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I watched a K-drama called Melo Movie. As expected, it was moving and romantic, the kind of show that makes you want to text someone you shouldn’t. The relationship between Ko Gyeom, the awkward but sincere actor, and Kim Mu-bee, the guarded yet emotionally intelligent director, was full of subtle tension.

In one scene, after a period of reconnection, Mu-bee tells Gyeom they shouldn’t see each other anymore, not because of betrayal or cruelty, but because she simply doesn’t feel ready. He doesn’t fight her on it. They part quietly, both aching, both still affectionate, but ultimately driven by emotion, by what they did or didn’t feel. How fragile their love was. Everything hinged on feelings: grief, confusion, timing.. And once those feelings shifted, the relationship dissolved.

There was passion, yes. Longing, absolutely. But stability? Wisdom? A clear picture of what sacrificial, enduring, covenant-shaped love looks like? Nowhere in sight. Of course, you wouldn’t expect that in any of the TV shows. But the show made me think about how much my idea of relationships can be shaped by such stories. And the more I watch them on reels or shows, the more I realise how subtly they shape the way I think about relationships, and what love is supposed to feel like. It’s easy to absorb these emotional patterns without realising it, letting such reels teach us that love is only real when it feels intense, urgent, or all-consuming. But Scripture offers a better word, one that calls for patience, discernment, and timing.

“Do not arouse or awaken love until it pleases.” (Song of Solomon 8:4)

That’s not just a warning, it’s wisdom. Because love, when stirred too soon or for the wrong reasons, can leave us chasing shadows instead of substance.

A Worldly List or a Godly One?

We all singles carry around a mental “list” of what we’re looking for in a partner. If you were to write down the top five qualities you’re looking for in someone, what would make the cut? Beautiful? Attractive? Funny? Emotionally intelligent? Driven? God-fearing? Wait, is that last one on your list, or just something you assume is there?

I wonder how many of us filter that list through 1 Corinthians 13 to measure attraction and compatibility. I mean, let’s be honest: “patient and kind” isn’t as exciting as “charming and flirty.” “Keeps no record of wrongs” doesn’t trend like “makes me laugh for hours.” “Not irritable or resentful” isn’t as thrilling as “we just have this chemistry.”

When was the last time you heard someone say, “I don’t know, I’m just so drawn to how this person doesn’t insist on their own way”? Or, “Honestly, I can’t stop thinking about how they keep no record of wrongs”?

Sounds absurd, right? That’s because the world has trained us to feel love first and discern later (if at all). But what if real, lasting attraction isn’t about how someone makes you feel, but how someone reflects Christ?

Attraction with Discernment

God is not against Romance, Physical Desire, or Emotional connection, all good things created by Him. John Owen beautifully reminds us in “Communion with God” (and I paraphrase):

“The Father’s love which is from Eternity, is not just an act of will; but it is full of delight and felt affection.”

In the same way, our love, though grounded in commitment, is meant to be warmed by genuine emotion over time. But because we are still sinful and our hearts are prone to wander, we cannot fully trust our feelings. Feelings are real, but they are not reliable to be the foundation of our decisions. That is why the “spark” can sometimes lead us into relationships where character is lacking, but the ‘chemistry’ is strong. And in the absence of godly wisdom, we confuse intensity for intimacy.

It is not just about how much you laugh together or how often you text “I miss you.” It’s about how much you sharpen one another in the Lord. It’s about being attracted to fruit, not just features.

“…but let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the imperishable quality of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is precious in the sight of God.” (1 Peter 3:4 NASB1995)

That is the kind of beauty God treasures and the kind we should learn to value, too. Not just outward charm or emotional connection, but a heart being formed by Christ. That means your “list” should be shaped by what delights God’s heart more than what delights the world’s wandering eyes.

• Does this person love Jesus more than they love being loved?
• Do they speak the truth even when it’s hard?
• Are they kind when no one’s watching?
• Do they show signs of the fruit of the Spirit, or just the fruit of attention?

If we are not careful, we can fall in love with affection, not with a person. We can be so moved by how someone makes us feel that we forget to ask if we can grow in holiness with them. We confuse emotional compatibility with spiritual compatibility. Charm may attract you, but character will keep you.

Spirit Over Spark

“But I determined this for my own sake, that I would not come to you in sorrow again. For if I cause you sorrow, who then makes me glad but the one whom I made sorrowful?” (2 Corinthians 2:1–2, NASB1995)

Paul felt deep, personal affection for the Corinthian church. He wanted to see them, but love, not longing, led his actions. That’s a powerful picture for me: just because I feel something strongly doesn’t mean it’s wise or right to act on it. Real love knows when to wait. When to let go. When to pursue. When to stay. And sometimes, loving them meant choosing restraint over desire.

So if you are walking into a relationship (or like me, praying for one), be led by the Spirit, not just your senses: Be willing to ask uncomfortable questions. Be willing to walk away from a connection that feels exciting but lacks biblical substance. Because what you’re building needs more than emotional glue, it needs gospel foundations.

The Shape of Spirit-Led Love

In 1 Corinthians 13, Paul’s words don’t feel very romantic, and that’s precisely why they’re trustworthy. They weren’t written for lovers on a balcony. They were written to a messy, self-centred church, the kind of people who, like many of us, found loving others harder than they expected. And in that context, Paul lays it out:

“Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous;
love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly;
it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth;
bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”
(1 Corinthians 13:4–7, NASB1995)

This isn’t a Hallmark definition. It’s a Holy one. In other words, love is an act of the will that expresses itself in action for the good of others. It is not void of affection. It is fueled by the Spirit and filled with growing joy. A joyful decision you make every day. It’s often unglamorous, sometimes hard, but always something God gives us the strength to do. You move toward the other person, not just because of how they make you feel, but because of who God is calling you to be as you pursue them or are pursued by them. The feelings don’t lead; they follow. Real affection grows when we keep showing up, choosing to love even when it’s inconvenient, even when it costs us something.

