There’s a kind of greatness the world applauds.

And then there’s the kind God notices.

I’ve been thinking about how often Jesus spoke about becoming small—not invisible, not erased, but willing. Willing to be humbled. Willing to serve. Willing to loosen our grip on needing to be seen or affirmed.

“If you want to be great in God’s eyes, you have to be willing to become small.”

That idea feels backward to everything we’re taught. We’re told to build, to climb, to protect ourselves from loss and discomfort. Yet faith keeps inviting us into the opposite direction—downward, inward, slower.

Suffering has a way of doing that.

Not because pain is holy on its own, but because it strips us of illusions. It reveals what we actually believe when comfort is gone. Suffering shapes our lives whether we want it to or not. The question is whether we let it harden us—or soften us.

There was a lot of pain before the resurrection.

That part often gets rushed past. We want the empty tomb without the waiting. The hope without the ache. But the path has always gone through the cross before it reaches life.

And somehow, we’re surprised when our own faith requires the same.

Each of us carries a cross. Not the same weight. Not the same shape. But none of us are exempt. Faith was never meant to be painless—it was meant to be faithful.

What worries me more than suffering, though, is indifference.

A quiet drifting. A numbness that settles in without announcing itself. Indifference is easy to live with because it doesn’t demand anything. But it slowly hollows faith out from the inside. It asks nothing and gives nothing—and that’s why it’s dangerous.

Freedom gets misunderstood too.

We think it means doing whatever we want, whenever we want. But real freedom is far more demanding. It’s the strength to do what we ought to do—even when it costs us comfort, approval, or ease. Especially then.

Halfway faith is tempting.

Just enough to feel safe. Just enough to feel good about ourselves. But not enough to disrupt our lives. Not enough to ask for change. And yet, a faith that never costs us anything never really gives us life either.

“Every man dies. Not every man truly lives.”

That line stays with me.

Living for Christ isn’t about perfection. It’s about direction. It’s about choosing depth over convenience, conviction over comfort, faithfulness over applause. Even when it’s quiet. Even when no one sees.

Especially then.

Because the life God calls us into isn’t loud or glamorous.

It’s smaller. Slower. Truer.

And somehow, that’s where resurrection keeps finding us.

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” John 12:24 ESV

Until next time,