In the early 1600s, Sir Francis Bacon realized that the way people understood the world was deeply flawed. For centuries, thinkers had mostly relied on inherited ideas from people like Aristotle. They used common sense, logic, and tradition to explain the world, often without carefully testing whether those explanations were true. This created a lot of confident but incorrect knowledge.
Bacon argued that if we truly wanted to uncover truth, we could not simply sit and reason from old assumptions. We had to observe, test our ideas, and let evidence correct us. In 1620, he laid out this new approach in his book Novum Organum, which laid the foundation for the modern scientific inquiry. From that point forward, human knowledge began to grow in a more structured and accelerated way.
In the late 20th century, computers became widespread. Then the internet connected the world in ways that had never been possible before. Information could now be stored, processed, and shared at an enormous scale. Knowledge began to expand exponentially.
Today, with the rapid development of artificial intelligence, we are entering yet another phase. Knowledge is increasing at a speed that is difficult to keep up with. Some even predict that we may be approaching superintelligent AI, which could accelerate discovery beyond human capacity to process it.
In almost any field, we can explain things today that people could not have imagined 50 years ago. We have better tools, more precise methods, and clearer explanations than ever before.
And yet, despite all this progress, the internal human experience has not changed much at all.
We are still haunted by the same ancient questions. Why do we feel afraid? What do we truly want? Who are we? Why are we here? Are we alone in this world? What do we do with guilt? What do we do with shame? What gives life meaning?
These struggles with fear, guilt, identity, and meaning are not technical problems. They cannot be solved simply by more data, better experiments, or faster machines.
Historically, different cultures and religions have offered inherited answers to life’s deepest questions. By inherited answers, I mean the truths we receive before we have personally wrestled with them: doctrines, traditions, Bible verses, explanations, and religious frameworks handed down to us by family, church, culture, and education.
These inherited answers often carry real wisdom. They can give us clarity, stability, and direction. They can help us make sense of life. But they can also become problematic.
First, an answer shaped for another time, place, people, or religious system may not always speak clearly to the pressures of modern life. Second, and more importantly, knowing the truth is not the same as living it. Even when an inherited answer is correct, it can remain only information. It can become something we repeat, defend, or explain, but never actually experience.
The problem is not inherited truth itself. The problem is when inherited truth becomes a closed framework that leaves no room for God to interrupt us.
So the questions I want to ask today are these:
- What is the danger of inherited answers?
- Why does God so often answer human certainty with a question?
- And how does inherited truth move from the mind into lived experience?
To explore this, I want to turn to the life of Saul of Tarsus.
Saul was highly educated, deeply disciplined, and intensely religious. He was born in the city of Tarsus, which was known for learning and culture. Later, he was trained in Jerusalem under Gamaliel, one of the most respected Jewish teachers of his time.
In other words, Saul was full of knowledge and inherited answers. He inherited Scripture, law, tradition, history, identity, and mission. His education gave him more than facts. It gave him a way of seeing the world.
He inherited a framework built on order, obedience, and judgment. In that framework, life made sense through cause and effect. Obey and live. Disobey and die. This framework was clear and structured. More importantly, it gave him a sense of control.
This is where Saul’s story becomes uncomfortable.
Jesus said in John 5:39-40:
You study the Scriptures diligently because you think that in them you have eternal life. These are the very Scriptures that testify about Me, yet you refuse to come to Me to have life.
Saul knew the Scriptures. He studied them, defended them, and built his life around them. But his knowledge gave him certainty without recognition. He knew the texts, but he did not yet see the One to whom the texts were pointing.
That certainty made him zealous. And in the name of defending God, he began persecuting the very people through whom God was revealing Himself.
Could this be why God so often meets people with questions?
And what does a question do to a person like Saul?
Saul continued down that road, literally. He was traveling to Damascus with authority to arrest followers of Jesus. He was still moving with confidence, backed by permission, doctrine, and religious certainty.
Then something happened that no inherited answer could control.
Acts 9:3–6 says:
As he neared Damascus on his journey, suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice say to him, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?”
“Who are you, Lord?” Saul asked.
“I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting,” he replied. “Now get up and go into the city, and you will be told what you must do.”
When Jesus met Saul, He asked one question. Not a lecture. Not an explanation. One question. And that question stopped him.
Picture him there for a second.
