There’s a quiet ache most of us carry. Not loud. Not dramatic.
But persistent. It shows up in small moments…When someone doesn’t text back.
When a conversation feels slightly off.

When you walk away wondering, “Are we good?” It’s subtle—but it’s powerful. It’s the ache of wanting to be loved and the fear that the love we have could disappear. The reason is—most of the love we experience in this world feels… conditional.

A parent only shows pride when a child achieves (grades, sports, behavior)  Friends who are present when life is fun, but disappear when things get hard. Feeling valued only when you’re productive or successful. A spouse or partner withholding emotional closeness after conflict, instead of working through it. 

“I affirm you… as long as we agree.” “I celebrate you… as long as you don’t disrupt things.”

No one has to say it out loud. You just feel it. You feel it in your job. You feel it in friendships. You feel it on social media. Unfortunately… sometimes even in church. And slowly, something begins to form in us. A low-grade anxiety. A subtle striving. A quiet voice that says: “If I’m not enough… I might be left.”

So we adjust. We perform. We manage perception. We shape-shift depending on the room.  Not because we’re fake…but because we’re trying to be loved.

We live in a culture built on performance and perception and we are formed by this.  Likes. Followers. Reviews. Metrics. You are constantly being evaluated. And here’s what that does to the soul: It teaches you that your worth is earned… and fragile.

The sociologist Charles Taylor talks about the “buffered self”—Taylor’s point isn’t just philosophical—it’s deeply human. A person who looks secure on the outside, but underneath is deeply anxious about identity. Because if your identity is built on approval…then your life will be controlled by the fear of losing it. 

You start reading into everything. “Did they mean that?” “Why did they say it like that?” “Are they pulling away?”

And you become emotionally exhausted—because your soul has no anchor.

In Romans 12, “surrender” isn’t just about giving something up—it’s about offering your whole life to God in a deliberate, ongoing way.

Paul writes about presenting your body as a “living sacrifice.” That phrase helps explain what surrender means. Unlike sacrifices in the Old Testament that were killed, this is continuous. You’re choosing daily to dedicate your actions, choices, and priorities to God.

Then in Romans 12:2, surrender is described as being “transformed by the renewing of your mind.” Not simply following cultural norms, but aligning with God’s will and growing into discernment—learning what is good and right over time.

To “surrender” is to entrust your life and direction to God and let that reshape how you live from the inside out.

We live in what sociologists call a therapeutic age. Everything is about healing now: healing your trauma and healing your inner child, and healing your anxiety and healing your story. 

And listen—some of that is good. There’s been a long season where people ignored pain, suppressed emotion, and called it “strength.” But now the pendulum has swung. We are more self-aware than ever before…and yet somehow…we are not more whole.

We are a culture trying to heal itself. OUR SOCIETY IS GOOD AT DIAGNOISING US…and then prescribing something but…IT ISN’T WORKING…we are trying to treat symptoms…but missing the source? Jesus and His church is the ONLY hope for humanity.

WHY IS JESUS OUR ONLY HOPE?

There’s something strange about Jesus. Not just who He was…But what has happened since. Because most movements fade. Most leaders—no matter how influential— eventually become footnotes in history books.

But not Jesus. 

Two thousand years later…He is still talked about. Still debated. Still loved. Still rejected. Still followed. His name shows up everywhere. In conversations about justice. In debates about ethics. In art, music, film. Even in criticism… He’s still the reference point.

You can ignore a lot of figures in history.

Jesus once asked His disciples:

“Who do people say that I am?” — Matthew 16:13

And then more personally:

“But who do you say that I am?” — Matthew 16:15

That question hasn’t gone away. It’s still being asked.

Right now. But it is surprisingly difficult… to ignore Jesus.

There’s something strange about Jesus. Not just who He was…but what has happened since. Because most movements fade. Most leaders—no matter how influential— eventually become footnotes in history books.

But not Jesus. Two thousand years later…He is still talked about.

Still debated. Still loved. Still rejected. Still followed.

His name shows up everywhere. In conversations about justice. In debates about ethics. In art, music, and film. Even in criticism… He’s still the reference point.

You can ignore a lot of figures in history.