This kind of love isn’t natural. We don’t drift into patience or stumble into sacrificial kindness. It flows from knowing who we are in Christ. When our identity is rooted in what Jesus accomplished through His death and resurrection, we’re freed to love without fear or striving. We’re not trying to earn someone’s affection; we’re loving from the security of already being fully known and loved by God. We love not to gain approval, but because we’ve already been deeply approved by God.

From Reel to Real

Hear me out.

What if the most romantic thing is someone who shows up when you’re going through hard times? Who prays for you without asking? Who listens? Who rejoices in your growth more than your looks? Who helps you see Christ more clearly, not just themselves? Who honours your boundaries, even when it’s hard? Who forgives and asks for forgiveness when it hurts? What if the most attractive person isn’t the one who just says “I love you” but shows it through kindness, faithfulness, patience, and sacrifice?

My aim is to help us step back and ask: Are we seeing love the way God does? Does my “list” reflect Christlike substance? Does it prove what the perfect will of God is? (Romans 12:2) I might ignore a steady, Christlike friendship with potential in search of something shinier, forgetting that even the most godly person won’t always feel like a highlight reel. So whenever I stumble upon those reels, I pause. Because it’s easy to conclude: If it’s not this tender, this poetic, this emotionally intense, then “sitaki”.

Maybe part of the reason some of us feel “stuck” isn’t that there are no godly people around, but that our preferences are louder than our prayers. My hope in writing this was to point us back to a Gospel-centered way of viewing all the different areas of our Christian life.

That is why I am convinced that the Christian life and the area of relationships are not two separate domains. Following Jesus doesn’t just change how we pray. It changes how we pursue relationships and reveals what we believe about the gospel. How we show affection, how we set boundaries, how we forgive, and why we commit. It reshapes the list. And ultimately, how we choose to love, the kind of love that looks like Christ.

It lifts our standards to match what God values. Because in the end, you don’t need someone who just makes you feel good. You need someone who, when the butterflies are gone, still chooses to pray with you, repent beside you, serve with you, and walk with you all the way home.

This past Lord’s day, during our congregational worship, we sang one of my favourite hymns: Be Thou My Vision. It’s a beautiful and ancient prayer for God to be our everything. Our wisdom. Our true word. Our inheritance. Our treasure.

But as I sang along, came this line “Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise”, something in me paused. My lips moved. But my heart? It hesitated. Did I really mean that?

Would I be okay if all I had was God, no affirmation, no impressive career, and no cosy lifestyle? What about the things I quietly chase: a stable future, the right house, a large happy family? Would I gladly let go of all that and still say, “That’s enough, Lord”?

When Paul says in 1 Timothy 6:8, “But if we have food and covering, with these we shall be content.”, I wonder… Do I believe him? Do I believe God?

Or have I, somewhere deep in the folds of my soul, started to believe that happiness lives just a few steps ahead, a few upgrades away?

Satan doesn’t tempt me with evil alone; he tempts me with better. A better version of me. A better plan. A better pace. A better place. He waves it before me like fruit from another tree, and I, like Eve, start to believe that God is holding out on me. But He isn’t.

The Gospel of a Better Life

I’ve noticed something in me for quite some time now. A low-grade restlessness. A subtle dissatisfaction. The “Gospel of a Better Life”, whispering to me constantly:

• You’d be more secure if you had more money.
• You’d be happier if you lived somewhere else, or with someone else, or with just a little more… everything.
• You’d finally rest if your schedule were just a little less demanding — and your bank account a little fuller.

The message isn’t loud. It’s slow and smooth. And slowly, it promises a kingdom of comfort, one where Christ might still be present, but certainly not central.

I see my peers whom I studied with or grew up with, who seem to be ahead: Married. With kids. Climbing ladders. Masters degrees. Relocated. It’s not that I want to live their life. I just want mine to feel more like it, more secure, more settled, more impressive. And slowly, almost without noticing, I start measuring God’s goodness by how much my life resembles the one I imagined, rather than how closely it clings to Him.

I may say, “Be Thou my vision,” but deep down, I often mean: “Be Thou part of my vision, right next to my ambitions, my preferences, and my Pinterest board.” But here’s the truth I’m learning, painfully and slowly: “The more I crave the life I don’t have, the more I miss the God I do.”

Demas the Drifting Dreamer

Paul wrote with heartbreak,

“For Demas, having loved this present world, has deserted me and gone to Thessalonica….” (2 Timothy 4:10, NASB 1995)

What a tragedy. Not because Demas had some scandalous fall. But because he simply wanted the comfort and affirmation the world offered. He didn’t hate God. He just loved something else more.

And I get it. It’s easy to believe that the “present world” is what we really need. To measure God’s goodness by whether our lifestyle matches our dreams. But what if our craving for a certain life, not necessarily sinful on the surface, is slowly leading us away from the God who gives life?

I’m sure Demas didn’t walk away in a day. He drifted, one desire, one compromise, one misplaced love at a time.

And the warning is clear: not everyone who starts in ministry finishes in Christ. You can be “used by God” and still be seduced by the world. You can sing, preach, serve, and still slowly bow at the altar of worldly comfort.

