Attitude – Pastor Clegguart Mitchell

When Knowing Isn’t Enough

Forked paths lead toward churches beneath sunrise and moonlight, with book and anchor

There is a version of Christianity that can look remarkably faithful from a distance.

You know what Christians are supposed to believe. You know what Christians are supposed to reject. You avoid the bad things. You affirm the good things. You know which boxes to check.

And yet, you can do all of that without developing much wisdom for actually living as a Christian.

That becomes a problem because most of life does not arrive in neatly labeled boxes.

The difficult coworker isn’t a theological proposition. Neither is the neighbor whose life looks completely different from yours. Neither is deciding what to do with your money… responding when someone wounds you… navigating a difficult cultural question… raising children… handling disagreement… or knowing when to speak and when to remain silent… or so much more.

Those things require more than knowing which answers are Christian.

They require discernment.

That is something Paul specifically prayed believers would develop:

“And it is my prayer that your love may abound more and more, with knowledge and all discernment, so that you may approve what is excellent.” – Philippians 1.9-10

Notice the connection: love, knowledge, and discernment.
Paul wanted believers who knew the truth – and who were increasingly able to recognize what faithfulness to that truth looked like in the complexities of actual life.

Because biblical truth is meant to give us a way of seeing the whole world.

Scripture teaches us who God is, who we are, what has gone wrong with this world, what God values, what sin does to us, what people desperately need, and what ultimately matters.

And then we have to learn to live accordingly.

Without that kind of discernment, Christians can drift toward two very different extremes.

Some are seduced by the world.

They may know biblical truth, but they have never learned to think biblically about the world around them. So when complicated questions arise, the world supplies the categories. Its assumptions gradually become their assumptions. Its definitions of success, happiness, identity, sexuality, money, freedom, and the good life begin to feel perfectly reasonable.

Others become cocooned from the world.

They preserve their Christian answers by keeping everything complicated safely outside. They know what they oppose. They know what they don’t watch. They know where they don’t go. They know which people are wrong.

Their convictions may remain intact. But those convictions increasingly have little contact with anyone or anything outside the cocoon.

Neither is Christian discernment.

Discernment asks a harder question:
* What does faithfulness to God look like right here?
* Not merely, What am I supposed to believe about this?
* But how should what I believe change how I respond?
* How does the gospel shape the way I treat this person?
* What does obedience to God require of me in this decision?
* What desires are driving me?
* What assumptions have I accepted without examining them?
* How can I demonstrate both truth and love here?
That is very different from checking boxes.

We desperately need Christians whose minds are so saturated with Scripture that they can recognize the world’s lies without being terrified of the world.

Christians whose convictions are strong enough to resist cultural pressure, but whose love is strong enough to move toward people rather than away from them.

Christians who don’t merely know what the Bible says, but are learning how God’s truth bears upon conversations, relationships, decisions, disappointments, opportunities, temptations, and ordinary responsibilities.

So perhaps the question isn’t simply: Do I believe the right things?

We should.

But there is another question worth asking: Am I learning to live wisely because I believe them?

Grace assumes the best; pride suspects the worst.

Pride is remarkably confident about other people’s motives.

“He did that because…”

“She only said that because…”

“I know what they’re really trying to do…”

But most of the time, we don’t know.

Grace does not ignore sin or pretend that evil is good. But neither does it manufacture motives, presume guilt, or fill gaps in our knowledge with suspicion.

Grace asks before accusing.

Grace leaves room for explanation.

Grace is willing to believe the best that the facts will allow.

And when something truly is wrong, grace grieves rather than delights in having its suspicions confirmed.

Love does not require us to ignore sin.

It does require us to stop inventing it.

“Love… is not resentful… bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” – 1 Corinthians 13.5, 7

But I Had a Reason

We almost always have a reason.

A reason we became angry.
A reason we said what we said.
A reason we weren’t completely honest.
A reason we treated someone poorly.
A reason we refused to forgive.
A reason we did what we knew we probably shouldn’t do.

And sometimes our reasons are pretty good ones.
We were tired.
We were afraid.
We had been hurt.
Someone betrayed us.
We were under tremendous pressure.
We didn’t know what else to do.

The circumstances may be real. The hurt may be real. The pressure may be real.
But having a reason for doing something does not necessarily make what we did right.

There is an important difference between an explanation and a justification.

An explanation answers the question: Why did I do this?

A justification answers a very different question: Was I right to do it?

And those are not the same thing.

Scripture is filled with people who had reasons for what they did. Adam blamed the woman God had given him. Eve pointed to the serpent. Aaron had an explanation for the golden calf.

