By Samantha Shrock
Imagine using a remote control to power the movie of your life. Many of us would fast forward through the messy, unscripted scenes that are painful to watch. But without those scenes, our plot has holes. The resolution doesn’t make sense without the mess.
What if pain isn’t actually the punishment or negligence from God that we can believe it to be? What if—instead—it’s evidence of His discipline?
God’s love is formative. It disciplines what it intends to strengthen.
Though the finished work of the cross is our saving grace, faith is carried out through daily diligence. We don’t pray a prayer for salvation and resume our lives as if nothing changes. We pray for holy intercession, asking God to meet us where we are—and He is always faithful to do so. But we don’t grow if we don’t cross any distance toward Him. If we refuse to move, there isn’t reciprocity. It’s not a relationship. It’s God actively giving and us passively taking.
God absolutely wants to give, but the forward movement in faith—running the race and fighting the good fight—requires ownership of the role we play in our own healing. A dynamic of one-sided contribution is not sustainable in any relationship. He calls us to come to Him as we are, but He does not intend for us to stay as we are. We are called to participate in the transforming and renewing of our minds.
We can experience divine deliverance and return to enslavement. The Lord can miraculously break chains as we receive His freedom—and we can still be the ones to fasten the shackles back over our wrists and ankles. If we persistently choose negligence over the discipline required to persist in faith, we can go back.
Make no mistake: we cannot earn deliverance. John 14:6 tell us that the only way to the Father is through Jesus. But we do have an enduring responsibility to keep seeking—to keep advancing toward Him—asking for His strength, stamina, and exactly what we need to remain faithful stewards of our bodies and minds. As believers, we are active daily participants in our spiritual growth. The moment we convince ourselves otherwise, we fall for the enemy’s deception.
If we wake up indifferent from the Lord—self-reliant instead of self-denying—we may call it “coasting.” Taking our foot off of the accelerator and assuming momentum will carry us forward. But coasting only lasts as long as momentum holds. Eventually, we slow to a crawl… and we stop. Regression by inertia.
Some operate on cruise control. Maintaining speed while quietly diverting focus. The metrics look the same. The route appears intact. But intentionality thins. Attention drifts. Eventually, distance becomes disconnect. Regression by distraction.
Spiritual laziness does not preserve faith; it resists the discipline of love.
One of the enemy’s favorite tactics to take us out is rationalization. If he can gradually convince us that “small” defiances are harmless, he can desensitize us and normalize sin until the lines between good and evil blur. We’d be remiss not to acknowledge war in the spiritual realm for our hearts and minds, yet we do ourselves that disservice daily.
Growing up, my mom prayed over my brother and me every night—that God would guard our hearts and protect our minds. The power of that simple prayer endured so resonantly that I now pray it over myself and the people I love. If we do not remain on our guard—if we do not remain sober-minded and alert—the devil is prowling around like a lion, seeking someone to devour. There is no neutral ground. We are either advancing toward the Lord or retreating from Him.
The discipline of love is what keeps us awake.
The enemy thrives on the lie that God’s sovereignty overrides our daily responsibility. It feeds the notion that surrender is automatic—that transformation happens without participation. But denying our flesh and embracing the mind of Christ is not passive. Our spirits may be willing, but our flesh is weak. That tension is precisely why discipline matters. Without it, we chain ourselves to the very thorns from which we were redeemed. Discipline is not oppression—it is freedom.
Another common misunderstanding is that repentance is optional. If we’re covered by grace, why continually confess? If we’re sealed by the Spirit, why revisit sin? But the first act of repentance that invites the Holy Spirit is not the end—it is the beginning of a lifetime of returning. The Spirit lives within us as a compass—directing, discerning, encouraging, and convicting. When we are convicted and our sin is exposed to us, we are responsible to confess and repent.
I once believed that the sincerity of an apology was only as good as your ability to never repeat the offense. My all-or-nothing mind assumed that recurring sin falsified my repentance. I convinced myself that I couldn’t genuinely confess if failure seemed inevitable. That fallacy perpetuated a cycle of sin, shame, and distance from the Lord. Conviction dulled as I repeatedly ignored it, disqualifying myself from the very repentance that would’ve restored me.
But God never requires perfection before confession. He never expected me to repent once and never struggle again. When we bring our sin to Him in humility, He casts it as far as the east is from the west—remembering it no more. Each time we return, He forgives. Seventy times seven.
I didn’t fully grasp the love of Jesus until that reality clicked. To know grace intellectually and live as though it applies to you are entirely different. His willingness to forgive—knowing every future failure in advance—is a direct witness of His power perfected in our weakness. His grace is sufficient. What sin corrupts, Christ purifies. What the enemy intends for evil, Christ transforms for glory.
Growing up in the church, I often heard that no one is too far gone. Yet I quietly suspected that I was the exception. That belief sounds like insecurity, but it is rooted in pride. Measuring ourselves into God’s equation of grace assumes we determine its limits. It suggests we must be enough to qualify. But if we were enough, the cross would be unnecessary.
We are given the freedom to accept or reject the sacrifice of the cross. The Spirit doesn’t reside where He isn’t welcomed. To receive grace, we humble ourselves and admit our need. Humility is not an intellectual acknowledgement of grace; it is the application of grace through repentance and surrender. We stand blameless before the throne of God not because of our own righteousness, but because of Christ. When the Father looks at us, He sees the worthiness of His Son.
You are made in the image of God—therefore you are priceless.
If belong to Christ, you are cleansed by his blood—therefore you are blameless.
Your worthiness is not your own.
It’s found in Him.
Through His suffering, you are healed. He bore your sin and clothes you in His righteousness. We stand justified not by our purity, but by His. Our only boast is Christ.
What an honor it is to suffer with Him. What an honor it is to be disciplined and refined by the One who suffered because He loves.
We are cleansed and made worthy by His worthiness alone.
His devotion. His intercession. His pursuit.
His suffering for our saving.
The greatest act of love.
John 15:13 (ESV): “Greater love has no one than this, that someone may lay down his life for his friends.”
1 Peter 5:10 (ESV): “After you have suffered a little while, the God of grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you.”
Samantha Shrock 