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If you're mentoring someone, the most important thing you can learn to do is recognize the season they’re in. Just like we don’t expect fruit from a seed that hasn’t even sprouted yet, we shouldn’t expect full maturity from someone who’s barely had their spiritual eyes opened. This isn’t just about stages of knowledge or age; it’s about understanding where someone truly is in their process of transformation. When we know where someone is, we can walk with them in a way that doesn’t confuse them, overwhelm them, or shame them. We can talk to them in the language of their current season, not in the language of where we wish they were. This is the art of mentoring from a healed place; we lead with grace, not pressure.

Let’s start here: some people are in the rough and wild stage. They're in what we might call the cowboy phase. They're trying everything, going hard after new experiences, hungry to figure life out, but still pretty raw and unrefined. You don’t talk to a cowboy the same way you’d talk to a sage or a king. If you do, you’re not mentoring; you’re misfiring. You’re talking over their head or pushing them into shame. The cowboy needs you to help them navigate danger without crushing their fire. They’re not looking for control; they’re looking for direction. They need someone to help them harness their energy and point it toward purpose.

Then there are those in the warrior phase. These folks have stepped out of wild adventure and are starting to build something real. They’ve chosen a path; maybe it’s a career, a cause, a calling; and they’re fighting to carve out a life that matters. They’re not just living for themselves anymore. They’re carrying weight. They’re learning discipline. They’re stepping up. A warrior doesn’t need you to tell them to calm down; they need to know how to carry the sword without losing their soul. They need wisdom for the battles ahead. They need someone who sees the strain in their eyes and says, “You don’t have to fight alone.”

Then you’ve got the lover phase. This is when someone begins to value deep connection. Maybe they’ve gotten married, or become a parent. Maybe they’ve learned the hard way that success without love is empty. Lovers are learning how to give of themselves. They’re forming a new identity, one that includes others. When mentoring someone here, you’ve got to speak to their capacity to nurture, to protect, to build legacy. They’re starting to think in terms of “we” instead of “me.” They’re no longer just fighting battles; they’re trying to build a home. That requires patience, wisdom, and emotional courage.

So let me ask you: Where is your mentee? Do they know where they’re at? Do you know where they’re at? That’s the first question of mentorship. You don’t begin by pushing content. You begin by identifying location. Location tells you how to speak, how to lead, and how to walk with someone. Mentorship without discernment becomes manipulation; because you end up trying to force someone into a version of growth that they’re not ready for.

God is always speaking to us about process and progression. That’s why I love using the metaphor of the butterfly. The Bible actually points us to the word “metamorphosis,” which is the very word used in Romans 12:2 when it talks about being “transformed by the renewing of the mind.” The butterfly is not just a nice illustration; it’s a spiritual roadmap. So let’s walk through it stage by stage and talk about how we mentor someone inside of each one.

If you haven’t noticed, we are all undergoing change. It doesn’t matter how old you are, what stage of life you’re in, or what you’ve already accomplished; growth is always happening. For me, I feel like I’ve stepped into what many call the second half of life. There’s something sacred about this stage. It’s not just a number. It’s not just age. It’s a deep, personal awareness that life is moving forward, and that the time I have left is more precious than ever. I’ve become a grandfather. That in itself has shifted my heart. I have a stronger sense of legacy, a deep drive to do something meaningful, not just for today but for the generations coming after me. There’s a passion in my soul to live on a mission, not out of pressure, but out of deep desire. It’s a fire that burns from knowing that my time here isn’t forever. And that awareness shapes how I lead, how I love, and how I mentor.

You see, everyone is at different stages of life. If we’re going to lead others well, if we’re going to walk with people toward healing and maturity, we have to understand the stage they’re in. We can’t treat a teenager like a father. We can’t talk to a sage like they’re still a cowboy. If we’re unaware of where someone is located on their journey, we’ll end up misleading them; not out of malice, but out of misunderstanding.

There are three basic stages that most people recognize in early development: dependence, independence, and interdependence. Let’s talk about each, and then we’ll go deeper with the archetypes that reveal the heart of this journey.

We all start in a place of dependence. This is childhood. This is when we need others for survival. Food, love, safety; all of it comes from someone else. We cry to get what we need. We cling. We reach. We do everything possible to stay connected to the people who care for us. And honestly, that’s okay. That’s how God made us at that stage. But what’s not okay is when someone grows physically but never moves emotionally out of this stage. Unresolved fear, insecurity, and emotional immaturity often trace back to someone stuck in dependence, still hoping someone else will meet all their needs, rescue them, or give them identity.