Saul had a reason for keeping what God had commanded him to destroy. He even made his disobedience sound spiritual. The animals, he explained, had been spared so they could be sacrificed to the Lord.
Samuel’s response was simple: “Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice.” – 1 Samuel 15.22

Saul had a reason. But his reason didn’t make his disobedience obedience.
And perhaps that is where we sometimes get ourselves into trouble.

We begin to believe that if our circumstances are difficult enough, our hurt deep enough, or our reasoning understandable enough, then what would normally be wrong becomes right. But our circumstances do not have the authority to rewrite what God has said.

That doesn’t mean circumstances don’t matter.

They can help us understand why someone did what they did. They can move us toward compassion. They can help us recognize the pressures, fears, wounds, or desires that contributed to a decision.

But circumstances do not define righteousness. God does. And before we apply that truth to someone else’s choices, we should probably apply it to our own.

I may have been tired.
I may have been frustrated.
I may have been treated unfairly.
I may have been deeply hurt.
I may even have a perfectly understandable reason for what I did. But if God says it was wrong, my reason cannot make it right.

Perhaps that is why one of the most difficult sentences for us to say is also one of the simplest: I was wrong.

No explanation.
No qualification.
No – “but you have to understand.”

Just confession.

And thankfully, Christians do not have to justify what God has already offered to forgive.

“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” – 1 John 1.9

There may be reasons for what we have done. But God has not asked us to justify our sin. He has invited us to confess it.

Be Still, and Know

It is possible to stop working without actually resting.

You can leave the office while continuing the conversation in your head. You can sit down while mentally working through tomorrow’s list. You can take a day off and spend most of it thinking about everything you aren’t getting done. You can even go on vacation and bring your worries with you.

Sometimes our bodies stop long before our minds do.

Last week I wrote about Jesus telling His disciples, “Come away…and rest a while.” There is something important about recognizing our limits and learning to stop. But stopping and resting are not always the same thing. Sometimes we stop what we are doing only to discover how much we are still carrying.

Perhaps that is one reason these familiar words from Psalm 46 are so important: “Be still, and know that I am God.” – Psalm 46:10

Psalm 46 is not describing peaceful circumstances. The earth gives way. Mountains are moved. Waters roar. Nations rage. Kingdoms totter. And right in the middle of all that turmoil, God says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

In other words, this isn’t simply an invitation to find a quiet place. It is a call to stop striving and remember who is actually in control.

Notice that God doesn’t simply say, “Be still.” He says, “Be still, and know.” Biblical stillness is not merely inactivity. It gives us an opportunity to remember what our anxious activity so easily forgets.

He is God. I am not.

He is sovereign. I am not.

He knows what tomorrow holds. I do not.

He is able to carry what I cannot.

He is at work in places I cannot see, and in circumstances I cannot control.

Sometimes the hardest part of resting isn’t stopping what our hands are doing. It is releasing what our hearts are carrying.

We rehearse conversations that have already happened.

We anticipate problems that haven’t happened.

We imagine outcomes.

We try to solve tomorrow’s difficulties today.

And somewhere along the way, we can begin carrying responsibilities God never actually gave us. That can feel like responsibility. It can even feel productive. But there are things we simply cannot control, no matter how many times we turn them over in our minds.

Jesus asked a wonderfully simple question: “And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?” – Matthew 6.27

Worry accomplishes remarkably little for all the energy it consumes. Perhaps that is why genuine rest requires more than an empty calendar. It requires trust.

There are burdens we need to put down. There are questions we need to leave unanswered. There are circumstances we need to entrust to God. There are conversations we cannot control. There are outcomes we cannot guarantee. And there are tomorrows we need to leave where God put them – in tomorrow.

None of this means that we stop caring, planning, praying, or acting responsibly. It means that after we have done what God has given us to do, we trust Him with what He has not given us to control.

That may be one of the hardest forms of rest. But it may also be one of the sweetest. “Be still, and know that I am God.”

Sometimes we need to stop long enough to remember who God is.

And sometimes remembering who God is is what finally allows our hearts to rest.

Come Away and Rest Awhile

There is almost always something else that could be done.

Another email could be answered. Another project could be finished. Another room could be cleaned. Another phone call could be made. Another problem could be solved.

And if we aren’t careful, we can begin to live as though stopping is irresponsible.

After all, Scripture has a great deal to say about hard work. God does not commend laziness. We are called to diligence, faithfulness, and making good use of the time He gives us. There is something good about going to bed tired after a day spent doing what God has given us to do.