When Jesus asked, “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting Me?” He was not asking for information.
This was a revelatory question. It revealed Saul to himself.
It was also a relational question. Jesus did not say, “Why are you persecuting My followers?” He said, “Why are you persecuting Me?” Saul suddenly discovered that the people he had judged as enemies of God were united with the very God he thought he was defending.
It confronted Saul’s identity. Saul thought he was the defender of God. The question revealed that he is an opponent of God.
It confronted Saul’s certainty. He was sure he knew where God stood, who God approved, and who God rejected. The question broke open that certainty.
It confronted Saul’s zeal. His passion was real, but it had become misdirected. He was not lacking intensity. He was lacking grace.
It confronted Saul’s theology. Saul believed he was protecting the truth of God. Jesus revealed that truth was not merely a doctrine to defend. Truth was a Person he was persecuting.
It confronted Saul’s control. Until this moment, Saul was acting, deciding, authorizing, and pursuing. After the question, he was blind, dependent, and waiting to be led.
That is what divine questions often do. They do not merely ask for answers from us. They expose the assumptions beneath our answers.
For Saul, this question opened the gap between what he knew and Whom he did not yet know. He knew Scripture, law, tradition, and mission. But he did not yet know Christ.
So Jesus did not begin by correcting Saul’s doctrine point by point. He asked a question that reached beneath doctrine and touched the place where Saul’s knowledge had become blindness.
That question reoriented him.
It moved him from control to surrender.
From certainty to dependence.
From defending truth to being encountered by Truth.
Until that moment, Saul had been living by religious measurement: who was right, who was wrong, who belonged, who threatened God’s truth. He was eating from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. He was examining, judging, separating, and condemning.
But on the road to Damascus, Jesus moved Saul from the tree of knowledge of good and evil toward the Tree of Life. From examining the world to being in the presence of the One who gives life.
The road to Damascus did not simply give Saul more knowledge. It unsettled the way he knew what he knew.
And that raises the question for us.
If Saul could have the best religious education available and still miss the heart of God, what does that say about us?
It means our greatest danger may not be ignorance. It may be certainty without encounter. It may be having the right answers while using them to protect ourselves from the living God.
Perhaps that is why God still asks questions. He does not ask because He needs information from us. He asks because we need revelation from Him.
Discussion questions:
- Why can a question sometimes reorient a life more deeply than an answer?
- How can sincere religious conviction become dangerous when it is not continually led by Jesus Himself?
- What matters more: knowing the doctrine, or knowing the One to whom the doctrine points?
David: I agree with your analysis. It reminds me of when Jesus said, “You have to be born again.” It’s true that when we’re born, we inherit all that baggage which will eventually develop, but at the point of birth none of that has yet been formed. So it’s really a pretty serious and startling conclusion that all the doctrine, all the religion, everything else, is subordinate to what is natively in your heart before doctrine or religion gets to you. A wonderful talk.
C-J: I think here’s an example of a man who was not only well educated and disciplined, but who also understood authority. Because of his legal and Pharisaical training, he was able to command respect. He had access. People listened to him. And I think he was probably the kind of person who, if his authority was questioned, would let you know very seriously: “Do you realize who you’re talking to?” When you get to where I’ve been, with my résumé, then you can ask me questions. Right now, I’m the authority.
So when God knocked him off his donkey, it was easy for Paul to recognize the voice of authority, and also easy for him not to question it. The transformation had to become internal, because if he had understood the difference earlier, he never would have behaved the way he did.
That relationship with God would have been critically important for him, because he was constantly interfacing with people whom he needed to persuade. Part of his job was convincing them that he knew what he was talking about and that it would be wise for them to get on board.
We were talking earlier about free markets. Paul had access to the wealthy people around the Mediterranean world. As a tentmaker, he was selecting products, charging for them, negotiating, all while being mindful of culture, language, and the way Jews were perceived at the time. He had to be authentic, but diplomatic.
Part of being a good leader is authenticity with diplomacy. That openness allowed people to listen to him and gave him a foothold through the door. Those same people then became willing to protect these new Christians.
In the process, Paul had to ask questions. He had to anticipate: If this is real, and I become the ambassador, what questions will people ask me? He would be held accountable for the authenticity, not merely the script.