Eventually, if we’re growing, we move into independence. Think of the teenage years. This is the wild ride. It’s where we start separating from our parents and attaching to our peers. It’s emotional, passionate, intense, and often confusing. If you’ve raised teens, you know how real this is. They push boundaries. They explore identity. They try to figure out who they are apart from the family system they’ve known. This is not rebellion; it’s part of development. And yet, many people get stuck here too. They move into adulthood still clinging to the idea that being independent is the ultimate goal. “I can make my own money. I don’t need anyone. I’m good on my own.” But isolation is not maturity. It’s often a wall we build because we never learned how to trust in interdependence.

That’s the next and more mature stage: interdependence. This is where we realize that we are not whole on our own. We’re part of something bigger. We see that we’re not meant to live in competition or isolation, but in collaboration. Interdependence says, “I know who I am, and now I want to bring that identity into a relationship with others.” This is what makes marriage, family, and the body of Christ so powerful. When two people truly understand themselves and come together not to complete each other but to partner, that’s interdependence. When I stop needing to be the center, and I start embracing my part; whether I’m a hand, an eye, or a hidden, honorable part of the body; I can serve with humility and joy.

If we’re going to become the kind of mentors who heal and don’t harm, who guide with wisdom instead of pressure, we have to learn this one truth: talk to people where they’re at; not where you wish they were. That’s not just a suggestion. It’s the cornerstone of leading from a healed place. When we forget this, we fall into a damaging mindset that says: I have to correct them constantly or they’ll never grow. That belief doesn’t build people. It breaks them. It turns mentorship into a cycle of shame instead of a journey of transformation. The truth is, your presence, your posture, and your peace will do more than constant critique ever could. Showing up as the most healed, whole version of yourself; that’s half the battle. You living out what love, consistency, and wholeness looks like in your family, your faith, your fitness, and your finances becomes the foundation for others to trust you and to follow.

The other half of the battle comes in the skills of mentorship, and we’ll get to that, but first we’ve got to dismantle some false ideas. One of the worst ones is this: Urgency equals wisdom. Correction equals care. These are lies we’ve believed, often because of how we were raised. But love is most powerful when it is patient. Love doesn’t demand instant change. It doesn’t rush fruit to appear. Love sees the person in process and says, “You’re safe with me while you grow.” When we mentor from pressure, we create fear. When we mentor from peace, we build trust.

The faulty version of mentorship we’re dismantling today says we need rapid correction, super high standards, quick turnarounds, and pressure for maturity. But let’s set that model aside. The truth is, real mentorship is a slow, steady presence. It’s being patient, being loving, being wise, and offering encouragement over and over again. It’s not about producing quick results; it’s about walking with someone long enough that they actually believe they’re loved; even when they fail. This is what changes people: not our pressure, but our presence.

Now if we hold on to that old model; the pressure-based model; we’re going to hit some problems. The first is performance-based identity. In this mindset, people believe their value to you is based on how fast they grow or how “good” they are. That creates fear. That creates insecurity. People start to feel like projects. They start to feel like they’re always behind. They start to feel like they’re constantly being corrected. That breaks trust. That makes them hide. That shuts down the heart.

But when we show up differently, when we become safe people instead of scary ones, we offer something rare: a relationship that isn’t based on performance. In that kind of relationship, people are seen. They’re heard. They’re known. They’re still loved even when they stumble. That’s when trust builds. And trust opens the door to real growth.

Now we become what we behold. If you see God as a drill sergeant, you’ll become harsh. But if you see God as a patient coach, a loving Father, a gentle leader, then you’ll start to treat others that way too. If you’re not experiencing that kind of connection with God, it will be hard to give it to others. But when you do; when you see that God isn’t rushing you, isn’t shaming you, isn’t waiting to punish you; something shifts inside. You start mentoring like He mentors. That’s where the real impact starts.

Now let’s talk about the root of this false correction model. Most of us grew up with something called progressive discipline. I did. Maybe you did too. It starts small; maybe a checkmark on the board or sitting in the hallway. Then it escalates; writing sentences, sticking your nose on a frown face drawn on the chalkboard (yes, that actually happened), getting sent to the principal, getting suspended, and so on. The system is built on the idea that punishment produces change. But it doesn’t. Not real change. Not heart change.