Broken Cisterns

God’s words through the prophet Jeremiah hit a little too close:

“For My people have committed two evils: They have forsaken Me, The fountain of living waters, To hew for themselves cisterns, Broken cisterns That can hold no water.” (Jeremiah 2:13, NASB 1995)

That’s what I’ve been placing my hope in. Desiring to build a life that would satisfy, more financial security, more ease, while slowly forsaking the only fountain that could truly quench my thirst. The more we add, the emptier it feels. This is what lifestyle idolatry is: trading a spring for a hole in the ground.

We don’t always reject God loudly. Sometimes, we just quietly reach for something else. A better salary. A different house. A more impressive life. And slowly, we start drinking from wells that can’t hold water.

It feels harmless, even wise. But while we chase a lifestyle, we lose intimacy. We forfeit the fountain for a fantasy. And our souls stay thirsty. Because no matter how beautiful the cistern looks, it still leaks.

Not that these things are bad in themselves. There is such a thing as godly ambition, something I’m still learning to understand. But when we pursue them as our ultimate source of comfort and satisfaction, it becomes dangerous, even fatal, to our faith.

The Fountain of All Good

When the hymn says, “Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart,” it’s not asking God to be one good thing among many. It’s a cry for Him to be everything. How can God be all that?

St. Anselm of Canterbury (1033–1109), that great theologian, offers a helpful lens. He once asked: What makes all good things good? We enjoy so many kinds of good: comfort, beauty, friendship, rest, but Anselm pointed out that these things aren’t good by themselves. Their goodness must come from some ultimate Good. That Good, he said, is God Himself, the source behind every lesser joy.

“I said to the LORD, ‘You are my Lord; I have no good besides You.’” (Psalm 16:2, NASB 1995)

That’s the truth I often forget. The things I chase are only good if they lead me to Him. And if I have Him, I lack nothing of real worth.

A Better Promise

Hebrews offers us a better word:

“Make sure that your character is free from the love of money, being content with what you have; for he himself has said, ‘I will never desert you, nor will I ever forsake you,’ So that we confidently say, ‘The Lord is my helper, I will not be afraid. What will man do to me?” (Hebrews 13:5–6, NASB1995)

There it is. Not just a call to reject greed or ambition, but a call to rest. To remember who we have. Because:

“The secret to contentment isn’t having less desire, it’s having a better object of desire.”

The world whispers, “You need more.” Jesus says, “You need Me.”

“Jesus answered and said to her, ‘Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again; but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him shall never thirst” (John 4:13–14, NASB1995)

Jesus doesn’t shame us for our thirst. He offers Himself to satisfy it. But it means surrendering our false wells, the shallow comforts we drink from in hopes they’ll finally be enough.

That line from Be Thou My Vision still lingers in my soul: “Riches I heed not.”

What if I could truly say that? Not because I’ve stopped working or dreaming or planning wisely. But because the pressure to build a life that proves I’m okay has been lifted. Because Jesus has already promised to be everything I need, in abundance or in lack, in recognition or obscurity, in luxury or simplicity.

Riches I heed not

The problem isn’t the desire for comfort. It’s believing that comfort is where life is found. God doesn’t call us to hate good gifts; He calls us to love the Giver more. To stop mistaking them for the Giver. To live loosely with earthly things. To sit with food and clothing and say, “With these, and with Christ, I have enough.”

But I’ve often desired a mirage, the life I thought I needed. One with just a bit more ease and convenience. A little more recognition. A few more affirming voices. The “right” environment, the “right” lifestyle, the “right” look.

And we’ve quietly baptised those longings. We call them Ambition. Vision. Drive. Desire for excellence. Wisdom. Sometimes they are. At times, they’re just disguised discontent.

I don’t want to be like Demas. I don’t want to trade the Living Water for sparkling mirages. I want to want the life God has already given me, not the one I think would finally make me happy. I want to sing every line of that hymn with honesty. And if I can’t yet, I want to ask God to change me until I can.

So if you find yourself like me, hesitating to sing to our Good and Loving God such words from the heart, exhausted by the hunger for a better life, let this be your wake-up call, as is mine. Not because you feel ashamed, but because there’s something better waiting: Christ Himself. The life we truly need isn’t somewhere out there. It’s here, in Christ Himself. And He is enough.

Three years ago today, I stood before my local church, heart racing, eyes brimming, voice trembling with joy, to share how God had rescued me from the kingdom of darkness and brought me into the kingdom of His beloved Son (Colossians 1:13). I remember reading my testimony aloud to the congregation. If Paul was the chief of sinners, I was surely his apprentice. The grace I spoke of had undone me, rebuilt me, and carried me to that moment.

Then came the water. Warm, embracing, unforgettable. I was lowered into it. Then raised. Washed. Welcomed. The act was physical, yes, but its meaning ran far deeper.

I don’t want to forget that day. More than that, I shouldn’t. Not because it was emotional, but because baptism is one of the clearest, most embodied declarations of what God has done for us in Christ, and who we are now in Him.

That’s exactly what Paul reminds us of in Romans 6. Baptism did not cause these spiritual realities, but it was a God-given sign that pointed to them, a visible sermon of what had already been done in my heart by faith.

Don’t You Know?

In Romans 6, Paul asks a question that we may answer too quickly:

“Or do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus have been baptized into His death?” (Romans 6:3, NASB 1995)

He doesn’t say some of us, or the really spiritual among us, it’s all of us. Baptism is not just a public profession of faith, though it certainly is that, but a picture of a deeper reality: union with the crucified and risen Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

We went down into the water as a picture of dying with Christ. And we rose from it as a picture of the new life we already have in Him. Baptism doesn’t save us, but it powerfully points to the spiritual reality of our union with Christ — a reality with eternal consequences.

Paul continues:

“Therefore, we have been buried with Him through baptism into death, so that as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.” (Romans 6:4, NASB 1995).