But apparently faithfulness also includes knowing when to stop.

After a particularly busy season of ministry, Jesus said to His disciples, “Come away by yourselves to a desolate place and rest a while.” – Mark 6.31

What makes those words especially striking is what Mark tells us next: “For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat.” There were people everywhere. There were needs to be met. There was ministry to be done. And Jesus said, Come away and rest. That is worth thinking about.

Sometimes we imagine that rest is what we do when everything else is finished. We will slow down when the project is completed. We will take some time off when things settle down. We will rest when there is nothing pressing that needs our attention.

The problem is that everything is rarely finished. There will always be something more we could do. Which means that if we only permit ourselves to rest when there is nothing left to do, we may never really rest at all.

Perhaps learning to rest is also learning to trust.

There is a kind of humility in stopping. When I stop working, I am reminded that I am not indispensable. I have limits. I get tired. I need sleep. I need quiet. I need time away. God made me that way. And while I rest, God does not.

The psalmist says, “He who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep” (Psalm 121.4). What a comforting distinction. I need rest. God does not.

The world does not depend upon my constant activity. My family does not ultimately depend upon me. My church does not ultimately depend upon me. My work does not ultimately depend upon me. Everything ultimately depends upon Him.

That doesn’t make me less diligent. It frees me to work hard when it is time to work – and to rest without guilt when it is time to rest.

Of course, there are seasons that require unusual effort. There are late nights and early mornings. There are emergencies and deadlines. There are babies who don’t sleep, people who need us, unexpected problems, and responsibilities that cannot simply be postponed.

Sometimes faithfulness really does require us to keep going when we would rather stop. But those seasons should also remind us why rhythms of rest matter.

We were never designed for constant activity. And sometimes our refusal to stop may say less about our diligence than we think. It may reveal how difficult it is for us to believe that things can continue without us.

Rest reminds us that we are creatures – and God is God.

So sometimes the godly thing to do really is to take the afternoon off. To go for a walk. To sit somewhere quiet. To take the vacation. Maybe even to take the nap. Not because our responsibilities don’t matter. Not because diligence is unimportant. But because we trust the One who remains at work when we are not.

Jesus looked at tired disciples surrounded by unfinished ministry and unmet needs and said, “Come away…and rest a while.”

Maybe some of us need to hear Him say that again.

Why We Sing What We Sing

Have you ever left Sunday morning worship thinking, “I just didn’t get much out of the singing today”?

Perhaps the songs weren’t familiar. Perhaps they weren’t your preferred style. Perhaps they simply didn’t resonate with you the way you hoped they would. I have.

Sometimes I’ve concluded that I simply preferred different songs. Churches don’t always make the same musical choices, and not every song will resonate with every believer in exactly the same way.

But sometimes the problem wasn’t the songs. Sometimes I just forgot what congregational singing was actually for. It’s very easy to evaluate worship by asking questions like:

– Did I enjoy those songs?
– Did they move me emotionally?
– Did I connect with them?

Those aren’t unimportant questions, but perhaps they may not be the first questions.

The Apostle Paul gives us a different perspective in Colossians 3.16. He tells us that as God’s people sing, “the word of Christ” dwells richly among them. Their songs teach. They admonish. They encourage. They fill hearts and minds with truth.

That means congregational singing is doing far more than creating an emotional experience. God is using it to shape His people.

I’ve found myself increasingly grateful for faithful congregational singing. Not because every song has been my favorite, or because every arrangement has reflected my personal preferences, but because I’ve been reminded what God is doing through it.

Faithful congregational singing doesn’t simply accompany worship; it quietly helps shape the hearts of those who participate in it. Congregational singing is the weekly rehearsal of reality.

Every Sunday the church helps one another remember what the rest of the week conspires to make us forget:
– God is still holy.
– Christ is still worthy.
– The gospel is still true.
– Our hope is still secure.

We are not teaching God these things. We are reminding our emotions of them.

The world spends six days pulling our attention in a thousand different directions. It quietly teaches us to measure life by our circumstances, our emotions, our successes, our disappointments, and our fears.
Then the Lord’s Day comes.

God gathers His people, and together they sing truths that gently reorient their hearts toward what is eternally true.

That also helps explain why the songs we sing matter. The question isn’t whether a song is old or new. Nor is it simply whether it is musically excellent or emotionally moving. The better question is this: Where is this song directing my attention?

Some songs primarily magnify the greatness, holiness, faithfulness, and worthiness of God. Others spend most of their time occupied with us – our feelings, our experiences, our commitments, and our responses.

