The Holy Undoing
Leaving the Comforts of This World to Find What’s Eternal
There’s a sacred ache stitched into the very fabric of our souls—a relentless pull, soft but unyielding, that dares us to let go of what we’ve called security and step naked into the ache of the unknown. It’s the ache you feel in the quiet moments when the noise fades, when the lights go out, and all you’re left with is the sound of your own heartbeat pounding against the walls of a life you’re not sure fits anymore.
It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. Sometimes it feels like nothing more than a gentle unraveling, an invisible thread tugging at the hem of the life you’ve stitched together with plans and promotions and polished smiles. But the voice behind it? It’s the same voice that whispered to Abram under the blanket of a night sky:
“Go from your country, your people, and your father’s household to the land I will show you.” (Genesis 12:1)
No map. No coordinates. No carefully detailed itinerary.
Just Go.
And beneath that single word is a deeper, unspoken question—the question tucked into every holy calling:
Will you trust Me more than you trust the life you’ve built?
The Seduction of Comfort
Comfort is a clever liar. It doesn’t come with horns and red flags. It wears the face of wisdom. It sounds like “just being responsible,” like “good planning,” like “stability.” It wraps itself in 401(k)s, life insurance policies, well-framed diplomas, and Instagram-worthy moments. It seduces us with promises of safety, of control, of a future we can manage with our own two hands.
But comfort is a fragile god.
Jesus didn’t dance around the truth. He laid it bare:
“What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?” (Mark 8:36)
The danger isn’t just in what we have—it’s in what has us.
It’s in the way our hearts quietly shift, how trust migrates from the God who provides to the provision itself. How slowly, without even noticing, we start worshiping the life we’ve built instead of the God who breathed life into us to begin with.
And the more we accumulate, the more we fear losing. The more we plan, the more we grip. And the tighter we hold, the less room there is for God to move.
But belovedness doesn’t thrive in clenched fists. It flourishes in surrender.
The Discomfort of Being Called Out
When God calls us to leave, it’s not always to pack a suitcase. Sometimes the leaving is invisible. It’s not about geography—it’s about the heart.
It’s the quiet, gut-wrenching work of releasing the identities we’ve constructed: the version of ourselves polished for approval, the image curated for applause, the life we’ve built to convince ourselves—and everyone else—that we’re okay.
But God isn’t fooled by our highlight reels. He’s after our hearts.
Jesus didn’t call His disciples into a life of ease. He called them into death. Not just a death on a cross, but a thousand little deaths along the way—deaths to self-sufficiency, to reputation, to control.
“Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”(Matthew 16:24)
And let’s not romanticize this. Denying yourself feels like being torn apart. It feels like standing in the wreckage of your well-planned life with empty hands and tear-streaked cheeks, whispering, “I don’t know who I am without all this.”
But here’s the paradox: the death makes room for resurrection.
The Grace of Being Empty-Handed
There’s a strange kind of grace in emptiness. A grace that feels like grief at first.
The rich young ruler felt it when he approached Jesus, breathless with ambition. He had done everything right—kept the commandments, lived clean, checked all the spiritual boxes. But he still felt hollow. So he asked, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”
Jesus didn’t hand him a gold star. He handed him an invitation:
“Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” (Mark 10:21)
And the man walked away with a heart heavier than all his wealth combined. Not because Jesus condemned him—but because Jesus loved him enough to tell the truth.
The man wasn’t rich. He was trapped. His possessions didn’t just belong to him—he belonged to them.
And Jesus wanted him free.
This is the grace of the Gospel: Jesus loves us too much to let us stay tied to the things that will never save us. He will strip us bare, not to shame us, but to set us free.
What Are You Holding That’s Holding You Back?
So here’s the question—the one that might catch in your throat if you say it out loud:
What are you holding that’s holding you back?
Maybe it’s your plans—the ones you’ve white-knuckled into existence, afraid that if you loosen your grip, it’ll all fall apart.
Maybe it’s the need to be seen a certain way, the curated identity that feels safer than being fully known.
Maybe it’s the fear that if you stop running, stop producing, stop performing, you’ll disappear.
But what if the very things you’re clinging to are the things keeping you from the life your soul is starving for?
What if the unraveling isn’t punishment—but mercy?
My friends, you were never meant to be sustained by the comforts of this world. Your worth isn’t anchored in your net worth, your productivity, or your perfectly executed plans. You are not the sum of your accomplishments or the dreams you’ve managed to manifest.
You are beloved because you belong to the One who called you before you did anything to earn it—and who still calls you now, even as you wrestle to let go.
So maybe it’s time.
Time to release the life you thought would save you.
Time to grieve what’s been lost and still trust what’s ahead.
Time to loosen your grip—not because it’s easy, but because you’re already held.
Let it fall.
Let it all fall, if it must. The plans. The security. The illusion of control.
Not because you’re fearless. But because on the other side of the falling is the God who never lets go.
And that’s where you’ll find yourself—right there in the rubble. Not lost. Not forsaken.
Just finally, beautifully, free.
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