Have you ever felt like something essential is missing from your walk with Christ?
I have. For years, I believed in God. I prayed. I showed up on Sundays. I led ministries, read my Bible, and checked every box a good Christian is supposed to check. But there was a gap — a canyon, really — between what I read about in Scripture and what I actually experienced in my daily life. The early church had fire. I had routine. They had power. I had a schedule.
I treated God like a good luck charm. He was in my back pocket, available for emergencies, but not directing my steps. I prayed when things got hard. I praised when things went well. But in between? I ran my own life. My own plans. My own strength.
And it left me exhausted, frustrated, and spiritually anemic.
The Problem: Powerless Christianity
Here's the question that haunts me still: Am I walking with God, or am I just walking near Him?
There's a difference. One is a relationship. The other is proximity. You can sit in a garage your whole life and never become a car. You can sit in a church your whole life and never walk in the power of the Spirit.
Jesus didn't say, "Believe in me and carry on." He said, "Follow me" (Matthew 4:22). That's a different kind of life. It's a life where you wake up and ask, "Where are You leading today?" instead of "What do I want today?"
Too many of us have domesticated the Holy Spirit. We've turned the third Person of the Trinity — fully God, co-equal with the Father and the Son — into a religious feeling. A warm sensation during worship. A nudge we acknowledge and then ignore.
But Scripture tells us something radically different. The Holy Spirit is a Person. He has a mind, emotions, and will. You can grieve Him (Ephesians 4:30). You can lie to Him (Acts 5:3-4). You can quench Him (1 Thessalonians 5:19). You don't grieve a force. You grieve a person who loves you.
The Spirit Who Moved First
The Holy Spirit didn't wait for me to grow up before He started working. He was moving in me at eight years old, sitting on a wobbly metal chair in a Sunday School room that smelled of old hymnals and crayons. My teacher was explaining a verse, and something didn't sit right. The text said one thing; she said another. With the boldness only an eight-year-old can muster, I raised my hand and said so.
She didn't take it well. But even as my face burned with embarrassment, the Spirit's presence didn't shrink back. It grew. That nudge became a whisper: I'm teaching you something. Stay close.
That moment changed my family's trajectory. My parents moved us to a new church, and it was there — during Vacation Bible School — that I gave my life to Christ. The peace that washed over me was the Holy Spirit taking up residence, making me His temple (1 Corinthians 6:19).
Two years later, I watched a bigger kid pin a classmate against a wall while everyone else watched. Something rose up in me — not my own courage, because I was terrified. The Spirit pushed me forward. I stepped between them and took the hit meant for someone else.
That's the Spirit's work. He doesn't wait until we're ready. He moves in children, in teenagers, in people who feel completely inadequate. "You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you" (Acts 1:8). Not competence. Not confidence. Power. And it doesn't require a seminary degree — just a willing heart.
The Hardest Truth: Surrender
I was a ministry leader at Campbell University. I helped run Bible studies, organized outreach events, and was known on campus as one of "those Christian guys." People looked up to me.
And I was addicted to pornography.
The gap between who I was publicly and who I was privately was eating me alive. By day, I'd open my Bible and teach about holiness. By night, I'd open my laptop and destroy it. The Spirit's conviction was relentless — not cruel, but persistent. He sent dreams that shook me. He stirred a restlessness that no amount of religious activity could quiet.
But shame held me captive. I was supposed to be the strong one.
Then a friend named Ginger asked me a simple question: "Joshua, why don't you just accept the forgiveness Jesus already gave you?"
She didn't know about the pornography. She was responding to the weight she could see I was carrying. But those words broke something open. I realized the truth: I believed Jesus could save everyone else. I just didn't believe He'd save me — not from something this ugly.
That night, I surrendered. Not a polished prayer. A messy, tearful confession in my dorm room. "I can't beat this. I can't hide it anymore. I believe You died for this sin too. So take it."
Freedom didn't come all at once. But it came. The Spirit who had been convicting me was the same Spirit who met me in my confession with grace I didn't deserve and strength I didn't have (1 John 1:9).
Conviction vs. Condemnation
One of the most important things I've learned is the difference between the Spirit's conviction and the enemy's condemnation. They sound similar but lead in opposite directions.
Condemnation says: You're worthless. Stay in the dark. Hide. Nobody would want you if they knew.
Conviction says: You're better than this. Come back. Come into the light. Your Father is welcoming you home.
The Spirit is like God's GPS — rerouting us after every wrong turn, always pointing us back to Jesus. His kindness leads to repentance (Romans 2:4). Not our improvement. His kindness.
Easter Sunday taught me this viscerally. The morning was chaos — kids scrambling, me snapping at Jen in that cold, sharp tone that cuts deeper than shouting. No love, no patience, no kindness — none of the fruit the Spirit produces (Galatians 5:22-23). I was running the show, and the show was ugly.
Then the conviction came: You just wounded your wife. On Easter morning. Is this who you want to be?
I pulled Jen aside before we left. "I'm sorry. That was wrong." She forgave me. And the Spirit restored what my flesh had broken.
What Surrender Actually Looks Like
Surrender is the word most Christians avoid. It sounds like losing. But in the Kingdom of God, surrender isn't defeat — it's victory.
Jesus showed us this in Gethsemane. The Son of God — who could have called down legions of angels — chose surrender. "Not my will, but yours, be done" (Luke 22:42). And that surrender saved the world.
Here's what I've learned: surrender isn't a one-time event. It's a daily posture. Every morning, I ask myself two questions — the same two questions Summit Church asks at every baptism:
1. Do I believe that Jesus has done everything necessary to save me?
2. Will I go wherever He tells me to go and do whatever He tells me to do?
Some days the answer comes easily. Other days, I white-knuckle my way to "yes." But the daily asking keeps me oriented. It keeps God before me. It keeps the Spirit in the driver's seat.
Psalm 16:8 says, "I have set the Lord always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken." That word "set" is intentional. It's a choice. Not a feeling. Not an accident. A daily, deliberate decision to put God first — before your plans, your fears, your comfort. When you do that, the Spirit has room to move. When you don't, you're running on fumes.
The Invitation
The Holy Spirit didn't move into you to make you comfortable. He moved in to make you alive. He moved in to send you on mission. Most of us relate to the Spirit like a flight attendant — someone whose job is to make our lives pleasant. Actually, He's the pilot, and He's taking us somewhere we wouldn't choose on our own.
So here's my invitation: Stop settling for powerless Christianity. Stop treating the Spirit as a backup plan — available when you're desperate, irrelevant when things are fine.
The Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead lives inside you (Romans 8:11). Read that again. The same power that conquered death is available to you right now — in your marriage, in your parenting, in your workplace, in your darkest struggle.
You don't need more information. You need more surrender.
Set God before you. Follow Jesus. Walk in the Spirit.