If I Am the Evidence, Is My Life Convincing?

There are theological questions that are safe and easy to discuss without ever really letting the tension of difficult questions shape or grow your theology. But I like to seek out the hard ones.

I’ve always wanted to be ready for those. The moment an atheist or agnostic challenges my beliefs, I seek out challenges, build thorough rebuttals, and am ready for that chance encounter to prove the depth of my theology.

But to what end?

To save a life? Not really.

To prove my knowledge and competence? If I’m honest, yes.

Is that what I’m called to do? Obviously, no.

The most sacred moments with Jesus are not debates, they are deeply personal, intimate encounters. The thief on the cross didn’t receive a theological dissertation, he experienced the mercy of Jesus in a moment of raw, surrendered connection.

My life is not ultimately about being a well-spoken apologetic. It’s about alignment because no one is going to stand over my casket and be impressed with my theological arguments. My legacy will be the way I lived, my habits, my reactions, my time, my motives.

That’s intimidating.

It would be easier if my life were simply a reflection of my ability to regurgitate facts and good arguments. But consistently living a fully engaged life of faith, a life that mirrors Jesus, that’s much harder.

Most of us don’t need more information about Jesus.

We need to be a better mirror.

Or maybe I’m just speaking for myself.

When you look at His life, Jesus loved people. Not casually, not selectively, and definitely not comfortably.

I don’t think we fully understand love, and maybe we don’t even know what love is at all. Jesus’ love, the only tangible and correct expression of love, constantly pushed Him outside of what was easy. He moved toward people, which in itself feels almost countercultural today. He gave His time to those who couldn’t give anything back. He allowed interruptions, embraced inconvenience, and stepped into the messy and complicated situations. Did you read that last sentence carefully?

This week, I found myself in a moment like that. A widow stood in front of me, and any logical person would know she was hurting in grief. I hesitated, should I say something or respect her space? Only through the grace of Jesus, I stepped into the uncomfortable to give her room to grieve. Her eyes filled with tears, and she let go of some of the burden.

I didn’t have answers. I didn’t know what to say. But I stayed and let Jesus’ grace be sufficient.

A few days later, her family thanked me. I’m grateful they did, because I wasn’t sure how that moment landed. I just knew she was hurting, and I didn’t want to miss what felt like a Jesus-centered moment.

That short discussion of grief with the widow was uncomfortable. Very, very uncomfortable. Can we be honest? Our version of love often stays neatly within our comfort zone.

We love people who are easy to love. We engage when it fits our schedule. We help when it doesn’t cost too much.

But that’s not love, not fully at least. Actually, it’s probably not love at all.

True love stretches us. Love rooted in the cross costs something. Jesus’ love defined His life. It cost Him convenience, energy, relationships, reputation, and ultimately His life.

If our love consistently keeps us comfortable and costs us nothing, it’s worth asking whether it reflects Jesus at all.

That same tension shows up in how we serve.

It’s easy to believe we’re living like Jesus because we serve in some capacity. But service can quietly become self-serving if we’re not careful. We gravitate toward opportunities where we’re seen, appreciated, or in control. We serve in ways that fit our preferences, our schedules, and our strengths.

That’s not how Jesus served. And it’s not how His followers served in the early church.

If our service isn’t difficult or costly, we should at least pause and ask whether it aligns with the upside-down nature of the kingdom, where the last are first. Where Stephen steps in to serve widows and orphans and is relentless to be a martyr for Jesus.

Jesus served without needing recognition. He stepped into the lowest roles. He gave without protecting His comfort or managing His image. His service wasn’t filtered through what He would get out of it, it was driven by the value He placed on people and His alignment with the Father’s will.

I can already hear the internal response as some read this, “But I’m not Jesus.”

Exactly.

Comfort and ease reflect our natural tendencies. But the difficult, stretching moments, where grace shows up in our weakness, those are the moments that reflect Jesus.

It forces us to examine our motives. Because it’s entirely possible to be active, involved, and even generous while still being centered on ourselves and relying on ourselves.