That “so that” is everything. Baptism is not a finish line; it’s a beginning. And remembering it re-roots us in the reality of who we are and why we live differently now.

Why Remember?

1. We Fight Sin with Resurrection Power

Paul makes a clear application of what baptism points to:

“Even so consider yourselves to be dead to sin, but alive to God in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 6:11, NASB 1995).

That’s identity talk. I don’t fight sin by trying harder alone. I fight it by remembering who I am: crucified with Christ, buried with Christ, raised with Christ. That old self that was licentious, immoral, lustful, self-righteous, proud and selfish was nailed to the cross. Buried with Him. Gone. And the new self, raised with Him by grace through faith. New. Free. Alive.

Our Baptism powerfully portrays it. It gives shape to the spiritual reality: that sin no longer defines us, and we no longer belong to it.

When temptation strikes, I don’t ask, “What should I do?” I ask, “Who am I?” When guilt whispers, “You’re still the same,” I remember:

“I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself up for me.” (Galatians 2:20, NASB 1995).

When temptation lures me to live like I belong to my old self, I look back, not to the water itself, but to what it signified. I remember: I’ve already died. And now I live in Him.

Baptism reminds us: I am not who I once was. I’m united with Christ.

2. We Anchor Our Assurance in God’s Work

Baptism is a moment we can look back on because it was a God-given sign that we belong to Jesus. It doesn’t point to our strength, resolve, or feelings in the moment, but to what God accomplished through the life, death, and resurrection of His Son.

So I am not who I was. And neither are you, if you are in Christ. You may falter. You may stumble. You may forget. But God doesn’t. He finishes what He starts. He holds what He claims. He completes what He cleanses.

“For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus..” (Philippians 1:6, NASB 1995).

When we’re plagued by doubt, we remember: I have been united with Christ. I didn’t save myself. I didn’t raise myself. I was plunged into his grace. And I came out bearing his name.

If you haven’t yet been baptised as a believer, don’t despair; the realities of union with Christ are yours through faith. But don’t delay either: baptism is Christ’s invitation to make this gospel visible. Obey him, and let the water preach to you.

3. We Suffer with Hope

Union with Christ doesn’t just mean sharing in his resurrection; it means sharing in his death, and all the sufferings that led there.

“For if we have become united with Him in the likeness of His death, certainly we shall also be in the likeness of His resurrection” (Romans 6:5, NASB 1995)

That means our suffering is not meaningless. When I walk through grief, loss, unmet expectations, physical pain, anxiety, and depression, I am walking the path Christ walked. Down into death, yes. But always with a promise: resurrection is coming. Suffering doesn’t get the final word; Jesus does.

The J-curve of the Christian life, i.e suffering now, glory later, is not a detour. It’s the pattern of Christ. And baptism reminds us of how we were first drafted into that story.

4. We Remember We’re Not Alone

Baptism is deeply personal, but it’s never private. Three years ago today, I didn’t stand alone. I was surrounded by a community of saints. A new family in Christ. They bore witness to the miracle of grace unfolding in my life.

Paul reminds us in Ephesians 4:5 that there is “one Lord, one faith, one baptism.” That means we’re part of one body. Every member of your local church has walked through that same water. Every baptism we witness is a reminder: we’re not walking this path alone.

In those moments, we remember our own story, and we’re renewed in our shared calling to walk this new life together, shoulder to shoulder, day by day.

Remember Who You Are

We are a forgetful people. At least, I know I am. And in the Christian life, forgetfulness is no small matter. When we don’t often remember our baptism, we risk losing sight of the gospel it declares. We lose sight of who we are, what Christ has done, and why it still matters today. Baptism is not just something that happened to us; it’s something God gave us to remember. A reminder of our identity. A reminder of how our story was permanently united with Christ

The water doesn’t unite us to him, faith does (Ephesians 2:8). But God, in his kindness, gave us baptism as a physical reminder of a spiritual reality: that we have died and risen with Christ.

That water wasn’t magic (though it was warm). But it told the truth: our old self was crucified with Christ. ‘Drowned’. Gone. And the new us rose in its place, washed, renewed, and renamed. Baptism gave shape to something I too easily forget: I am not who I was.

If you’ve been baptised by immersion upon the profession of faith, take a moment to remember. Not just the water, but the wonder. Not just the act, but the Christ it points to. That you no longer belong to darkness, but to the Light. Rehearse that truth until it reshapes how you see your Sin, your Suffering, your Christian walk, and your Saviour. Let that day keep preaching to you that you are his, and he is enough.

Today, three years later, I don’t just feel nostalgic, I feel grounded. I remember that Grace met me. Grace still holds me now. And grace will carry me home.

I still remember the pounding in my chest as I sat across from him on that Friday evening. It was time. I couldn’t keep this to myself anymore. He had not even asked. He didn’t need to. But I knew I needed help. I had tried to fight it, again and again. I prayed and resolved never to return. But the more I wanted to kill it, the more powerful it seemed to become. Guilt had wrapped itself around me so tightly that I couldn’t tell where it ended and I began. It didn’t just weigh on me, it started to define me.

So I swallowed hard, took a deep breath and then asked the question. Then he asked more questions. I began confessing a sin I had been silently battling for a few weeks… no, months. I laid it bare: detailed, unfiltered, stone after stone turned over.

But even as the words broke loose, I became painfully aware of how long it had taken me to get to that point. Why did I wait? Why did I stay silent for so long? What held me back from coming into the light sooner?

Why We Don’t Confess

Confession costs something. Not salvation, Christ already paid that price in full. But it costs our pride. I don’t know about you, but here are some excuses why I don’t often confess my sins to others:

• I’m afraid of being judged.
• I don’t want to ruin the image people have of me.
• I tell myself I can handle it on my own.
• I’m convinced it’s “not that serious.”
• I don’t want to burden others.
• I assume no one else struggles like I do.
• I think silence is safer than honesty.