In the journey of helping others grow, it's easy to fall into a dangerous trap: expecting fast results. A good mentor, especially one who is leading from a healed place, must learn that transformation isn’t always immediate. Growth takes time, and expecting people to change overnight can do real damage. When we expect fruit too soon, we start to become fruit inspectors; looking at behavior, decisions, and outward actions to determine someone’s worth, maturity, or even salvation. And when we do that, we create separation. We start saying things like, “This one’s in. That one’s out.” Not based on what God says, but based on what we see in someone’s current season of pain, confusion, or immaturity. That is not how Jesus works, and it should not be how we lead.

The goal of maturity is not perfect behavior. It’s not how many Bible verses someone has memorized, or how many years they’ve sat in church. The real goal is love. That’s it. To become the most loving version of ourselves, to embody the heart, the light, and the truth of Jesus in every part of life. Maturity is revealed most clearly not by how we treat those who treat us well, but how we treat those who don’t. The ability to love your enemies is one of the highest signs of spiritual growth. When you can sit in peace with people who used to trigger you, when you can respond with patience to people who frustrate you, when you can show kindness even to those who wound you; that’s the kind of maturity that can’t be faked. That’s the life of Christ shining through.

Unfortunately, many people think maturity is about Bible knowledge. They think it’s about years in ministry or attending conferences. But none of those things mean much if you’re still cold, sharp, judgmental, or unable to forgive. Real maturity loves. And love, by its very nature, is patient. That means a good mentor doesn’t just pass out content or preach sermons; they embody presence. They walk with people through the mess, through the struggle, and through the fall-down-get-up seasons.

One of the biggest limiting beliefs in mentorship is this: "Mistakes mean failure." But that’s not true. Not even close. If you’re walking with someone who is still immature, that means they haven’t yet fully learned how to walk. And what do people who haven’t learned to walk do? They fall down. A lot. They’re in a cycle. It might be addiction, anger, shame, or a pattern of bad choices. But just like a toddler, they’re in the fall down, get up, try again stage. And we all went through that. No one started out sprinting in the Spirit. We stumbled. We cried. We leaned on others. And slowly, step by step, we learned how to live.

Now think about how we treat little kids. When a baby falls while learning to walk, no parent screams, “What’s wrong with you?! You should be walking by now!” Of course not. Instead, we clap. We cheer. We say, “That’s okay! Try again!” We understand the stage. We give them encouragement, not punishment. So why, when it comes to spiritual growth, do we forget that? Why do we point fingers at people who are still learning? Why do we act like if someone falls again, they must not be serious?

The truth is, they may be as serious as they can be at their level of maturity. And the best thing we can do is to meet them there, with presence and patience. What they need is not shame. They need someone to believe in them. They need a voice that says, “You’re still in this. Keep going. I’m not giving up on you.”

Hebrews 5:14 says, “But solid food is for those who are full grown, who by reason of use have their senses exercised to discern good and evil.” This verse is simple, but powerful. It means that spiritual maturity comes from practice, from consistency, from doing; not just from knowing. It also means that maturity is a process. It doesn’t happen overnight. It doesn’t show up because someone handed you a title or a leadership book. And it definitely doesn’t show up just because you want it to. Growth takes time. Just like a baby doesn’t jump straight to eating steak, we don’t go from newborn faith to full spiritual strength in a weekend. We grow by being nourished appropriately in every season.

So let’s break this down. In mentorship, especially in leading from a healed place, we must learn to see the stage someone is in. When we ignore their growth cycle and force-feed them something they’re not ready for, we cause harm. Not only do we confuse them, but we often shame them. And shame doesn’t grow people; it shuts them down. We live in a culture that celebrates speed. Quick results. Flashy transformations. But God doesn’t microwave transformation. He cultivates it. He nurtures it. He moves from glory to glory; not from pressure to pressure. So as mentors, leaders, and spiritual fathers and mothers, we must reject the urge to rush.

We’ve got to stop putting burdens on people that they’re not ready to carry. A common mistake we make is giving someone a big responsibility just because they’re enthusiastic. But gifting does not equal grounding. And calling does not always equal character; yet. When we expect someone to run at a pace they’re not built for, or to carry something that’s still too heavy for them emotionally or spiritually, we set them up for failure. And that failure often births confusion, shame, and sometimes even bitterness toward the church or toward God. That’s why the process matters.