Christ-like service is often quiet, sacrificial, and unseen. It looks less like recognition and more like washing feet, real, uncomfortable, unglamorous service. The kind that doesn’t need acknowledgment because it’s not about us.

I experienced that recently in a way I won’t forget.

I stood with my son as a young child cried in deep anguish over an unthinkable tragedy. Everything in me wanted to leave. My heart was breaking. Tears ran down my face. And I wanted to protect my son from seeing and hearing the pain and sorrow.

But we stayed.

We hugged the child in despair. We spoke the comfort that only could come from the Comforter. And then I found myself holding someone I had never met before as their world collapsed in front of me. I looked for someone, anyone, who knew this man better, someone more equipped to step in and console him.

It was just me. But thankfully it wasn’t, because the Holy Spirit did what only He can do. Comfort.

So I stayed. I held him. I felt completely inadequate, awkward, overwhelmed, and without words.

I couldn’t fix anything.

Only Jesus can do that. 

Often times it is in our humble service that provides that life giving power that only comes from Jesus. Please consider that people truly need your selfless service to encounter Jesus. 

Then there’s the part of Jesus’ life that’s easy to overlook, but foundational to everything else, His time with God.

He consistently stepped away from the noise, the demands, and even the needs around Him to be alone with the Father. Not out of obligation, and not simply to get something, but out of relationship.

Out of love.

Out of desire.

Full disclosure, I rushed through my time with God this morning just to get to my next task.

That tension is real.

This is where we subtly drift. We begin to approach time with God transactionally. We pray when we need direction. We read when we’re looking for answers. We seek Him for peace, clarity, or provision. We turn time with God into another daily task to cross off the to-do list.

And slowly, almost without noticing, our relationship becomes centered more on our needs than our love. It becomes routine without intimacy. Activity without connection. Empty moments without depth.

All the while, we’re drifting, like being carried out into an endless sea, further from the depth we were meant to experience with our Creator.

That’s not how Jesus lived.

His time with God wasn’t driven by urgency.

It was driven by desire.

That realization hits hard.

Jesus made space not because He needed something, but because the Father was worthy of His time and attention. There was consistency, intentionality, and a depth of connection that went beyond utility.

It raises a difficult thought, if everything we receive from God were stripped away, would we still pursue Him the same way?

There’s a theological hypothetical but the heart of this rhetorical isn’t about having some faith filled answer, it’s at repositioning our heart. 

Because if our affection for God is rooted only in what He provides, then somewhere along the way we’ve reversed the relationship, and made God serve us.

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None of this is meant to condemn.

If anything, it’s meant to bring clarity, and maybe even draw a line-in-the-sand moment for change.

The goal isn’t perfection. It’s direction.

It’s recognizing where our lives have drifted toward comfort, recognition, or self-focus, and choosing to realign.

It’s pointing our hearts and actions back toward the cross, not stepping onto a proverbial treadmill of trying harder but being struck in the same spot without any actual progress. 

Living like Jesus doesn’t happen accidentally. It requires intention.

And that starts with honesty.

Where are your intentions actually set?

I humbly acknowledge one of my intentions is to be a great dad. No, it’s really a longing to be a perfect dad.  I can feel how easily that intention becomes centered on me instead of Jesus. The pressure to perform, to be perfect, to measure up, it subtly shifts the focus.

Following Jesus calls us somewhere different.

It calls us into discomfort, into dependence, into vulnerability.

That’s where real transformation begins, not in trying harder, but in relying more deeply on Him. There’s a byproduct of freedom because His burden is easy and His yoke is light. 

Remember that rhetorical question? There’s real value in that question. 

Not as a quick evaluation or attempt to build a theological argument, but instead as an ongoing lens for how we live, love, serve, and seek God.

Not checking boxes, but stepping into moments where Jesus can fully invade our lives.

Because at the end of the day, the goal isn’t just to believe in Jesus.

It’s to become more like Him.

And maybe that starts with something as simple, and as uncomfortable, as this,

Choosing to sit at the table with the modern-day tax collectors.