These are all lies. Lies that isolate us. Lies that keep us bound. Lies that protect our pride and poison our souls.

Sin Thrives in Darkness

There’s a reason mould grows in damp, unlit corners. And there’s a reason sin thrives in secrecy. Hidden sin is not dormant sin. It breeds more sin. We often think that the battle against sin is just personal, just me and Jesus. And yes, there is intimacy in that fight. But God never intended us to fight in isolation. That’s why James says,

“Therefore, confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another so that you may be healed… “ (James 5:16, NASB1995)

He doesn’t say confess only to God (though we must), but to one another. Why? Because healing often comes through the honesty of shared weakness: Through the light of community.

The longer we hide, the harder it gets to speak. The longer we protect our image, the more enslaved we become to it. We think we’re preserving our “reputation,” when really, we’re just feeding our prison warden.

The False Saviour of Reputation

I didn’t want to confess because I wanted to be thought of as strong. Mature. Respectable. I was willing to carry my sin in secret if it meant I could still keep the image.

But what I was really doing was worshipping my reputation. I wanted to be known as godly more than I wanted to be godly. I wanted to look clean more than I wanted to be clean.

“Woe to you… for you are like whitewashed tombs which on the outside appear beautiful, but inside they are full of dead men’s bones…” (Matthew 23:27, NASB1995)

That verse hit differently when I realised I was the tomb. On the outside: service, smiles, church activity. On the inside: compromise, self-loathing, secret sin. It wasn’t until I chose honesty over image that real healing began.

Unmasking the Fear

There’s a strange relief in confession, but only on the other side. The road to that moment is lined with fear: fear of being exposed, of losing respect, of disappointing someone, of not being seen the same way again. It’s not just psychological. It’s spiritual.

Sin feeds on secrecy, on half-truths and vagueness. It survives where there is no light, no witness, no confession. And the longer we keep it hidden, the deeper its roots grow.

“For everyone who does evil hates the Light, and does not come to the Light for fear that his deeds will be exposed.” (John 3:20, NASB1995)

That verse doesn’t only describe the world out there. It names the battle in our own hearts. That day, confessing sin felt like walking into light with your eyes shut. Everything in you screams to turn back. But when the gospel has taken hold of your heart, there’s no turning back.

“But he who practices the truth comes to the Light, so that his deeds may be manifested as having been wrought in God.” (John 3:21 NASB1995)

The Confession That Frees

The brother I confessed to didn’t shame me. I braced myself for distance, for judgment. But he listened. Asked questions. He lovingly rebuked and pointed me back to the Gospel.

He reminded me of the Cross, where Our Lord Jesus Christ bore the full weight of the wrath I rightfully deserved. He reminded me that Jesus had already paid the penalty for my sin, redeeming me from slavery to both sin and Satan, and securing for me a new identity. He spoke of the steadfast love of God: that even in my failure, I was still His. My sin did not get to write the final word over my life; Christ did. Then he prayed with me.

That was it. I was undone. All the guilt, the fear, the self-protection, I felt it all start to break down by grace. It felt almost too easy. Shouldn’t I pay penance? Shouldn’t there be some consequence? But in that moment, something broke, and something better began: freedom. A freedom born not from my performance, but from Christ’s finished work.

Big Sins, Small Sins, All Sins

We may reserve confession for the “big” sins, the shocking ones. But have you ever thought that maybe people slowly drift from God, not because of scandalous rebellion, but because of unspoken bitterness, unchecked pride, secret apathy, worldliness or quiet lust. These, too, thrive in darkness. These, too, need the light of confession.

· What if the church wasn’t a place where we confessed after we overcame sin, but while we’re still in the thick of the fight?

· What if we could say, “I haven’t conquered this yet, but I need help”?

· What if your stumbling was the doorway to someone else’s freedom?

· What if your weakness was the very thing God wanted to use to grow your church family, not tear it down?

Confession is Fellowship

Christian fellowship is not built on mutual impressiveness; it’s built on mutual need. We are all sinners saved by grace. When we forget that, we start performing instead of repenting. When I opened up to that brother that day, I didn’t just receive accountability, I received fellowship. A deeper one. One not built on shared knowledge or doctrinal agreement, but on grace. On gospel-need. And that is where church becomes real, where masks fall off. Where we are no longer pretending saints, but needy sinners upheld by mercy. John says it:

“If we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another…” (1 John 1:7, NASB1995)

Confession is not just an act of honesty; it’s a path to fellowship. Light makes love possible. When I let my brother see my sin, I gave him the chance to love me in it, not just around it. And when we do this as a community: regularly, humbly, gently, we build a church that is safe for repentant sinners and strong in grace.

“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2, NASB1995)

We cannot bear one another’s burdens if we never speak of them. Some of the most powerful moments I’ve had in fellowship have been marked by tears, trembling confessions, and quiet prayers.

The Weight You Don’t Have to Carry

If you’re hiding sin right now, I get it. I still battle that temptation. But hear this: You are not too far gone. You are not too dirty. You are not the exception to grace. Don’t Wait for Rock Bottom. Don’t wait until you’re exposed, your soul is dry, and your faith is disoriented.