And I think that’s where many Christians struggle. As long as we remain in our circle, we can do this safely. But when we step outside the circle and live as our authentic selves, we can get into trouble. “Don’t talk about religion or politics.” “You’re entitled to your own beliefs.” “Well, that’s interesting, but I’m going to continue in mine.”
But what Paul demonstrates is that there must be a fervency—sometimes loud, sometimes quiet truth.
When a mother-in-law is speaking to a daughter-in-law with a new baby, she doesn’t walk in and say, “Well, when I was raising your husband…” Instead she says, “May I hold the baby?” Big difference in the approach. It honors that mother, recognizes who she is, and also recognizes oneself: This new mother knows things I don’t know. It would be wise of me to make an ally here. When I need a babysitter or a time-out, she’ll intuitively know I’ve maxed out.
Our relationship with God is like that too. We say, “I’m doing everything I know how to do, and it’s still not working. What am I missing?” And perhaps God responds, “Because you’re trying to do something I assigned to someone else. This isn’t your job.”
David is an example of this. Earlier in life he acted as though he could do whatever he wanted: I am king. I am chosen by God. But later he realized that you cannot do everything, and when you try, you fail.
Paul learned this too. Eventually he had to hand things off to younger people. He speaks to Timothy knowing that Timothy’s path will be difficult because he is young, but also recognizing that Timothy has the Word of God and seeks a relationship with God that Paul himself had not previously understood.
It takes a long time to understand where we stand in God’s plan. It takes a long time to learn to move collectively with God rather than ahead of Him or behind Him. We have to learn the difference between wisdom and truth. We have to recognize the Holy Spirit guiding us rather than rushing out saying, “I know what I know.”
God teaches us: No, you don’t.
And we have to accept that graciously, without resentment. We start with grace; we don’t catch up to grace.
So Paul was at an apex in his life. He had the training of a Pharisee, the experience of authority and discipline. What he lacked was the understanding that none of it would have existed had God not designed him for those very experiences, so that he could later use them to reach people who had never even thought to ask the deeper questions.
Those people were comfortable. They were wealthy. They understood their gods, their systems, their power. But in God, we are the vessel. God is in control.
Donald: Answering a question with another question is almost a way of saying: Are you sure you understand what you think you understand? Instead of giving a direct answer, it challenges the confidence of the person asking the question. If you answer a question with a question, it forces the original questioner to reconsider whether their question was framed correctly, or whether they fully understood what they were asking in the first place.
C-J: Exactly. It can be clarification. A small child asks a parent something, and the parent responds, “Are you asking me this because you want to know this?” Vocabulary, timing, person, and purpose are all essential in communication. It’s a two-way street.
You cannot assume that two people are standing in the middle of the same experience, even if outwardly they appear to be. Things are filtered through personal experience. The language may need common ground.
Authority and meaning often come down to intention.
Don: As David suggests, this is really a call to be reborn, which is a pretty daunting task. How does one relieve oneself of all the baggage of culture, tradition, and history that make us who we are?
It’s easy to say we need to be born again or set aside preconceived ideas, but it’s another thing entirely to do it. For Saul, it was almost as though he died. The metaphor is strong. There’s even a three-day “death,” echoing Jesus’ own death and resurrection. Then the scales fall from his eyes and he is reborn.
But most of us don’t have a Saul experience. So practically speaking, how do we make that transition? How do we release the baggage of history, tradition, and culture?
C-J: But with God, nothing is wasted. Paul’s history became part of the new narrative. He had to recognize his own ignorance. He was reintroducing himself to people, even though outwardly he looked the same.
Throughout life we do this repeatedly. We do professional development in our careers. God does spiritual development. We do it in friendships too. We grow up with someone, then one day realize we are no longer in the same place, but we still listen because we love them. Without that process, we do not grow. We stop asking the internal questions.
David: Don’s question is practical: What do we do? Paul is obviously the example to follow, but I don’t know enough about Paul historically, other than that he went from being an organ of the state, so to speak, to being a servant of Jesus.
Did he stop going to the synagogue? How much did he still refer to Scripture? He must have developed a completely different circle of friends. He probably needed a new job. I’m ignorant of the details, but understanding them might help us understand what being “born again” means practically.
C-J: Paul definitely challenged the Pharisees. The revelation wasn’t merely intellectual; it was spiritual. There was a profound love and understanding of the Divine that the Pharisees lacked. They had ritual and text, but not relationship.
