Faithful Writers

unsplash Time is linear for us. God set it that way from the very beginning for us, days, weeks, years, etc. People live inside those boundaries. But God?He lives outside of them.He is the Author of time, not bound by it. Then God reshaped the way I see prayer. This used to happen often to me, and I think many people can relate.  I’d be scrolling online, where you don’t usually see or hear updates. I’d see a prayer request and stop to lift them up to God. Then I’d notice it was posted a day or so ago, sometimes even longer. I used to feel bad and think that I was too late. I mean, I’d really, really feel bad about it, like I wasn’t there when they needed it the most. Then one random day, it happened again, and I about spiraled myself down that path of feeling bad all over again. The thought in my head was, if I prayed now, what was the point? I was already too late. Now I’ve come to realize satan was using that. God spoke and said, “Not with Me” I’m not gonna lie. That answer actually took me a little to figure out what He meant, but I did eventually figure it out. lol First, no thought you have should ever stop you from praying to begin with. Period.  That was one thing I figured out right quickly. I was letting myself talk myself out of praying, and satan was having a heyday with that. Second, as I said above, God is literally outside of time. He is not bound by our past, present, or future. To Him there is no such thing as too late. Every prayer is a connected one-on-one private moment with Him. Now we may never know the outcome of our prayer, and sometimes we do, but prayer isn’t just for that person or situation. It’s for you to. You don’t build trust, faith, and hope on silent lips.  But you can sure lose it on silent lips. Every prayer is heard at exactly the right moment, for the right reason. When we pray, even if we  think it‘s too late, God receives it outside of our timeline and applies it with His perfect timing and for His glory. So don’t hold back. Don’t second-guess.  Pray anyway. Because with God, every prayer is on time. “But do not let this one fact escape your notice, beloved, that with the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years like one day.”  2 Peter 3:8 © Jane Isley Thank you for taking the time to read, and please consider  supporting my work . Your gift helps keep this work going, blesses others, and means the world to me. You can visit me at Faithful Writers  on Medium, where other Christian writers have joined me in sharing the word of God. You can also find me on   Tumblr  and   Facebook.

Hey, I’m Favour and I’m faith-filled, always writing about real things like God, growth, and grace. I believe faith isn’t just a Sunday thingy, it’s actually a life, laughter, and the little moments that remind us we’re still held. If my words make you pause, smile, or whisper “same,” then I’ve done my job and I look forward to connecting more and meeting more needs too. FavourWrites Facebook

That’s What Supple Dames are Made Out Of unsplash.com Lying still on the cold floor, right cheek pressed against the tile in a feeble attempt to revive her memory, she asks herself. What was his name? God, I don’t remember, suddenly shifting to an Indian-style sit-sy. She’s also clutching a fistful of hair, as if to rip some out, while thanking her heavenly father, once again, for keeping her. Elbows shaking as she grips the kitchen table queasily, and miraculously , she pulls herself up from the yoga pose and hopefully back to right-standing. Commanding herself to breathe, deep, evenly paced breaths return. As fresh air fills her lungs, she curiously scans her mind. Seriously, what just happened? It’s like I’m waking up from a bad dream. Wasn’t I just walking to class? How did I get here? Grimacing, now noticing a severe headache forming, she lifts the back of her hand to wipe her sweaty brow, while checking for a fever. She feels normal, but she’s not. She finally realizes she’s hungover. Oh. Now, she sees. She failed. Like a safety counter at work, the reset button has been pressed, and she’s back to day one. How many days was that? She squints to recall. Oh yeah, eleven months and 14 days, a new record, but she’s not in the mood to celebrate. She’s disgusted. One cheap night, and now she has to pick up new pieces to add to her already well-defined border of brokenness. Curse it. How many times is it going to take for her to realize she is not alone in this? Her mentor keeps telling her to call if the temptation gets to be too much, but she keeps forgetting. Besides, she doesn’t know anything about being a “good” Christian. The only way she ever learns anything is through so why should her relationship with Christ be any different? And yet, somehow, it is different. She doesn’t want to take the trip to the health department to get tested for sexually transmitted diseases this time. It’s embarrassing, but she’s so full of fear that she goes time after time. I mean, even less than two years ago, it was like every other month. She’s read that God loves her, that Christ has set her free to live a victorious life over sin, so why does she keep blowing it? Her fist pounds the wobbly metal table, hoping the inanimate object will let out the scream she can not. Instead, she faintly whispers. “Jesus, if you are really here. If you can really help me, please, please take these desires.” You know I can’t stop alone. I have been lying with various men for years now, each has made his mark on me, but I can’t do it anymore. God, please.” She reaches for a chair and pulls it out to sit a moment, plopping down with slumped shoulders, and begins to cry. “Lord, why must I learn everything the hard way?” She doesn’t remember how long she has been seated in this moment, but she does realize something is different this time. She’s been saved nearly four years now, and she knows even more than the last time that she should NOT have hopped into bed with this guy. After all, Christ is firmly within her heart, but she admits, it’s been tough. She no longer uses drugs to numb her pain, so what else is she supposed to do? She also knows she’s an addict through and through and she thoroughly enjoys using lovers as highs. NO. This madness has got to stop! Feverishly searching for her Bible, her hand lands on it beneath a stack of psychology textbooks. Relieved, she prays. “God, I need you. Please answer me now.” Quietly, nearly indiscernibly, the Holy Spirit meets her in this space, and a couple of words from a Psalm written by David come to mind. She performs a quick online word search and finds it. Psalm 34 verse 18, she reads, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Yes. My God, yes. That’s what I really need. I need YOU. She closes the good book confidentially and presses it into her delicate chest. The warmth of her Savior is here. His breeze gently fills her spirit, and she is sorry. She is very sorry, and she thanks the Lord for humbling her. For helping her to see the wickedness in the choices she’s making, and she weeps loud, bitter, cleansing tears. This gritty dame finally realizes something. It is through her brokenness that Christ shines brightest. It’s not by ignoring each crack, or trying to separate herself from her bad habits and affection towards men. No, it is simply by embracing the very fabric of who she is that has created the dynamic resiliency she is experiencing right now. There will always be plenty of men, on plenty of occasions, to sweep her off her feet and right off into his bed, but she recognizes that none of them will ever fill her like Jesus. He is making something different. Not a one of them, not even a husband, perhaps two decades in, could reach this sacred oven. It is Christ’s throne room, and it is only accessible to Him because it was created by him, for his glory alone. Perhaps, the dark matter, splash of diethyl ether, and a couple of siren tails are not what little girls are made of, but grit and darkly founded determination have created an unparalleled loyalty, and Jesus and she are thick as thieves. None of the glorious freedom, nor the healing rhythms she’s experiencing in Christ, would be possible apart from the ingredients God used to fashion her. No sugar, no spice, and not much nice, but this dame is certain. Life, nor death, nor a man, nor many will ever be able to separate her from the cookie sheet of His eternal love, and armed with that newfound, never to be taken away from her knowledge, she understands that she is what she is, and she continues. © Stay

Photo by Luke Mollet  on Unsplash The cross should not inspire comfort. It was never designed for that. Rome used crucifixion to break people — body, mind, and spirit. It was a billboard of domination, a slow death by suffocation and shame, reserved for slaves, rebels, and anyone who dared to challenge the empire. Bodies were nailed up at city gates to remind passers-by who was in charge. It was so degrading that self-respecting Romans avoided even mentioning the word “cross” in polite conversation. And not only in ancient Rome. In 2015, ISIS fighters crucified victims in Syria, leaving their bodies on display in the streets. The message was the same as it had been two thousand years earlier: this is what happens when the powerful want to crush the weak. The cross is history’s symbol of oppression. So why do millions of people now wear it proudly around their necks? Rome’s Weapon of Terror Crucifixion was Rome’s propaganda made flesh. It wasn’t simply about killing. It was about humiliating. Naked bodies, jeering crowds, hours or days of suffering — all staged for maximum psychological impact. It told the world: the strong define truth, the weak are disposable. That’s why, to the first-century mind, the Christian claim that a crucified man was Lord of the world was sheer madness. Historian Tom Holland puts it starkly: “This is why the cross, that ancient implement of torture, remains what it has always been: the fitting symbol of the Christian revolution.” — Tom Holland, Dominion A Strange Turning Point Against all odds, the followers of Jesus of Nazareth didn’t bury their shame in silence. They proclaimed it. The very instrument of terror became their banner. Why? Because they believed something had happened that Rome never intended: Jesus’ crucifixion was not the beginning of God’s story, but the turning point. What looked like defeat was, in fact, victory. Rome stripped Jesus of dignity; he forgave his executioners. Rome broke his body; God raised him from the dead. The empire thought it had spoken the last word in blood and wood. But the Word — the one through whom all things were made — spoke back through resurrection. The Cross After Rome Once Jesus reframed the cross, it could no longer be used in the same way. Christians began to live as though every person mattered equally before God. They rescued abandoned infants, cared for plague victims, and eventually built the first hospitals. Even the long road toward abolishing slavery drew energy from this belief: that the God who hung on a cross dignified the lowliest of human beings. What had been a weapon of terror became a wellspring of hope. Why It Still Matters The cross is still offensive today, not because it’s violent, but because it redefines strength. Our culture prizes winning, dominance, and visibility. The cross insists that true power is found in self-giving love. That’s why it endures. That’s why it’s worn not as a warning but as a sign of hope. What the empire used to crush, the Word transformed into a declaration: even in weakness, God’s power wins. So here’s the question: If the cross really does flip oppression into freedom, what would it mean for us to live by that kind of power today? I write about the strange, surprising ways faith reshapes our world. If you’d like to know more about why I write, you can visit my About Me page. © Nathan Cole Originally published on Medium .

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash I didn’t grow up in a Christian home. My parents were loving and kind, but I didn’t know Jesus, and I didn’t know the good news of the Gospel. By the grace of God, that began to change in my first year at university. An Unexpected Invitation I still remember standing awkwardly at orientation on day one when a friendly student walked up and invited me to the Christian group on campus. We had a few mutual connections. I thought I had a rough idea of what a “Christian group” might be. It felt harmless to say yes. Why not have a look? What happened next surprised me. They opened the Bible. That might sound obvious, but it wasn’t to me. I had barely seen a Bible, and I’d never read one. Watching a group of students quietly open those thin pages felt strange, almost novel – like stepping into a room I didn’t know existed. No hype. No hard sell. Just words on a page – and people who seemed to care about them. Through the group, I started reading the Bible for myself. I didn’t suddenly understand everything. I asked basic questions. I held my doubts in one hand and the text in the other. But the more I read, the more a single figure came into focus: Jesus. I began to see that Christianity wasn’t mainly about becoming “better” or earning spiritual points. It was about a person and a cross – about what God had done, not what I could do. That realization unsettled me in the best way. When the Cross Stopped Being Abstract As I kept reading, something clearer – and weightier – landed. If the Gospel really is true… If Jesus really did die… If the cross is God’s way of dealing with sin – even mine – then this isn’t a set of ideas to admire from a distance. It demands a response. Not pressure, not panic – just the honesty of facing a gift I couldn’t pay back and a mercy I couldn’t earn. A few months later, at an Easter event on campus, the pieces came together. I believed in Jesus Christ. I accepted that forgiveness of sin is only possible through his cross. And I decided I wanted to follow Him. There wasn’t a spotlight or a dramatic soundtrack. Just a quiet “yes” that felt like the most honest thing I’d ever said. What Changed (and What Didn’t) Not everything became easy. Life didn’t suddenly arrange itself into neat lines. But something essential shifted. I wasn’t standing outside anymore, looking in. I belonged to the One I’d been reading about. The questions didn’t disappear; they became part of a conversation with Someone real. I kept reading the Bible. I learned to pray in plain words. I found myself wanting to know Jesus, not just know about him. Grace turned belief into a path I could actually walk. I never expected to meet Jesus at university. I never expected an invitation in an orientation line to change my direction. But that is the beauty of grace: it meets us before we know how to look for it. If you find yourself where I was – curious, uncertain, a little surprised – open a Bible. Ask your real questions. See what the cross means, not in theory, but for you. I did. And it changed everything. © Nathan Cole Originally published on Medium .

When people talk about heaven, the image is often the same: clouds, harps, halos. Souls float upward into a spiritual retreat, far from the mess of this world. It’s soothing. Familiar. Almost cinematic. But it’s also wrong. This vision doesn’t come from Jesus. It comes from Plato. And if your hope is shaped by his worldview, not the Bible’s, you may be clinging to a future that God never promised — and ignoring the one he actually did. Plato’s Heaven Isn’t the Bible’s Plato believed the material world was a lower, shadowy realm — a corrupted version of some perfect, invisible reality. To him, the body was a prison and the soul’s goal was escape. This dualism seeped into early Christian thought, especially through thinkers like Origen, who borrowed Platonic ideas to explain Christian truths. Even Augustine, though he ultimately affirmed the resurrection of the body in City of God , wrestled with this tension in his early writings. The result? A long legacy of Christians talking about the afterlife as if salvation means floating away from the physical world forever. But that’s not what the Bible teaches. Resurrection Over Escape The Bible’s hope isn’t about escaping the earth. It’s about God renewing it. In Genesis, God calls the material world “very good.” In Isaiah, the prophet dreams of lions lying down with lambs and swords turning into ploughshares — not disembodied bliss, but a renewed world pulsing with peace and justice (Isaiah 11.) Jesus doesn’t pray for our souls to flee to heaven. He teaches his disciples to pray, “Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven” (Matthew 6:10). And when Jesus rises from the dead, he’s not a ghost. He eats fish. He bears scars. He walks and talks, and breathes in a physical body. Paul calls it the “firstfruits” of what’s to come (1 Corinthians 15:20) — a glimpse of what God will one day do for all creation. Revelation doesn’t end with souls going up to heaven, but with heaven coming down to earth: “Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth… the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God…” (Revelation 21:1–2) The final picture isn’t an evacuation. It’s re-creation. What We Lose When We Get Heaven Wrong If you think heaven is a ghostly afterlife for disembodied souls, you’ll start treating this world like a disposable stage. You’ll live as though what we do here — how we work, love, build, and care — doesn’t really matter. But if you believe God plans to restore creation, then everything matters. Suddenly, your job isn’t just a paycheck. It’s a calling. Your body isn’t just a shell. It’s sacred. Your home, your community, your planet — they’re not background scenery. They’re part of the story God is redeeming. This is why the early Christians were so radical. They didn’t just preach escape. They lived renewal. They fed the poor, cared for the sick, and risked their lives for the dignity of others — because they believed God was making all things new. This Changes Everything The true Christian hope isn’t just about where you go when you die. It’s about what God is doing with the whole world — and how you can be part of it now. So next time you picture heaven, forget the clouds. Forget the harps. Picture dirt. Grass. Trees. Cities. People. Work. Joy. Love. Bodies made whole. Creation made right. Heaven isn’t the end of the story. It’s the beginning of a world resurrected. And that’s a far better hope than Plato ever dreamed. Let’s Talk: What picture of heaven did you grow up with? Has it shaped the way you live now — for better or worse? Drop a comment here and let’s dig into it. © Nathan Cole Originally published on Medium .

unsplash What if the most important thing about you isn’t what you believe — but what story you’re living in? That might sound strange, especially to Christians used to thinking in terms of doctrines or worldviews. But beneath all that, every person is shaped by a story. Whether we realise it or not, we’re constantly drawing from some narrative to understand who we are, why the world is broken, and what we’re supposed to do about it. We’re not just minds that need facts. We’re humans who need meaning. And meaning always comes wrapped in a story. The stories we live by You’ve probably heard the modern ones. The progress story: We’re evolving past all those old ideas. One day, technology will solve everything. The freedom story: Be true to yourself. Break all the rules. Chase your desires and cut off whoever gets in the way. The activist story: The world is broken. But if we work hard enough, if we get angry enough, we’ll fix it. The pleasure story: Nothing really matters, so just enjoy yourself. Travel. Drink good wine. Document it all in square tiles. These stories are popular because they promise a lot. But they don’t deliver. The progress story can’t explain why we still hurt each other. The freedom story often leaves us isolated and anxious. The activist story burns people out. And the pleasure story feels hollow once the novelty wears off. You can try to live in these stories — but they’ll leave you tired, disillusioned, or numb. Sometimes all three. What we need is a story big enough to make sense of our longings and our losses. A story that’s not just emotionally satisfying, but actually true. That’s exactly what the Bible offers. The true myth C.S. Lewis once called Christianity “the true myth.” Not because it’s make-believe, but because it has the shape of the stories that have always moved us. A world made good. A fall into ruin. A promised hero. A great rescue. A future restored. It’s the story behind all the stories we love — but this one actually happened. It doesn’t ignore sorrow. It takes it seriously. It doesn’t offer escapism. It offers redemption. It doesn’t flatter us. It tells us the truth — that we are more broken than we care to admit, and more loved than we dared to hope. The cross is the plot twist no one saw coming: the King dies for the rebels. And the resurrection? That’s not a comforting end to the story — it’s the beginning of something entirely new. Why it matters If you’re a Christian, this isn’t just a story you believe. It’s the story you’re part of. That means your life has a shape — even when it feels directionless. Your suffering has a place — even when it doesn’t make sense yet. Your daily choices matter — not because they impress God, but because they’re part of a real narrative that’s heading somewhere. A story with a beginning, a climax, and a promised ending. And if you’re a writer, this is where it gets exciting. Because the world is starving for stories that ring true. Not just logically consistent, but emotionally real. Stories that don’t just diagnose the world’s pain, but offer something more than cynicism or self-help. You don’t have to write theology or Bible studies to tell the story of the gospel. You can write poetry. Memoir. Personal essays. Novels. Visual art. Letters. Whatever your form, let the true myth shape the way you see — and show — the world. Let your characters wrestle with grace. Let your metaphors echo resurrection. Let your prose remind people that beauty matters — because creation matters. We live in a world drowning in content but starving for meaning. We don’t need louder voices. We need deeper ones. So what story are you living in? That’s the question I keep coming back to. Because everyone lives by some kind of story. And only one of them is true. The Bible isn’t just a collection of comforting verses or ancient rules. It’s a narrative that explains why the world is beautiful and broken, why we long for justice and home, why death feels wrong and hope feels right. It doesn’t just offer answers. It offers meaning. It doesn’t just tell us what to believe . It tells us who we are. And it doesn’t just give us something to stand on. It gives us a story to live in — and to live for. This is not just a story to believe. It’s the story you were made for. What story have you been living in — and how did you know it wasn’t enough? I’d love to hear your thoughts. © Nathan Cole Originally published on Medium .

Photo by Alexandr Voronsky on Unsplash We like to think of identity as something we build . As if we’re the authors of ourselves. But more often than not, identity is something we absorb . We pick it up without realising. From family scripts. From childhood labels. From culture’s loudest voices. From the failures we haven’t made peace with — and the successes we’ve grown addicted to. And when we forget who we are in Christ, the world is more than happy to fill in the blanks. The names we never chose The world doesn’t offer neutral ground. If you don’t know who you are, it will name you. You are your productivity. You are your sexuality. You are your trauma. You are your body. You are your social feed. You are your relationships. You are your past. You are your potential. These messages don’t come in bullet points. They come in algorithms, expectations, Instagram captions, and late-night shame. They’re stitched into the air we breathe. We may never consciously say them out loud. But we act like they’re true — hustling to stay impressive, shrinking to avoid rejection, medicating the ache with distraction or denial. Identity isn’t just emotional. It’s spiritual. This isn’t just a mental health issue. It’s a spiritual battle. Ephesians says we once “followed the ways of this world and the ruler of the kingdom of the air” (2:2). We were dead in our sins. Not confused. Not slightly misaligned. Dead. But God, being rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ. He didn’t just give us a fresh start. He gave us a new self — one that’s being remade in the image of Jesus. The gospel doesn’t merely save us from hell. It saves us from every false identity that threatens to swallow us whole. What Christ says about you In Christ, you are not your worst day. You are not your performance review. You are not your diagnosis. You are not what they said behind your back. You are not your high school reputation or your adulthood imposter syndrome. You are: Chosen (Ephesians 1:4) Adopted (Ephesians 1:5) Redeemed (Ephesians 1:7) Sealed (Ephesians 1:13) Raised up (Ephesians 2:6) Created in Christ Jesus for good works (Ephesians 2:10) This isn’t motivational fluff. These are spiritual realities — anchored in God’s eternal love, secured by Jesus’ blood, guaranteed by the Spirit’s seal. You don’t have to earn these names. You just have to remember them. Why remembering matters It’s no accident that the New Testament is full of identity language. “Put on the new self.”“Consider yourselves dead to sin.”“Be who you are in Christ.” That’s the call again and again. Not just to believe — but to remember . Because we are forgetful people. And forgetful people are vulnerable people. When we forget who we are in Christ, we reach for whatever identity offers the most comfort, the most affirmation, the least friction. And usually, those identities feel good — until they break under pressure. Until the metrics change. Until the applause stops. Until the loneliness catches up. Identity that holds When your identity is in Christ, it doesn’t mean you never struggle. But it means your struggle has context — and your value has already been decided. You don’t have to perform for love. You don’t have to prove you matter. You don’t have to chase belonging like it’s a prize you could lose. In Christ, you are secure . That means when you fail, you’re still forgiven. When you succeed, you’re still humble. When you’re forgotten by others, you’re still known by God. When the labels come — “lazy,” “too much,” “not enough,” “unloveable” — they no longer have the final word. Becoming who you already are Christian growth is not about becoming someone else. It’s about becoming who you already are in Christ. It’s not self-improvement. It’s Spirit-led transformation. It’s not becoming your best self. It’s being conformed to the image of Jesus. It’s not living out of fear. It’s walking in the freedom of a name that can’t be revoked. This is not just a message for new believers. It’s for all of us. Because in a noisy world, even the most grounded Christian can lose their footing. Even the most “mature” believer can forget the names they’ve already been given. If you’ve ever found yourself asking, “Who am I, really?” — you’re not alone. That question isn’t a weakness. It’s a signal. It means you’re paying attention. It means you’re hungry for truth. It means you’re ready to silence the noise and return to the only voice that really matters. If that’s where you are right now, I created something that might help. If you’re looking to slow down and remember.. There’s a lot of noise out there — and it’s easy to forget what’s most true. If you’re in a season where identity feels blurred, or if you simply want space to reflect on who you are in Christ, you might find this helpful. I’ve created a 30-day printable devotional called Identity in Christ . Each day invites you to pause, open Scripture, reflect, and pray. It’s simple, unhurried, and rooted in truth that doesn’t shift with the moment. No pressure. Just an invitation. © Nathan Cole Originally published on Medium . Download the devotional here

Photo by Olya P on Unsplash The quiet pressure to produce It doesn’t always show up as a voice in your head. Sometimes it’s just the way your stomach drops when you see someone else’s career update on LinkedIn. Or the way you feel restless when you take a slow morning instead of ploughing through your to-do list. I’ve carried this pressure — the sense that my worth hangs on what I get done. Work harder, study more, check the boxes, move the needle. If I achieve, I matter. If I don’t, I’m nothing. It sounds dramatic when written out, but many of us quietly live this way. The gospel against the grain Ephesians 2:8–10 offers words that run against the cultural current: “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith — and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God — not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” Here’s the order: Saved by grace (not performance) Through faith (not self-effort) As a gift (not an achievement) To do good works (not to prove our worth) It’s not that work doesn’t matter. It’s that work flows from identity rather than creating it. Achievements are fragile anchors Building identity on achievement feels safe — until it doesn’t. Grades slip. Careers stall. Bodies slow down. Someone younger, faster, smarter enters the room. And then what? If who I am depends on what I achieve, I’m always one failure away from collapse. But if who I am depends on what Christ has done, the foundation is different. He doesn’t change. The cross doesn’t expire. His declaration of grace doesn’t wobble with the markets or the metrics. Grace doesn’t erase work — it redeems it Notice Paul’s flow: grace first, works second. We don’t earn grace by working; we work because grace has already been given. That’s liberating. It means the tasks of the day — emails, spreadsheets, parenting, phone calls — are no longer auditions for acceptance. They are expressions of it. We work not to prove ourselves but to love others. Grace doesn’t cancel diligence. It redeems it. Living from acceptance, not for it Imagine two people doing the same job. Outwardly they look identical — same desk, same deadlines, same tired commute. But one is working to prove they matter. The other is working because they already know they matter in Christ. The difference is enormous. One is chained to achievement; the other is free to serve. A word for the weary achiever If you’re exhausted from carrying the weight of proving yourself, Ephesians 2 whispers something counter-cultural: you are God’s workmanship. His creation. His craft. That means your identity is already given, not earned. Your worth is already secured, not negotiated. And your work — whatever it looks like — is part of God’s larger story, not the thing that defines you. Where this leaves us You are not your résumé. You are not your GPA. You are not your productivity stats. You are God’s beloved, created in Christ Jesus for a life of grace-shaped good works. And that means even on the days when you don’t achieve, you are still His. Keep going If you’d like a way to anchor this truth in your daily life, I’ve created a 30-day printable devotional journal called Identity in Christ . Each page is short: one passage, a reflection prompt, and space to pray. It’s designed to fit into ten quiet minutes a day, and it’s available as a PDF (US Letter/A4) or for GoodNotes. View the 30-day Identity in Christ journal on Etsy → At the end of the day, the truest thing about you isn’t what you’ve achieved – it’s what Christ has already done. Where do you most feel the pull to prove yourself, and what helps you remember your worth is secure in Christ? I’d love to hear in the comments. © Nathan Cole Originally published on Medium .

Photo by Daniil Zameshaev on Unsplash We’re so familiar with the Gospels that we rarely stop to ask the obvious: what kind of books are these? For most of history, people didn’t even frame the question in terms of genre. The Gospels were Scripture – read in churches, proclaimed in sermons, harmonized into a single narrative about Jesus. Later, during the Enlightenment, skeptics dismissed them as myth, while others insisted they were unique – a one-of-a-kind category, unlike anything else in the ancient world. But in recent decades, scholars have noticed something striking. The Gospels fit a genre that was widespread in the first century: the “Life” (bios). These short works told the story of a person of significance – a philosopher, a military leader, even an emperor. They didn’t aim for modern-style detail or strict chronology. They were selective, using episodes and sayings to reveal the essence of someone’s character. And the Gospels fit right in. But they also turn the genre upside down. They don’t just tell a life. They tell the Life. And that’s what makes them explosive. Lives told character through story If you pick up Plutarch’s Life of Alexander, you won’t find a detailed timeline of every year in Alexander the Great’s reign. Instead, you’ll find carefully chosen episodes: a decisive battle, a pivotal conversation, a revealing moral choice. Each one is meant to illustrate Alexander’s character. The Gospels work the same way. They don’t tell us Jesus’ height, the shape of His face, or what He ate for breakfast. They don’t fill in the trivial details we sometimes wish we had. Instead, they zero in on the stories that matter most – the ones that reveal His heart, His authority, His mission. • Mark races us through healings, exorcisms, and confrontations, hammering the question: who is this man? • Matthew frames Jesus as the new Moses, the teacher whose words define a kingdom. • Luke highlights the outsiders, showing how Jesus’ compassion disrupts the norms of society. • John slows the pace, unfolding conversations that reveal divine glory breaking into human life. Just like other ancient Lives, the Gospels select, arrange, and highlight episodes to reveal character. But unlike other Lives, the character in question isn’t simply great. He’s world-shaking. The twist: not just a life, but the Life Here’s where the Gospels bend the genre. Most “Lives” honored figures of the past – philosophers, rulers, heroes – whose deaths were fixed in history. The Gospels insist that Jesus’ death wasn’t the end, but the turning point. And not only that. They insist He’s still alive. John says it outright: “These are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name” (John 20:31). In other words, the Gospels aren’t written simply to inform or inspire. They’re written to invite. You’re not just learning about Jesus. You’re being confronted by Him. Summoned into His story. That’s not how a “Life” was supposed to work. You could admire Alexander. You could imitate Socrates. But Jesus? You don’t just admire or imitate Him. You belong to Him. His life becomes the key to your own. A Life that redefines lives Most ancient Lives aimed to inspire. You’d read about a general’s courage or a philosopher’s wisdom and be challenged to live in the same spirit. The example was the point. But the Gospels go further. Jesus is not just an example. He is a savior. When you read His Life, you don’t walk away with a set of moral lessons. You walk away, confronted by a cross and an empty tomb. His story doesn’t just inspire your life – it transforms it. His death for sin becomes your death to sin. His resurrection becomes your hope. Paul put it bluntly: “I have been crucified with Christ, and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me” (Galatians 2:20). That’s not admiration. That’s union. The Gospels are the record of Jesus’ Life. But they’re also the doorway into ours. His story is not a distant model but a living invitation. Why it matters today You might wonder: Does any of this talk about genre really matter? Isn’t it just academic background? Here’s why: In an age of skepticism, some dismiss the Gospels as fairy tales, while others treat them as theological reflections with little grounding in history. But ancient readers knew exactly what kind of works these were. They weren’t legends floating above reality. They were written in a recognizable form – the “Life” – to make the boldest claim possible: that Jesus of Nazareth is not just another figure worth remembering, but the one through whom God is remaking the world. And here’s the twist modern readers need to hear: unlike every other “Life,” this one doesn’t stay on the page. It reaches out and claims you. The Gospels are about Jesus. But they’re also about you. Your story. Your life. Your place in God’s world. The Gospel as invitation So what kind of books are the Gospels? Ancient readers would have recognized them as “Lives.” But they would have stumbled at the audacity: a crucified man presented as the world’s true Lord, whose story doesn’t end in death but in resurrection. The Gospels fit the genre. But they also break it open. Because Jesus isn’t just one more figure of history. He is the Life. And His story can become yours. © Nathan Cole Originally published on Medium . 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