Jesus once asked His disciples:

“Who do people say that I am?” — Matthew 16:13

And then more personally:

“But who do you say that I am?” — Matthew 16:15

That question hasn’t gone away. It’s still being asked.

Right now. But it is surprisingly difficult… to ignore Jesus.

Luke 19:28–40

They welcomed Him as King…
but only the kind of King they were comfortable with.
And when He refused to become who they wanted,
they turned on Him.

Most of us—if we’re honest—have a quiet assumption about how God should show up. We don’t always say it out loud. But it’s there. We assume that if God is real…if Jesus is King…then He should come powerfully, even unmistakably.

He should fix things quickly. He should remove the obstacles. He should answer the prayer in the way that makes the most sense.

We expect God to come as a solution.

But Luke 19, Jesus finally arrives as King…He comes in a way no one expected.

One of the strange realities of being human is that we carry things inside of us that no one else can see.

We carry memories. We carry wounds. We carry words that were spoken over us years ago that still echo in the quiet places of our souls. Someone betrayed us. Someone lied. Someone abandoned us. Someone hurt someone we love.

At first, it feels justified. Of course, I'm angry. Of course, I'm hurt. Of course, I can't let this go. But over time, something begins to change inside us. What started as pain slowly becomes resentment.

Resentment becomes hardness. And hardness becomes bitterness. And bitterness is one of the most destructive forces in the human soul.

“See to it that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many.” (Hebrews 12:15)

Notice the language: A root. Bitterness rarely shows up suddenly. It grows slowly underground. Quietly. Silently. Until one day it shapes everything. It becomes the lens through which you see the whole world.  Your thoughts. Your relationships. Your view of people. Even your view of God.

And the tragedy is this: most people think unforgiveness punishes the person who hurt them. But in reality, unforgiveness slowly poisons the one who carries it.

In the Christian tradition, remembering death (memento mori) was never about morbidity. It was about clarity. St. Benedict told his monks to “keep death daily before your eyes” not to darken their days, but to brighten them—to strip away illusion, procrastination, trivial pursuits.

A daily reminder: Don’t waste your life. When you remember that your days are numbered, certain things lose their power. Petty resentments. Performative success. The endless chase for relevance. You stop asking, “How do I look?” and start asking “Who am I becoming?” This is precisely why our culture prizes and worships being young.

Youth feels like infinity. Youth whispers the lie that there is always more time—more time to repent, more time to reconcile, more time to love deeply, more time to tell the truth, more time to give yourself away. So we spend enormous energy denying aging, hiding death, and sanitizing loss. We airbrush wrinkles, euphemize funerals, and treat mortality as a malfunction instead of a teacher. But Christianity insists on the opposite: death is a tutor.

Not because it is good—but because it is honest. It tells the truth about limits. And limits, paradoxically, are what make love urgent and obedience meaningful. You cannot follow Jesus casually when you remember that you will die. You cannot drift when the end is in view.

Elizabeth Kübler-Ross said:

“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss—and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people don’t just happen.”

Beautiful people don’t just happen. They are formed.

And most of us, if we’re honest, want to be that kind of people—the kind who ends well. People who go the distance. People marked by what Eugene Peterson called “a long obedience in the same direction.”

I don’t know anyone excited about moral failure. Or burnout. Or quietly sputtering out into cynicism or despair. And the tragic truth is this: If the ending is bad, people rarely remember the beginning. You can do years—decades of good, faithful, beautiful work. But if you never find your way out of the depths, it can all be eclipsed.

So the question before us is Do you want to hear Jesus say, 'Well done”

We don’t choose—at least most of us—to wait.
Think about it: if you had the option to choose when you could be healed—now or a year from now—no one would choose later, thinking, God could work something beautiful in me through the waiting.

We are a people who want quick results. Fast progress. Same-day shipping. Immediate feedback. Instant notifications.

We measure success by how quickly things grow, how fast things change, how efficiently we can move from A to B to C to D—and on and on.

Advent is strange.

Because the kingdom of God—the actual rule and reign of Jesus—moves at a completely different pace. God’s kingdom, God’s pace, is slow. Not sluggish. Not passive.

Slow like growth.Slow like seasons.Slow like love—quietly, softly, unfolding over time.