Start Here: Confess to God. You have an advocate with the Father whose blood speaks for you. Be honest with Him about your struggles. Tell him the truth: raw, unfiltered, uncomfortable truth. He already knows. But there is healing in the telling. Let your confession begin not in shame, but in surrender. Then:

1. Find a trustworthy, godly brother or sister: Not everyone is safe. But someone is. Look for someone spiritually mature, perhaps an older believer you already trust. Ask the Lord to lead you. Don’t choose someone who will minimise sin or gossip about it.
2. Confess clearly, not vaguely: Don’t sanitise or spiritualize. Sin loses power when named.
3. Receive grace, not guilt: You’re not working for forgiveness. Christ already worked for it.
4. Ask for prayer and accountability: Invite others into your fight, not just once, but often.
5. Repeat. Regularly: Confession isn’t a one-time act. It’s the rhythm of the Christian life.

This is what the church is for — a fellowship of light, a community of grace. A home for sinners saved by grace, learning to walk in the light of Christ.

It’s not too late. You’re just one honest confession away from enjoying the freedom Jesus already purchased for you by His own Blood.

So I encourage you and me to step into the light, not to be shamed, but to be set free. The weight is real, but so is the Saviour who already carried it for you.

If you had asked me two years ago what I believed about suffering, I might have answered with tidy theology. I might have quoted Romans 8:28, or Romans 8:18 or James 1:2. I would have spoken confidently about sanctification, refining fires, and God’s sovereign purposes.

But when suffering came knocking at my own door: uninvited, unrelenting, and disorienting, those well-rehearsed answers crumbled. Pain, especially prolonged pain, has a way of distorting our view of God. His promises can feel out of reach. His presence, veiled. And yet, strangely, it was in that very midnight, those dark, hidden, weeping hours, that I began to sense the gentle nearness of Christ.

That’s why when I first heard the song “The Sweetness of That Midnight Hour” by Joyful Noise, it felt like someone had tuned their instrument to my soul’s lament. The lyrics didn’t offer escape; they offered companionship. They named the ache and pointed to the nearness of the Man of Sorrows (Isaiah 53:3), the Shepherd who walks through the valley and does not abandon His sheep.

I want to reflect on this song for fellow sufferers. For saints learning to sing in the dark. For those who, like Paul and Silas, know what it means to lift up prayer and praise at midnight (Acts 16:25).

1. When the World Grows Still

The sweetness of that midnight hour
When all the world is still
When You draw near and gladly I
Surrender to Your will
Though no one knows, though all alone
Yet not alone, for there
You meet me in the midnight hour
With tender loving care

Midnight… It’s not just on the clock, it’s also midnight in the heart. It is the soul’s dark night (Psalm 88:6–18). It’s the moment no one sees, when we lie awake with questions, we’re afraid to voice in daylight. Here, in that vulnerable stillness, God draws near.

Not as a distant observer offering pitiful glances of ‘aki wuoishe’ (as my friend likes to put it), but as a tender Father (Psalm 34:18). In the loneliness of our suffering, we are never truly alone. And it is in the warmth of that nearness that we surrender. We surrender, not because the pain has stopped, but because the presence of Christ is enough.

“If I say, “Surely the darkness will overwhelm me, And the light around me will be night,” Even the darkness is not dark to You, And the night is as bright as the day. Darkness and light are alike to You.” (Psalm 139:11–12, NASB 1995)

He meets us in the midnight hour, not with answers always, but with Himself.

2. The Grace-Filled Wilderness

The richness of that desert place
When all around is bare
And yet the fullness of Your grace
Is all sufficient there!
The barren land with manna filled
Now Christ who reigns on high
Still meets me in the desert place
And every need supplies

The desert is a place of stripping. There is no illusion of self-sufficiency there. You look around and see only barrenness: emotionally, physically, spiritually. And yet, it is often in the wilderness that the richness of God’s grace becomes tangible. He doesn’t merely rescue us from the desert; He feeds us in it.

“Therefore, behold, I will allure her, Bring her into the wilderness, And speak kindly to her” (Hosea 2:14, NASB 1995).

In the Old Testament, God rained down manna, one day at a time, teaching His people to depend on His sufficiency (Exodus 16:4). He does the same for us in our modern deserts.

“And He has said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.’” (2 Corinthians 12:9, NASB 1995).

We long for deliverance, but He offers daily bread. We crave escape, but He gives endurance and Himself. In the wilderness, He may not remove the barrenness, but He fills it with grace.

3. When Darkness Is My Closest Friend

The brightness of that deepest night
When all is stripped away
When darkness is my closest friend
And helplessly I pray
For there though still with pain I cry
Against the velvet sky
The brightest light begins to shine
For Christ is ever mine

This verse is so raw. “When darkness is my closest friend.” The psalmist used those same words in Psalm 88:18. It’s one of the only psalms that ends without resolution. No “but God.” No victory. Just darkness. And that’s important. Because not all nights are short. Not all prayers are answered immediately.

The song insists: “The brightest light begins to shine.” Why? Because Christ has not left. Our circumstances may not change, but our anchor holds (Hebrews 6:19). Even when the pain remains, when the sky is velvet black, Christ is ours, and He is enough.

“Whom have I in heaven but You? And besides You, I desire nothing on earth. My flesh and my heart may fail, But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” (Psalm 73:25–26, NASB 1995).

This is not naive hope. It’s not a denial of the pain or the darkness. This is rugged faith. It’s the voice that whispers in the dark, “Christ is mine.” And that changes everything. Not because the night disappears, but because we’re not alone in it.

The Gospel in the Midnight Hour

The saints of old were rarely given quick escapes. Joseph waited in prison. David wept in caves. Paul pleaded three times for his thorn to be removed, and the answer was no. They were not promised immediate deliverance, but they were pointed to something greater: the character of God and the promise of redemption. And today, we are pointed to the same place where both converge — the Cross.

This is what makes the gospel our anchor in suffering. Jesus Christ, the Son of God, stepped into our midnight. He did not stay distant from grief — He became “a Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). He lived among us, endured betrayal, reviling, loneliness, rejection, and unspeakable pain. On the Cross, He entered the darkest night, forsaken so that we might never be.