Paul was near the end of his military and institutional career. He wasn’t connected in the same way anymore. But he used those old connections throughout his travels into what is now Turkey to build not a synagogue, but a church—a body of believers that didn’t need a temple. That itself was revolutionary.
We see this archaeologically in Galilee and elsewhere: symbols like the fish and the cross appearing alongside remnants of Greek religious imagery. Paul lived through a conscious evolution in his psyche, his behavior, and his understanding of where he belonged.
We often talk about leaving behind “people, places, and things” when we are transformed from an old life into a new one.
Michael: I like the question, but I think we’re missing a step before “being born again.” The first question is: How do you die first? Death has to occur before rebirth is possible. As Dr. Weaver pointed out, Saul experienced a kind of death. He wasn’t seeing, hearing, or eating for three days. For me personally, I see parallels in depression or dark psychological experiences where you can’t function as before. Coming out of that can feel like rebirth.
This theme of death and rebirth is everywhere in Scripture. Even the desert experience feels like this kind of symbolic death—the dark night of the soul.
Carolyn: I’d like to look through a different window for a moment. I keep thinking about Judas. I wonder if Judas believed that by forcing a crisis, Jesus would finally reveal Himself openly and be crowned king. The remorse Judas felt afterward was enormous. He ended up taking his own life. There must have been so many questions in his own mind. We won’t know until eternity, but I wonder if he realized too late what he had done.
Sharon: I like Michael’s idea that death comes first. But for me, this whole process revolves around becoming comfortable with vulnerability. Rebirth means giving up. It means becoming comfortable with the idea that Someone bigger than myself is going to lead my life. That’s the whole struggle, really. Questions of self-reflection: Who am I doing this for? What is my motivation?
Paul eventually became comfortable with vulnerability—with his physical limitations, with no longer being the powerful man he once was. Instead of being a great authority figure, he became a servant and a tentmaker.
If I could empty myself of self and tie all my vulnerabilities to the grace of Jesus and my walk with Him, that would be an incredibly powerful way to live. But it’s not an easy battle.
Donald: That makes me think about retirement. Retirement is a total change of context. One day you drive in to work, park in your spot, people ask you questions, you give answers, you respond to administration and organizational demands. Then suddenly the phone is silent. Nobody’s texting. Nobody’s asking.
In some ways it’s a kind of diminishment. Not dying exactly, but certainly a major change of context. You become less visible. Part of that is retirement, and part of it is simply aging. Conversations start happening around you rather than with you. That’s probably the closest thing I can think of to what Sharon was describing. It’s thrust upon you. It’s not necessarily a decision you consciously make, but something happening around you.
C-J: Possibly. But I’d like to return to Judas for a moment, in relation to Carolyn’s question. Judas may have acted preemptively because he feared someone else would eventually kill him. But I think the deeper issue was that he truly believed Jesus was the Messiah. He believed that if Jesus really was the Son of the living God, then surely He would rise immediately, prove Himself, and establish His kingdom.
When that didn’t happen, Judas faced a devastating collapse. It’s like a child placing absolute trust in a parent—the guidance, the protection, the identity formed by that relationship—and then suddenly losing it. Your father dies. Your mother dies. There’s a hole in reality itself. Who am I now?
Judas may have wondered: Was I wrong? Was He not the Son of God? Look at the risks I took. Look at the people I alienated. Look at the influence I invested in promoting Him. He stood with one foot on either side of a line.
And I don’t think we’re very different. We say, “Lord, I surrender,” but we still keep a reserve plan for ourselves. What if I’m wrong? What if this decision destroys not only me but also my relationships, my religious community, my family?
The death has to come. The sloughing-off has to come. We have to understand what belongs to us and what belongs to God. Not, “God, You’re responsible for this, so fix it,” but rather: What is God’s way? What is God’s timing? That’s the hardest part. We’re open to God, but we don’t always know which door to choose. Judas, to me, represents the terror of asking: What if I missed the mark?
Anonymous: I don’t know whether retirement was what produced that experience for Sharon, but illness can certainly do it. I experienced it myself. Before you reach enlightenment, in a sense, you have to die to self. If you don’t give everything up, you never really move from doctrine into lived experience. As Dr. Weaver said, you have to empty yourself of indoctrination.