Now here’s where we shift into responsibility as mentors. God never asked us to manufacture transformation. You and I can’t force change in someone. But we can build the environment for growth. Think of it like a garden. You don’t pull on a seed to make it grow faster. You prepare the soil. You water it. You make sure the light gets to it. You check on it. You speak life over it. And you protect it from things that would choke it out. In the same way, spiritual maturity happens best in the right environment, not in a performance lab. We don’t make the fruit grow. But we can make sure the root is healthy.

Let’s look at Paul and Timothy. Paul didn’t throw a Bible at Timothy and say, “Good luck.” He didn’t hand him a job description and disappeared. He walked with him. He fathered him. He corrected him, yes; but he also encouraged him, traveled with him, and modeled for him what it meant to lead from integrity. Mentorship is a relationship, not a classroom. And relationships are built over time. If we want to help people grow, we have to stay. Stay long enough to see the progress. Stay long enough to guide the wrestle. Stay long enough to be the example of what steady, stable, mature faith actually looks like.

Now let me tell you about myself for a minute. I used to believe that maturity was about speed. I thought if someone was learning fast, quoting Scripture, showing up to everything, and doing all the “right” things, then they were mature. But time showed me something different. I had to unlearn that mindset. I began to realize that maturity is not about how fast you move; it’s about the direction you stay in. God cares more about consistency than charisma. He’s looking for those who keep walking with Him, even when they don’t feel like it. Even when it’s hard. Even when no one else is watching.

(The story of Jesus told from his perspective)

I remember the dust in their hair. 

I remember their questions, their sideways glances when they didn’t understand what I said. 

I remember the way they argued; so confident, so sure they were right. 

And I didn’t flinch. 

Not once.

I chose them knowing exactly who they were. 

Young. 

Fiery. 

Incomplete. 

But I didn’t need them to be perfect. 

I needed them to be present.

Peter; always the first to speak, to act, to swing the sword. 

He carried more weight because he had more years, but even he didn’t know how to carry a heart yet. 

His love was real, but tangled in fear. 

I let it unravel at the sound of the rooster. 

Not because I was angry. 

Because he needed to see what I already knew; the strength I was building didn’t come from his willpower, it came from his surrender.

They all had their moments. 

James and John, asking for thrones on my right and left. 

Thomas, questioning again and again. 

Philip, asking Me to show him the Father. 

And when they fumbled, when they missed it, I didn’t shame them. 

I stayed.

They didn’t have to pretend around Me. 

They told Me when they didn’t understand. 

They told Me when they were jealous. 

They told Me when they were afraid. 

That’s how I knew it was working. 

Not because they never got it wrong, but because they trusted Me enough to be real.

That trust; that honesty; that was the soil I could grow something in.

I wasn’t worried about their mistakes. 

I was never expecting perfection. 

What I saw was the seed. 

I saw the blade, the ear, the full grain in the ear. 

I saw shepherds, apostles, healers, preachers; not in their current behavior, but in their future form. 

And I spoke to that.

I held their feet to the fire, yes. 

But I never crushed their spirit. 

I told them truth wrapped in presence. 

I asked questions that pulled their hearts to the surface. 

I saw their weakness, and I didn’t run. 

I stayed long enough for love to do its work.

Even when they misunderstood My parables… even when they fell asleep in the garden… even when they scattered at the cross; I didn’t revoke My call. 

I had already factored in their process. 

My covenant with them wasn’t fragile.

And what grew in that place of safety; oh, it was beautiful.

That’s what mentorship from wholeness looks like. 

Not trying to fix people because you’re uncomfortable with their mess. 

Not demanding harvest when they’re still in seed. 

Just presence. 

Just truth. 

Just the quiet confidence that love, over time, transforms everything it touches

Before we ever think about taking someone on a journey, we must first walk the path ourselves. This isn’t just some nice leadership idea; it’s the order of transformation. God’s ways are always intentional. He’s not looking for people who can talk the talk, quote the verses, and put on a good face. He’s looking for people who have been in the cave, faced the darkness, wrestled with truth, and come out different. That’s what Elijah had to do before he could ever think about calling Elisha to walk with him. And that’s what you and I have to do too. We must move from self-preservation to legacy, from hiding in fear to pouring into others. That’s where real mentorship begins.