“…and He Himself bore our sins in His body on the cross…” (1 Peter 2:24, NASB 1995)

And in His resurrection, dawn broke. The grave could not hold Him. Suffering did not write the final word. Jesus rose in power, securing eternal life, unfailing mercy, and unshakable hope for all who trust in Him. And now, oh dear saint, no suffering is wasted, no tear unseen, no midnight final.

“He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him over for us all, how will He not also with Him freely give us all things?” (Romans 8:32, NASB 1995)

The gospel is not a quick fix. It is a bloody Cross and an empty tomb. It tells us that suffering is not the end of the story. Our Saviour has conquered death. That one day, one glorious day (sigh!), Midnight will end forever.

A Song for Suffering Saints

The Sweetness of That Midnight Hour is a hymn not for the strong but for the weak. Not for those at the mountaintop, but for those in the valley. It’s for those who have prayed with cracked voices, wept into their pillows, and still dared to whisper, “I trust You.” And it offers the deeper hope that we are not walking alone.

The midnight hour is real. But so is the Man who meets us there. His name is Jesus. We sing because He has suffered with us, bled for us, risen for us, and will one day return to wipe every tear from our eyes (Revelation 21:4). We sing because the gospel tells us that our trials are light and momentary compared to the eternal weight of glory being prepared for us (2 Corinthians 4:17). We sing because we know He knows and understands our pain.

“For we do not have a high priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses… Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace…” (Hebrews 4:15–16, NASB 1995).

One of my favourite books on suffering — The Sweet Side of Suffering by M. Esther Lovejoy — is a beautiful and honest exploration of how our pain can not only hurt so badly… but it can also hurt so good.

So, if you’re there: in the desert, the silence, the sorrow; don’t stop singing. Christ is there with you.

It happened on Sunday evening after the picnic. I was sitting with a few friends, chatting about “growing spines”, when we heard loud laughters and the echo of guys on the basketball court. I leaned over to peek. One of my friends smiled and asked, “FOMO?”

I laughed it off, but something about that moment hit me. She might have just been saying it lightly, I presume, but I felt it: that slight wave of sadness, the creeping sense that I might be missing out on something better, somewhere else. That’s when I realised FOMO is not just a cultural trend, it’s a spiritual battle I’ve been quietly losing.

FOMO, meaning the “Fear of Missing Out”, doesn’t often make its way into our conversations, but it’s one of the silent spiritual battles many of us might be facing today. And it’s not just a trendy acronym from social media culture. It’s a subtle, pervasive lie that affects how we see ourselves, others, and even God.

I didn’t realise how deeply FOMO had crept into my walk with the Lord until that moment. It has not always felt like sin. It has felt like sadness, like being “on the outside.” But behind that ache was something darker, i.e. Pride, Envy, and Distrust of God’s Wisdom in how He had placed me in the body of Christ. And, the longer I have entertained FOMO, the more I have failed to love the very saints God had called me to walk with.

My Personal Fallout of FOMO

I’ll be honest, there have been seasons when FOMO has made me:

• Withdraw from the community emotionally because I felt like I didn’t belong.
• Stop listening well in conversations, distracted by the urge to be elsewhere.
• Envy others’ closeness instead of celebrating their spiritual growth.
• Wallow in self-pity, asking for every detail about a hangout I wasn’t invited to, not out of joy for others but to feed the ache of exclusion.

These weren’t minor missteps. They were failures to love. I grieved the Spirit (Ephesians 4:30). I ignored the saints beside me. I chose self-pity over sacrificial love. And perhaps worst of all, I failed to see the beautiful people God had placed right in front of me, brothers and sisters in Christ, struggling and growing just like me, longing to be heard, known, loved and encouraged.

FOMO and the Battle for Contentment in Christ

We begin at its root. FOMO is a battle over contentment. Not just contentment in our circumstances, but in God’s wisdom and goodness. Scripture says,

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” (Psalm 23:1)

But FOMO whispers, “If only I had been part of that group… if only I’d been included in that dinner, that conversation, that hangout — then I’d be fulfilled.”

In this way, FOMO becomes a subtle form of idolatry. We begin to believe that joy is found in experiences we weren’t given, relationships we weren’t invited into, or groups that seemed to grow without us. Instead of trusting the Shepherd, we scan the pastures looking for another flock that seems more satisfying.

The Lie of Scarcity in Christian Fellowship

At the heart of FOMO is a belief that there’s not enough joy to go around. Not enough wisdom. Not enough community. Not enough depth. Not enough belonging. But that’s not how the kingdom of God works.

“There are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit… the body does not consist of one member but of many.”
(1 Corinthians 12:4,14)

I’m sure the early church didn’t thrive because everyone had equal access to the same social circles or spiritual highs. It thrived because the Spirit bound together a diverse group of people who devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching, to fellowship, to the breaking of bread, and prayer (Acts 2:42).

FOMO, on the other hand, causes us to measure ourselves against others constantly, and it turns fellowship into a performance we can be left out of. But the gospel tells a different story:

“You are no longer strangers and aliens, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God.” (Ephesians 2:19)

How FOMO Distorts Our View of People

One of the most sobering realisations I’ve had is this: FOMO doesn’t just make me insecure, it makes me selfish.

It turns people into props. I evaluate them not based on how I can serve them, but based on whether I feel accepted by them. I miss the opportunity to care, to notice, to serve, because I’m too focused on what I feel left out of.