The first step is dying to self, and that means giving up everything. It’s not easy at all. It’s a huge struggle. But thank God He wins eventually. He removes the things we depend on in order to make surrender possible. And when surrender finally comes, it’s sweet. The reward is beyond this world.
Donald: Is instability is part of this? What Michael described, what Anonymous experienced through illness, what I referenced with aging and retirement—it’s instability that forces us into rebirth.
As children, we were brought to church and indoctrinated—not out of ill will, but out of love. Our parents were saying, “This is the world, and this is how we want you to understand it.”
Anonymous: Yes. Instability is the key word. God causes that instability in our lives. I don’t know if age itself matters so much, but we have to become weak in order to become strong. We have to die first in order to live. We have to give up everything in order to gain everything.
Carolyn: Does that mean giving up questioning? Because it seems like the closer I get, the more questions I have.
Kiran: Paul and Judas both inherited the same framework. They both encountered Jesus, but in completely different ways. When Jesus encountered Paul, Paul realized his entire worldview was wrong. But he didn’t become the Paul we know overnight. It took years. He spent time in Arabia, in the desert, isolated. Eventually, after perhaps ten years, he became the Paul we recognize.
The question is: when God unsettles you, when He removes your sense of certainty and control, do you allow that uncertainty to transform you? Or do you cling to the framework that gives you security?
Judas couldn’t let go of the idea that the Messiah had to become a political and military liberator. Paul originally had the same framework. But when Jesus shattered that framework and left him standing on unstable ground where the only remaining stability was trust in God Himself, Paul surrendered.
That instability can come through disease, retirement, depression, or ordinary life circumstances. And I don’t think it happens only once. I think it happens continually.
I came into the church and embraced the Seventh-day Adventist framework so strongly that I believed every other denomination was wrong. Now God is showing me that others may also have truth. The question then becomes: do I fight against that realization, or submit to it?
I think humanity’s fundamental problem is that we want certainty about how God behaves.
David: The problem is that we try to think these things. We out-think ourselves. We enter territory where our cognitive abilities simply do not apply.
Carolyn’s question was pointing not toward the relative psychologies of Paul and Judas, but toward grace itself. At first glance, you might say Paul received grace while Judas did not. But of course Judas had grace all around him. He literally walked with Jesus. How could anyone receive more grace than that?
So grace did come to Judas. The tragedy is that he somehow rejected it. To me, that means this is ultimately not about psychology or intellectual analysis. We cannot think our way through these mysteries.
I liked Kiran’s opening comments about AI. AI is helping us increasingly in the deterministic world—the world of cause and effect. It’s accelerating our understanding of that world exponentially. But spirituality is not deterministic. It’s not reducible to cause and effect. There is no formula that gets you there.
And as usual, Carolyn got to the heart of the issue.
Sharon: She always does.
Reinhard: I think there is always a process involved in being born again. Nicodemus is an example. His transformation happened gradually. At one point he defended Jesus before the Sanhedrin by saying they should not judge someone without hearing the facts. Later he helped Joseph with Jesus’ burial. His conversion unfolded step by step.
Paul’s experience was more dramatic, but even then it took time. He already believed in God according to Jewish understanding. But when Jesus revealed Himself on the road to Damascus, Paul had to realign everything he thought he knew. All of us experience that process. Through life, discussion, and experience, we gain clearer focus about God and what He wants in our lives.
Judas, on the other hand, made a terrible mistake because he assumed Jesus could simply escape arrest. When he realized Jesus was not escaping, he was overwhelmed with regret. Yet in one sense, Judas did believe Jesus was the Son of God. That may even explain why his despair became so overwhelming.
Don: The road from Jerusalem to Damascus is really the metaphorical road of life. Things happen on that road. So the question becomes: are we responsible for this rebirth, or is it something God does for us? Saul was simply going about what he believed was his mission when he was suddenly blinded by the light.
Who, then, is responsible for my rebirth?
C-J: I think it’s the Holy Spirit.
Sharon: I agree. I don’t think we’re responsible for it. I think the Holy Spirit brings us through whatever experiences are necessary to make us vulnerable enough to trust. If the process depended entirely on us, we’d already be in trouble. There isn’t enough psychotherapy in the world to produce the kind of vulnerability required for rebirth.