Elijah’s journey from darkness to legacy wasn’t just about his story; it’s a blueprint for all of us. He went from running in fear and isolation to raising up someone else with fire and purpose. From “I’m the only one left” to “Here’s the mantle, let’s go.” But don’t miss this; it didn’t happen overnight. It happened after his cave moment. It happened after he let God meet him in his brokenness. It happened after he let go of his victim story and reconnected with truth and presence. And for many of us, this shift happens in what we often call the second half of life. Not always because of age, but because of perspective. Because we’ve gone through things. Because we’ve experienced loss, grief, or maybe a health scare. Because something woke us up.

These wake-up calls come in many forms. A divorce. The death of a loved one. A financial collapse. A moral failure. A diagnosis. Or even just a quiet, aching sense that we’ve been running on empty for far too long. But no matter what form they take, these moments pull us into a new season. They shake us out of numbness. They remind us of our mortality. They expose what’s not working. And most importantly, they give us an opportunity; a doorway to walk through into deeper healing, deeper clarity, and deeper purpose. Show me a man who has faced one of these wake-up calls, and I’ll show you a man God is preparing to use.

But here's what’s important to understand: you don’t have to lose everything to be awakened. You just have to be honest enough to notice the moments of transition. Look at your story. Where were the cracks that let the light in? Where were the moments when God was trying to grow you up, shift your mindset, or get your attention? Don’t ignore those. They are invitations. They are how God says, “Welcome to the next level.” It’s the same as when we become fathers. There’s a moment when identity shifts; when we stop living just for ourselves and realize that someone else is watching, depending, following. It’s the beginning of legacy.

And God will never let your calling grow faster than your healing. Whatever He wants to build through you, He’s first going to build in you. There’s a flow to this; Christ for you brings salvation, Christ in you brings formation, and Christ through you brings impact. But don’t skip the order. If you try to jump into Christ through you without doing the deep work of Christ in you, your leadership will always be shallow. It’ll be based on performance, not presence. It’ll be driven by ego, not grace. It won’t last.

In Jewish tradition, this kind of returning to clarity was called teshuva. It’s not just repentance in the way we often think; feeling bad or saying sorry. Teshuva is a return. A return to clarity. A return to purpose. A return to who you really are. It’s like opening your eyes after walking in fog. That’s what Elijah experienced. The fog of despair, the fog of lies, the fog of fear; it all had to be cleared out so he could see again. And only then was he ready to lead. Only then could he give the mantle to Elisha.

There’s a reason Jesus withdrew before He poured out. There’s a reason He went up to the mountain to pray before He ever chose the twelve. There’s a reason He slipped away early in the morning or late at night to be alone with the Father. It wasn’t avoidance. It wasn’t laziness. It was an alignment. Jesus was getting His cup filled; because He knew that ministry was never meant to come from emptiness. It only works from overflow. Jesus led from a place of identity, not insecurity. He poured out from fullness, not need. He was a spring, not a sponge. That’s the kind of leadership we’re called to walk in; not because we’re Jesus, but because we follow His pattern. And His pattern shows us that you must be full before you flow.

Now the opposite of that is what most of us have seen. It’s the leader who keeps giving, even though they’re running on fumes. It’s the dad who keeps trying to show up for everyone, but is disconnected from his own heart. It’s the pastor who preaches fire but secretly feels dry and empty. And at some point, that way of living catches up. It shows up in burnout, in breakdowns, in broken relationships. Because you cannot help the poor if you are poor yourself. You can’t lead someone into joy if you don’t have it. You can’t guide someone toward healing if you’re still bleeding in silence. All you’ll be able to offer is advice. And advice without healing is just noise.

When Jesus filled His cup, He wasn’t just doing a religious routine. He was receiving love. He was being reminded of who He was. He was connecting to the Father in a way that grounded His emotions, gave Him clarity, and restored His strength. That’s why when He walked back into the crowd, He didn’t come in drained; He came in with peace. He wasn’t reactive, performative, or controlling. He was rooted. And when He gave, it wasn’t out of obligation. It was out of overflow.

And here’s what’s beautiful about how Jesus led; He felt. He wasn’t afraid to be human. He wasn’t ashamed of emotions. If He was angry, He showed it. If He was sad, He showed it. If He was in grief or mourning, He didn’t hide it. He wept. He groaned. He revealed His heart. There was no pretending in Him. And yet, He never led from pride. Every correction, every confrontation, every word of truth; it came from deep compassion. Even His hardest words to the Pharisees came from sorrow, not superiority. He longed for them to turn. He wasn’t trying to crush them; He was trying to wake them up. That’s the kind of emotional integrity most of us have never seen in leadership. And it’s what we need to model.