To be sure, there is a proper place for singing about what God has done in our lives. Scripture itself does that often. But biblical worship has a remarkable way of lifting our eyes beyond ourselves to the One who is worthy of our praise.

The next time you gather with God’s people, don’t begin by asking, “Did I enjoy the singing?”

Rather ask: Did these songs help me see God more clearly?

Because perhaps the greatest gift of congregational singing isn’t that it simply gives expression to our hearts. It’s that, week after week, it gently teaches our hearts where they belong.

When a Sermon Rubs You the Wrong Way

Have you ever heard a sermon that rubbed you the wrong way?

Maybe something the preacher said bothered you. Maybe you disagreed with the way he said it. Maybe you walked away thinking he was too harsh, too strong, or simply wrong.
I have.

And sometimes, after thinking about it, I have concluded that I really did disagree. Preachers are not infallible. We can misunderstand a passage, say something poorly, or fail to explain something as carefully as we should.

But sometimes the problem was not the sermon. Sometimes the truth had simply gotten too close. And that is much harder to admit.

When a sermon makes us uncomfortable, it is remarkably easy to begin framing our understanding of the sermon around our feelings.
– I felt attacked.
– That sounded unkind.
– I did not like the way he said what he said.

And before long, our reaction to the sermon becomes our interpretation of the sermon.

But feeling uncomfortable does not necessarily mean we have been treated unfairly. Sometimes conviction is uncomfortable. Sometimes correction is uncomfortable. Sometimes the Word of God confronts something in us that we would rather defend than examine.

James writes: “Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.” – James 1.19

We often use those words as general advice for relationships and communication, and rightly so. But James is writing about our response to the Word of God. A few verses later, he tells us to “receive with meekness the implanted word.”

Perhaps we need to learn to listen to expositional preaching with expositional hearing.

That means we do not begin with, “How did that make me feel?”
We begin with:
– What did the preacher actually say?
– What was he trying to communicate?
– What does the text actually say?
– And why did this bother me so much?
We would do well to listen prayerfully before reacting quickly.

That does not mean every preacher is right. It does not mean we accept everything we hear without discernment. We should open our Bibles. We should examine the text. We should test what is taught.

But biblical discernment and personal defensiveness are not the same thing.
One wants to know whether the message is true.
The other wants to prove that my reaction was justified.

How we respond when the Word confronts us may reveal more about our hearts than we realize.
– Pride is quick to speak, quick to defend, and quick to assume the problem lies somewhere else.
– Humility is willing to listen again. Humility opens the Bible. Humility prays, “Lord, show me what is true, even if I do not like what I find.”

The next time a sermon rubs you the wrong way, do not be too quick to dismiss it. Listen to it again. Open your Bible. Pray. And ask whether the truth that unsettled you might be the truth you needed to hear.

The Model of Biblical Masculinity

In a culture confused about manhood, we do not need new definitions.

We need to look at Jesus.

He initiated our salvation at the cost of His life.

He led by serving.

He provides for His people.

He protects His church – even to the point of death.

Biblical masculinity is not aggression.

It is not passivity.

It is not selfish ambition.

It is sacrificial leadership, humble service, faithful provision, and courageous protection.

In other words, biblical masculinity looks like Jesus.

The deeper a man’s relationship with Christ, the more he becomes the man God created him to be.

“Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” – Ephesians 5.25

The Opposite of Zeal

Most Christians are not destroyed by sudden rebellion.

They drift.

A neglected discipline.
An idle hour.
A comfortable routine.
A growing indifference.

Little by little, zeal cools. Scripture warns us far more often about complacency than persecution.

Comfort has lulled more believers to sleep than opposition ever has.

God made us for purposeful work, disciplined living, and wholehearted devotion.

The battle for faithfulness is often won or lost in ordinary moments – in the small disciplines, daily duties, and unseen choices that shape our lives.

The opposite of zeal is not heresy.

It is indifference.

“Be doers of the word, and not hearers only.” – James 1.22

The Paradox of Freedom

Our culture tells us that freedom is found in autonomy.

Do what you want.
Be your own authority.
Answer to no one but yourself.

But Scripture teaches the exact opposite.

When people rebel against God, they do not become free. They simply exchange one master for another.

Sin always promises liberty.

Yet sin is a tyrant.

It enslaves.
It controls.
It diminishes.

The great paradox of the Christian life is that surrender to God produces freedom.

When we submit to Christ, we do not become less human. We become more fully what God intended us to be.

Every heart serves a master.

The question is not whether you will serve.

The question is whether your master enslaves or liberates.

“If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” – John 8.36