C-J: And nothing is wasted with God. People who watched Paul over those ten years were witnessing his transformation. Our friends witness ours too. We ask one another: Have you experienced this? How do you deal with it?
The key question becomes: who is captain of the ship? For Christians, ideally, it’s the Holy Spirit. And often the experience comes through grace, through crying out for forgiveness or understanding. Eventually you arrive at the realization: Lord, I can’t believe how much You love me. You were here the whole time.
And I don’t think this is limited to Christianity. Other religions also contain genuine spiritual experiences shaped by culture. But that surrender into unconditional love—that seems universal.
Don: What do members of a religion or a church do with all the baggage that they have inherited?
Donald: I think you’ve moved the conversation in the right direction. The only thing capable of disrupting a highly structured framework is something outside the framework itself.
I don’t know that we are capable, by ourselves, of changing our context to the degree necessary.
When we were taken to church as children and indoctrinated with scrolls, memory verses, and pictures, that wasn’t done out of ill will. Our parents were trying to frame the world for us out of love.
But I’m not sure we ourselves can unravel all of it. The things that disrupt our framework usually come from beyond our control. Then we become vulnerable, and only then do we start asking: Is my understanding actually solid?
Even through the last few months of my own life, I never found myself thinking, What does the my Church teach me about the love of Jesus Christ? I went directly to the source.
David: There’s that word thinking again. I don’t think you need to think your way through this. I think you simply go on living your life and trust that when necessary, grace will be there.
Donald: But as an “SBNR” your orientation toward spirituality may be more congruent with that approach than those of us who have a highly structured church framework.
Don: The question in my mind is whether it’s possible to hold both together. Can I hold onto culture and tradition and still remain vulnerable?
Sharon: I think there are many healthy aspects to culture. Most of us here grew up with memory verse charts and religious structure. There are positive aspects to our Adventist heritage and beliefs.
But the core premise is this: when we become nothing through the grace of Jesus Christ, we become everything. That’s such a non-human construct. We give up everything in order to gain everything.
We were often socialized to think of ourselves as the elite, the remnant, the people who had it right. But the more I’ve walked with Jesus and understood grace, the more I’ve realized there is nothing “remnant” about me. I am nothing except what Jesus has done through me.
That doesn’t negate the positive aspects of church culture, but ultimately all of it must be surrendered. And in that death, through rebirth, we discover peace in the middle of whatever storm life brings. We become comfortable with vulnerability. And that is not easy. It’s a constant battle to say: I have peace even here.
So I encourage all of us simply to hold onto the fact that Jesus carries us when we have more on our plate than we ourselves can bear. His grace is sufficient. His power is perfected in weakness. That, I think, is our encouragement for this week.
Carolyn: When the Bible says we should love one another and love ourselves, it’s not the big doctrines that trouble me. It’s the little things.
Donald: Going through old materials recently—baptismal certificates and things like that—I noticed something interesting. The baptismal certificates from earlier generations of Adventism were structured differently. When I open mine from the 1950s or 1960s, one side says: I believe in Jesus Christ. I believe in God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. But on the other side there’s an entire page of doctrines in very fine print. To be baptized, I had to accept both simultaneously.
And maybe—maybe—it would have been healthier to first become a believer in Jesus Christ and begin understanding what that means, and then later take on the doctrinal system. Perhaps that should have been a two-step process rather than a one-step process. But for us, everything became woven together into one fabric, and now it’s difficult to unravel.
Kiran: I want to read a verse from 2 Corinthians 6:9, from the New Living Translation:
“The world ignores us, but we are known to God.
We live close to death, but here we are, still alive.
We have been beaten, but we have not been killed.
Our hearts ache, but we always have joy.
We are poor, but we give spiritual riches to others.
We own nothing, and yet we have everything.”
If you started an evangelistic series with that passage, I don’t know how many people would come back the next day. But I think that is the process. Paul describes himself as completely dead to the world, yet completely alive. That connects to Sharon’s comment earlier. The question is whether we want to go where God is taking us, or whether we want to cling to the things that give us certainty.
That’s why these questions matter so much.
And I agree: we cannot get there by ourselves. Only God—through His questions, through circumstances, through disruption and reorientation—can bring us there. We’ll see what next week brings to our discussion. I’m not entirely sure yet. But I’m looking forward to seeing where God takes us following today’s discussion.
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