Jesus led not from position, but from presence. His authority didn’t come from a title. It came from alignment with the Father. He didn’t need to prove anything. He didn’t use His power to control. He served. He washed feet. He slowed down to look people in the eye. His leadership flowed from a heart that was full and connected. And this is the only place that’s safe to lead from. If your heart is empty, everything becomes about effort. About maintaining appearances. About managing people. But when your heart is full, leadership becomes about offering what you’ve received.

Now let’s go back to Elijah, because his story shows us exactly what it looks like to try and lead from exhaustion. Elijah had just experienced one of the most incredible moves of God; calling down fire from heaven in front of the prophets of Baal. The victory was massive. The moment was unforgettable. But the emotional crash after that kind of spiritual high was real. Elijah ran into the wilderness. Not to celebrate, but to hide. He was overwhelmed. Burned out. He felt completely alone. And when he said, “I’m the only one left,” what he really meant was, “I feel abandoned, exhausted, and afraid.” That’s the voice of a man who’s empty. And if you’ve ever led while feeling that way, you know how dangerous it is.

There’s something deeply powerful about a man who has done his inner work. Not just a man who has knowledge, not just one who has a title, but a man who has actually faced himself and let God touch the hidden places. This is the kind of man others will follow. Not because he demands authority, but because he carries it. Not because he tells people what to do, but because he’s actually lived what he’s teaching. And that’s the whole point of this journey into mentorship; you can’t lead from a place of pretending. You have to lead from a place of wholeness. A place where healing has already begun. A place where you’ve stopped hiding.

Now, the truth is, some leaders today aren’t untrained; they’re unhealed. And this is far more dangerous than we realize. Because when a leader doesn’t do the inner work, their pain becomes part of the culture. Their brokenness gets duplicated. I’ve seen this happen in toxic movements and church systems where a leader has an unhealed wound; maybe it’s bitterness, judgment, shame, or insecurity; and without even realizing it, everyone around them starts sounding just like them. Their offense becomes the team’s offense. Their pride becomes the team’s language. That’s not leadership. That's a spiritual infection. That’s why inner healing isn’t optional for mentors; it’s foundational.

And this brings us to two very different views of leadership. One says leadership is about control, authority, and barking orders. It’s top-down. It’s built on a title. You salute the rank, not the person. This model might work in the military, but when it comes to healing, relationships, and transformation; it fails. Because people don’t heal through control. They heal through connection. The other model, which I believe reflects the way of Jesus, is not top-down at all. Imagine taking that leadership pyramid and laying it flat. Now the leader isn’t above; he’s in front. He’s walking the path. He’s a few steps ahead, and because of that, he’s able to guide others forward. Not from a place of dominance, but from a place of experience. And experience matters.

To lead someone means you’re not standing still. You’re moving. You’re growing. You’re walking the path. And if you’re walking the path, it means you’ve had to internalize the message you want others to hear. You’ve had to experience the transformation you want others to have. This is why we say the mentor always goes first. That’s why they’re called a leader; because they’re ahead. Not better. Not more valuable. But ahead. That means if you’re in the same place as someone else, you’re a peer. And that’s fine; peer relationships are valuable. But what we’re talking about here is mobilizing the mature to mentor. That’s different. That’s calling people who have healed to now help others heal. That’s the path.

Now let’s be honest; knowing more doesn’t make you a good mentor. Becoming more does. Reading books won’t replace actually doing the work. Being able to explain theology won’t replace living in healing. If you’re trying to lead others into freedom that you haven’t yet received, you’ll end up frustrated. And so will they. Because something won’t feel right. Something will be missing. And that something is truth. It’s integrity. It’s the authority that only comes from living what you say.

So how does this affect your relationship with God and others? Well, if you try to lead from logic alone; teaching only from your head, not your heart; you’ll feel disconnected from God. You’ll talk about healing, but not experience it. You’ll study transformation, but not walk in it. And eventually, you’ll get tired. You’ll get burned out. Because you can only fake it for so long. That’s why Jesus warned about the blind leading the blind. He wasn’t talking about ignorance; He was talking about people trying to lead others without healing themselves. And when that happens, both fall into a ditch.