relief – in much the way that so much of the Christian life is.

Think again about that quote: ““God doesn’t want the things that you could be doing if you were healthy. All he wants is you.“

Both our own personalities and culture can form an unholy alliance that whispers to the chronically ill — you don’t matter. You’re not useful. You lie there, doing very little, you are a drain on society and those around you, what’s your use if you feel of no use? If you have nothing to contribute, why are you even here?

These accusations come from us, the devil, and also the world, and sometimes unfortunately, the church. As humans we tend to celebrate the “great” Christians who led many to Christ, the ones who accomplish great things to alleviate human poverty, malnourishment, to build and grow local churches that water the local community with the fountain of life.

If you don’t realize this, just look at the opulent funerals for some of the “giants of the faith.”

Now — all those things they do are good things! They are massive answers to prayer to so many.

But humans are prone to worship, and in our admiration for those works and the ones accomplishing them, it can also crush us with a kind of “So… what have you done lately?”

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s my pride. Maybe others with chronic illness don’t feel this. But as I’ve battled my growing physical inadequacies the past 3 years, I’ve had to contend with a global feeling of spiritual deficiency.

And now comes the “And can it be?” relief that Miller offers in this sentence: “”God doesn’t want the things that you could be doing if you were healthy. All he wants is you.”

And that’s true, praise God.

The world wants what we can do. God simply wants us. He has plenty of people to do the things we can’t. Besides, what if we, the chronically ill, are called to our own thing — and that own thing is to just be content with the fact that we can “do nothing” for God, except praise him, that we can do nothing for others, except pray for them?

Aren’t those nothings something?

They require faith, faith, faith to believe that we matter when American culture (particularly, the Protestant Work Ethic kind) says we don’t. They require faith, faith, faith when we see so little accomplishment to validate that faith, hear so little to spur us on, when those things – the quiet things – just seem so flat and useless.

But we are God’s children. Does our love for our kids hinge on what they do? Their works? No! All we want with them is relationship. I could care less if my kids did much around the house. I don’t want their works, I want relationship.

And here is also God: All I want is you. Your faith, your heart, your friendship.

Now I ask you — you who are struggling with any number of physical or mental diseases? Do you also struggle with mattering in a world that has only one definition of mattering?

If you’re in church world and you only matter if you can lead this group or that group, or be involved in this ministry or that ministry, and instead all you can do is barely show up or not at all.

First, all God wants is a relationship with you, and you can still create your own sanctuary to God at home where heaven meets earth, where heaven meets your home. Those personal sanctuaries, where it’s just you and God, is where relationship forms and grows.

Second, if you’re in the broader world and you can’t work because of your illness, you might hear others say, “So what do you do?” Oh, isn’t there pain to just reply: “I’m sick.” Ugh!! Aren’t we inclined to lie, to somehow gin up something better than “I’m sick.”

We want to feel we matter – to ourselves, to others, to our community. I’m not sure where my own aspiration to genuinely help others and spiritual pride and desire to work my way into God’s good graces meet and interact, but whatever the case for me, for you, we just plain old want to matter.

And sickness can make us feel like we don’t. And maybe, others make it painfully – so painfully – clear we don’t to them.

But listen, the only One Who Matters came exactly to you and and me — the sick and the struggling. And for that brief moment of his ministry, those brief three years in the world, we were the object of the tender hand of the All Powerful God who came to validate, to encourage, to forever alter how Christians are to view poverty of body, bank account, and mind.

Does it matter enough to us that we matter to God?

That’s the question I have to ask myself daily.

If we only matter to God, isn’t that enough?

If it takes our sickness to find God’s friendship, to desire it more than our own wellness, to seek and find him, then it will all be worth it in the end, and in this current moment, if it’s worth it, how wonderful a bonus is that?

So I write this to me, I write this to you.

And I remind you – that you matter to God, that you matter so much that he died for you. The thief could do nothing and did nothing on earth except steal and kill. And when he could do nothing else except beg “remember me,” that was enough.

If you struggle with depression, anxiety, or any other such disorders — for readers in the United States… please read Smith’s book.

And…

Find a psychiatrist here.

Find a therapist here.

For readers, internationally, seek help from a local resource.

For salvation, Christ and Christ alone.

January 29, 2026

Update

written by Christian Heinze

Hi all, I’m sorry it’s been more than awhile since I last posted. My health has worsened to the point that I’ve been unable to sit in a chair for more than 30 minutes due to back issues/degeneration and my ongoing GI stuff.

Thankfully, I just bought a chair that finally feels sort of okay. So I can sit again! For the first time in about 7 months.

Up until now, I’d been going to our car to sit and get outdoor and sitting time that way, because captain chairs in minivans are pretty great.

Right now, my condition is very day-to-day with a lot of doctor visits and hospital trips, and we’ll see what progresses. As I’ve written before, surrender is all I can do, at this point. The doctors are out of ideas, as there’s a convergence of health issues, and how to manage each without affecting the other is tricky. Obviously, it’s been a pretty tough journey for my family. I’ve had to rely on my wife far more than I wish and there’s been a lot of tough stuff to process, missing out on the kids’ important moments, and I’ve had to do a lot of praying and I need God’s grace to figure out how to be the dad he’s called me to be. This has all been so unexpected and there’s no resolution in sight and it’s something I’d never had on my bingo card.

Most of the difficulty has been seeing my kids’ disappointed or worried faces. I don’t want to write long about that, because I’m still processing it, but I have to have faith that somehow the Lord will use this all for their good and his glory and my good, as well.

Many of you have written and offered your prayers and I believe all the prayers from so many have sustained me and my family in ways that I can’t even know this side of the other side.

The good news (and again, I’m being very careful about saying this this because of my uncertain health and a young family that takes precedence) is that, with this chair (hooray!), I’m hoping to start video interviews soon w/folks who know a lot about mental health, as well as the Christian walk. That will be short-term easier on me than my goal of daily posting blog entries, which obviously hasn’t been happening.

I hope the possible interviews will be meaningful to people, and that I can get started soon, but I need to continue tending to my health, and then second, to my family. And I’ve learned that, no matter how hard you try, yes, the spirit is indeed willing but our flesh is very weak.

You and I stand daily with the God who has our lives in his hands, and that can be a terrifying thought at first, but if you linger long enough with it, what better hands to be in? Do I believe that? Do you believe that? Do we really? Those are questions that I wish I could give the “good Christian answer” to and I can, intellectually, but I think it’s much more difficult for Christians (well, at least me) to honestly confront than we realize.

But the Lord has shown up in so many bleak moments, but also felt absent in them (have to be honest about that), but I do know that in all moments, he’s been there. And I will never stop thanking him for that, and there is no greater beauty than Christ. He is the sum of all good, he is love, and he is with you and me – whether we feel it or not.

Thanks so much for your care and for your prayers (and patience!).

October 13, 2025

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