“Let no one seek his own good, but the good of his neighbor.” (1 Corinthians 10:24)

FOMO can make me walk past the lonely church member in search of the more “influential” groups or circles. It can make me not listen to what is being said or listen to a conversation only to measure whether I’m being included, rather than caring about what others are saying.

When I believe that the “real” spiritual life is happening somewhere else, I stop treasuring the people God has placed directly in front of me.

Healing the Wound of FOMO

1. Repent and Receive Grace

We need to begin by naming FOMO for what it is: a form of idolatry, unbelief and selfishness. It’s okay to grieve the loneliness or the pain of feeling overlooked or left out, but we must repent of turning inward and away from others. The good news of the gospel is that God does not meet us with shame, but with mercy, because Jesus already bore our shame.

At the cross, Christ took upon Himself the weight of our sin: our envy, pride, self-pity, and unbelief. He was forsaken, so we would never be. He died on a Roman cross to bear the punishment we deserved for these very sins and rose again so that we might be justified, fully accepted and declared righteous before God (Romans 4:25). Through faith in Him, we are united with Christ and clothed in His perfect righteousness. This means we no longer have to strive for worth or belonging. He is our belonging.

“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9)

So yes, we repent, but we also rest. In Christ, there is grace for our wandering hearts and power to be changed.

2. Look Around and Listen

Who has God placed in your immediate spiritual family? Who have you perhaps overlooked or dismissed while longing for some other “ideal” version of friendship or community?

Start here: the person next to you in the church service or bible study. That quiet member at church, or that member you only see in the directory. That brother or sister who always comes early but never gets invited out. That’s your fellowship. That’s your opportunity. Take initiative. Get to know them. Start listening. Ask questions. Don’t wait for a perfect invitation. Invite yourself and step into the relationships God has already provided for you.

3. Serve Instead of Scan

Rather than scanning the lawn for who notices you, scan the lawn for who needs care. There are always hurting, quiet, overlooked people in your church, people you might not have noticed when FOMO was in charge. Christ calls us to serve, not to be seen.

“The greatest among you shall be your servant.” (Matthew 23:11)

4. Celebrate Others’ Joy Without Comparison

When others experience deep fellowship, rejoice in it. When someone posts a photo of a wonderful hangout or gathering you missed or were not invited to, let it turn your heart to thanksgiving, not bitterness. Their joy is not your loss. Instead of thinking, “Why not me?” let your heart pray, “Thank you, Lord, for giving joy to your people.” This is not natural to the sinful flesh, but it is the fruit of the Spirit.

“Rejoice with those who rejoice.” (Romans 12:15)

This kind of rejoicing is a discipline that transforms envy into encouragement. It aligns your heart with God’s heart. God’s grace is not a limited resource.

5. Rest in God’s Placement

You are not a spiritual orphan. You have not been forgotten. You are not on the outside of God’s plan for His church. If you are in Christ, you are already loved, already included, already placed in the body just as the Spirit willed (1 Corinthians 12:18). Your life is not lesser because it is quieter. Your obedience, your small acts of faithfulness, your unnoticed acts of service are precious in the sight of God. In a world that equates value with visibility, the gospel assures us that God’s sovereign hand never places us outside the bounds of His perfect will. Your belonging is not based on visibility, but on the blood of Christ (Ephesians 2:13).

You’re Not Missing Out

FOMO will keep whispering, “You need to be somewhere else. You need to be with someone else. You need to become someone else.” But if you are in Christ, you are not left out. You are not excluded. You are not forgotten. You are seen, loved, and placed exactly where the Lord wants you in His body.

“Christ is in you, the hope of glory.” (Colossians 1:27)
“And He has given us one another.” (Romans 12:5)

This is not a mere spiritual sentiment. This is a blood-bought reality. By His death, Christ brought us near to God (Ephesians 2:13). By His resurrection, He secured our place in the family of God, not as spectators, but as sons and daughters, members of one body, made alive together with Him. You don’t have to earn your place. Jesus already did.

God has already given you all you need for life and godliness (2 Peter 1:3). That includes the people around you, the place you’re in, and the gifts you’ve been given.

He has not called you to chase every event, every conversation, or every moment of fellowship. He’s called you to be faithful where you are.

Lord, to whom shall I go?
When the weight of sorrow bends my soul to the dust,
When my tears have been my portion day and night.
Sleep flees from me, and my bed is a place of tossing,
Grief clings to me like a heavy chain.
I try to pray, but the words won’t come.
Still, I lift my eyes to You and whisper Your name.

Lord, to whom shall I go?
When I see the joy you have poured on others,
Yet sorrow is the cup you have given me to drink.
Laughter fills their mouths, but mine is shut in anguish,
And my soul wonders why my portion is bitter.
I look to You, but my prayers fall flat
Have You hidden Your face from me?

Lord, to whom shall I go?
When loneliness wraps itself around me like a cloak,
And the pit is deep, so deep I do not have the strength to climb.
I reach for your hand, but silence is my answer,
And the echoes of my cries return void
Though the night surrounds me and hope feels thin,
I will trust that even this darkness is where Your work begins.

Lord, to whom shall I go?
When the accuser whispers his lies while in the pit,
Saying you have cast me away in your wrath.
Rejection has pierced my heart like an arrow,
When Loss has yet again visited my household and made it desolate.
Though the memory of Dad’s absence stings afresh.
I rest in the arms of the One who holds my days.

Lord, to whom shall I go?
When You have brought me low and stripped me of my striving,
So I no longer chase great matters or things too high for me.
You do not offer answers, but You lead me into stillness.
Into hidden valleys where pride has no path to walk.
There, I have stilled and quieted my restless soul.
Like a weaned child with its mother, I find rest in You.

Whom have I in heaven but You?
And earth has nothing I desire besides You.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
But God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever.