There are moments in life when the soul grows silent.
When everything we thought we knew about faith is stripped away.
The prayers once spoken with fire now echo in a void, unanswered.
The worship songs that once lifted our hearts now sound like hollow melodies.
We find ourselves staring at the ceiling at night, whispering, "God, where are you?"
And beneath that whisper lies another question we're often too afraid to say out loud.
Why am l still carrying so much pain if I've already met the cross?
The cross.
We wear it on our necks.
We hang it in our homes. We see it on
church walls. But few truly see it.
Because the cross was never meant to be
decoration. It was meant to be
transformation. It's the place where
human weakness meets divine strength,
where shame is confronted, where sin
dies, and where new life is born. But
here's the tragedy.
Many have come to
the cross, but never through it.
They
know Jesus died for them, but they've
never let his death change in them.
So, they remain bound, broken, and burdened,
living as if the tomb was still sealed.
What if the cross isn't just a symbol of
salvation, but the door to
transformation? What if the same power
that raised Christ from the dead is
still waiting to resurrect something in
you right now? Because until you
understand the cross, you'll never
understand who you are meant to become.
If you truly want to understand the power of the cross, you must be willing to look beyond the surface of what it represents.
The cross is not a piece of jewelry or a theological idea.
It's the collision point between heaven and earth where divine justice met divine mercy.
It is where the old creation was crucified and a new creation began.
But somewhere along the way, we learned to admire the cross without allowing it to pierce us.
There's a sacred mystery hidden in that moment on Calvary.
The world saw defeat.
Heaven saw victory.
The world saw a dying man.
Heaven saw a king taking his throne.
The nails did not hold him there.
Love did.
A love so fierce, so unrelenting that it absorbed every ounce of our guilt and pain so that we could stand free.
Yet so many believers live in the shadow of the cross without ever stepping into its light.
They believe in Jesus, but they still battle the same shame, the same addictions, the same voices that whisper, "You'll never change."
But the cross was not meant to decorate your life. It was meant to define it.
When you stand before it with humility, when you let its truth confront every part of who you are, something begins to shift.
The cross does not only save, it transforms.
And maybe that is what's missing in your walk with God.
Maybe you've been seeking his blessings, but not his breaking.
Maybe you've been asking for resurrection but avoiding crucifixion.
Yet transformation always begins with surrender.
The cross is not just what Jesus did for you.
It is what he invites you to carry with him.
If your heart is longing to rediscover God's presence, if your spirit feels dry and distant, I want to personally encourage you to go deeper.
In our devotional,
When God is silent, you'lI find daily reflections and prayers designed to help you reconnect with the voice of God even in seasons when he seems far away.
Because silence does not mean absence.
Sometimes it is the space where God is shaping you through the cross.
This message is not just about understanding what happened at Calvary. It's about living it. The cross
is the turning point between who you were and who you're becoming. It's the place where grace rewrites your story.
And the transformation it offers is not reserved for the holy or the perfect.
It's for the weary, the wounded, and the waiting.
For those who dare to believe that God can make beauty from the ashes of their pain.
Before we continue, I want to invite you to do something sacred, something simple, yet deeply spiritual.
If this message is already stirring something inside of you, if your heart feels the pull of the cross, I want you to pause for a moment and respond not to me, but to God.
Declare your faith right now ; "I will not run from the cross."
When you write it, you're not just engaging with a message, you're making a public confession of surrender.
You're saying, "Lord, I choose transformation over comfort. I choose your will over my own."
And as you do, I want you to take another step.
Because every act of agreement becomes a light that pushes the message of the gospel further into the darkness.
When you share this message, you're not forwarding content.
You're carrying the cross to someone who desperately needs to remember that redemption is still possible.
So wherever you are right now, take a moment, lift your hand if you can whisper it out loud. "Jesus, transform me through the cross."
Because what comes next isn't just a story.
It's an unveiling, a revelation of how the power of the cross changes everything.
There once was a man named Elias.
He was known in his village as a carpenter.
Quiet, diligent, and deeply devoted to his work.
His hands bore the marks of years spent shaping wood into tables, doors, and beams.
But beneath his calm exterior lived a storm no one saw.
Elias carried guilt like a shadow.
Guilt over the family he'd failed to protect, the mistakes he couldn't undo, and the faith he had long abandoned.
Every night he would pass by a small church on his way home.
The wooden cross on its steeple seemed to follow him, watching him with silent eyes.
It wasn't anger he felt toward it.
It was discomfort.
The cross reminded him of a kind of love he no longer believed he deserved.
One night, after a day that had broken him in more ways than one, Elias stumbled into that church.
The place was dimly lit, and the air smelled of old candles and dust.
At the altar stood a large wooden cross, weathered and scarred.
He stared at it for a long time before whispering, "If
you're real, if you still see me, then
show me what this means." "Silence!" he
fell to his knees, anger breaking
through his restraint. "You talk about
forgiveness," he shouted. "But how do
you forgive a man who can't forgive
himself?" His voice echoed through the
empty church, and for a moment it felt
as if his words were swallowed by the
walls. But then something shifted. It
wasn't a sound. It wasn't a vision.It
was a sense deep, still undeniable.
A presence that wrapped around him, not in
condemnation, but in compassion. And in
his spirit, he heard words that were not
his own. Elias, the cross wasn't built
for perfect men. It was built for you.
He lifted his head, eyes wet with
disbelief. And suddenly, in the dim
light of the sanctuary, the wooden cross
seemed to change before him.
It was no longer a symbol.
It was a story.
He saw flashes in his mind, a hill called Golgotha, the sky darkened, the sound of nails being driven through flesh, and a why God allows you to struggle with
lust, the hidden purpose behind the
thorn. You've begged God to take it
away. You've prayed until your throat
was raw. You've fasted until your body
trembled. You've deleted the apps,
thrown away the magazines, blocked the
websites, cried into your pillow night
after night. And yet, the desire still
lingers. Lust won't leave.
You whisper into the dark, "Why God?
Why won't you take this from me?"
And the silence feels like abandonment.
But what if I told you something that might shaketo your core?
What if the very thing you've been desperate to escape is the very thing God is using to save your soul?
What if the thorn that cuts you deepest is not your curse, but your calling in disguise?
Stay until the very end because in this message that we're going to uncover a truth that the enemy hopes you never discover, the divine purpose behind your struggle and the secret verse that holds the blueprint to your freedom.
The cry God never ignores.
You've shouted.
You've wept.
You've pleaded.
Take it away, Lord. Please. I hate this lust. I hate what it makes me feel.
But here's what no one in the church ever told you.
Lust is not just a sin.
It's a symptom.
And every symptom points to something deeper, a wound, a hunger, a need that's crying out beneath the surface.
The battle you're fighting is not about your body.
It's about your identity.
Lust whispers, "You're unworthy."
The enemy sneers, "You're filthy. You're a pervert. God could never love someone like you."
And shame becomes your prison.
But God whispers something far different.
He calls you beloved.
He calls you redeemed.
He calls you son, daughter, chosen.
And that whisper carries the truth Satan fears the most.
That your struggle does not define you.
Your identity is not bound to your weakness.
It's bound to Christ, the thorn and the grace.
There was a man named Paul who begged God three times to remove a thorn in his flesh.
We don't know what it was.
Some say it was sickness.
Others whisper it was temptation, maybe even lust.
But God's answer was the same for all of us whoʻve prayed that same desperate prayer.
My grace is sufficient for you.
Not instant deliverance, not immediate healing, just grace. Why?
Because sometimes your struggle isn't punishment.
It's an invitation to discover a grace that only reveals itself in weakness.
Without the thorn, pride grows.
Without the thorn, dependence fades.
But with it, you cling to him.
You lean in.
You stay close.
The test comes first before you get the throne.
Consider Joseph.
Tempted day after day
by Potiphar's wife.
He ran from sin.
And where did it lead him?
Not to a throne, but to a prison.
Why would God allow that?
Because lust is often the test before elevation.
Before the palace comes the prison.
Before the crown comes the cross, before glory comes the fire.
Your delay is not divine cruelty.
It's divine preparation.
God is refining the heart that he intends to trust with destiny.
The eyes and the gate. Lust always
begins with the eyes. Eve saw the fruit.
She desired it and she took it.
Thousands of years later, the pattern
hasn't changed. That's why Jesus said,
"If your eye causes you to sin, pluck it
out." Matthew 18:9.
Not because God is cruel, but because
vision is powerful. What enters through
the eye can chain the heart. Even Jesus
was tempted in every way. Yes, every
way. That includes the desires of the flesh. And yet, he did not sin. How did
he fight? With three words, it is
written, scripture was his sword, and it
can be yours, too. The question we al
ask, so why doesn't God just remove the
desire? Why doesn't he snap his fingers
and erase lust forever? Because
deliverance without dependence breeds
idolatry?
If God gave you instant freedom, would you still chase him?
Or would you start worshiping the gift instead of the giver?
Some idols are not found in sin.
They're found in blessings. God delays not because he's
cruel, but because he's after something
deeper than obedience. He's after
intimacy. He wants your tears, your
surrender, your desperate prayers. He
wants you to cling when nothing makes
sense.
Because in that clinging, you're transformed.
The fire does not destroy you. It purifies you.
The secret the enemy hates.
Every click, every glance, every fantasy is a silent agreement with the kingdom of darkness.
But here's the secret.
If you made the agreement, you can break it. You are not addicted. You
are anointed. The enemy doesn't attack
what doesn't threaten him. Your struggle
with lust is proof that you are
dangerous to hell. He strikes your
purity because if he can corrupt it, he
can chain your destiny. But hear me.
Your freedom doesn't need your strength, only your decision.
Say it aloud.
I choose purity.
Three words that shatter strongholds.
Three words that make demons tremble.
Confession isn't weakness.
It's warfare.
What you expose, God will expel. Lust thrives in the
shadows, but dies in the light. That's
why the enemy isolates you to convince
you you're alone. Elijah thought he was
alone, too, until God told him there
were 7,000 others who hadn't bowed to
Baal.
You're not the only one fighting this war.
And your breakthrough will one day become someone else's testimony.
The wilderness of refining.
The people of God wandered in the wilderness for 40 years.
Not because they were lost, but because they were being refined.
Every delay was a lesson.
Every dry
place was a proving ground. The
wilderness was not punishment. It was
preparation. And maybe that's what your
repeated cycle of temptation really is.
Not a sign that God has abandoned you,
but that he is shaping you for something greater.
The waiting, the wrestling, the moments you fall and rise again.
They are not wasted.
They are building endurance, humility, and dependence.
They are molding a heart that knows how to worship even in weakness.
When David prayed, "Turn my eyes from worthless things." Psalm 119:37, he wasn't being poetic.
He was fighting a spiritual war with sacred words.
That prayer wasn't just verse. It was a key.
A key that unlocks clarity when the fog of desire clouds your soul.
Pray it.
Speak it.
Believe it.
Watch how the atmosphere shifts when your focus returns to heaven.
Because your thorn is not your enemy. It's your teacher.
It drives you to the feet of Jesus Christ.
Without it, you might drift.
With it, you cling.
And every moment you choose to keep walking, even through the wilderness, you are becoming the person God has always seen you to be.
The covenant of the eyes.
Job 31:1 said, "I made a covenant with my eyes not to look lustfully at a young woman."
That wasn't metaphor.
It was warfare.
He consecrated his vision to God.
Have you made that covenant yet?
Your eyes are windows to your soul.
If those windows stay unguarded, the enemy enters freely. But lust is not the destination.
It's a door. A door to compromise, to
shame, to spiritual corrosion. If Satan
can steal your purity, he can steal your
peace. If he conquers your desire, he
corrupts your destiny. That's why the
war feels so relentless. Because behind
this door lies everything God has placed
inside you.
Worship the weapon of freedom.
The voice of lust is ancient.
It whispers just once.
No one will know.
God understands.
But that voice is not yours.
It belongs freely. But lust is not the destination.
It's a door. A door to compromise, to
shame, to spiritual corrosion. If Satan
can steal your purity, he can steal your
peace. If he conquers your desire, he
corrupts your destiny. That's why the
war feels so relentless. Because behind
this door lies everything God has placed
inside you. Worship the weapon of
freedom. The voice of lust is ancient.
It whispers just once.
No one will know.
God understands.
But that voice is not yours.
It belongs
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