It was King David who once sang, “I have not hidden your deliverance within my heart; I have spoken of your faithfulness and your salvation… O Lord, you will not restrain your mercy from me” (Psalm 40:10–11). He understood something that most Christians fail to realise. That the testimony of God’s mercy, when hoarded, withers. But when shared, multiplies. David believed that when a man refuses to withhold his witness, God does not withhold His mercy. And that, in part, is why I write.

Ten years ago, I wrote as a 25-year-old man, single, fresh, wildly hopeful, and naturally quite unaware of just how kind, and how unrelenting, the Lord would be in the years to come. You can find the article here. It was probably my first ever blog post. And to say the least, God has brought to pass all and more of what I had hoped for.

Now at 35, ten years later, I find myself looking back with a deep gratitude of a man who has seen storms, felt failures, tasted joy, and watched promises unfold – not always quickly, not always painlessly, but always faithfully. Again and again. In my weakness. In my ambition. In my doubt. In my stubbornness. In my work, my home, my sin, and my repentance. He has not withheld His mercy. And so I will not withhold my testimony.

What Changed?

Well, for starters, I got married, which is to say, I enlisted in a lifelong, God-ordained tutorial on dying to self. A few years into that curriculum, we faced the kind of silence that only childless prayers can fill. But the Lord, as is His habit, strengthened our faith by making us wait. After all, those who wait on the Lord, mount on wings like eagles (Isaiah 40:31). You can’t have one without the other, can you? So, when we were at an altitude that pleased the Lord, we had two sons, back to back. No children, then a quiver that started filling faster than we could say, “arrows”.

At some point, I was ordained as the Pastor of Redemption Hill Church. Now, that may sound perfectly normal since grass grows, the sun rises in the east, and pastors get ordained. Nothing special here. But this one was a little different. We were a little church plant with no formal leadership, no denominational affiliation, and very little recognition. We were looking for a pastor, and in the meantime, I was the “temporary” preacher, a six-month interim commitment that turned into three years behind the pulpit. Eventually, the members decided to call for a meeting and asked, “Can we just call you Pastor now?” And that was that. Not exactly Westminster standards, but nobody can say we weren’t biblical, we voted. Sort of.

So, I ended up preaching through Ephesians, Jude, the Gospel of John, Romans, and Matthew, one verse at a time, like a man digging a well with a teaspoon, or tunneling out of a prison cell with a rock hammer (cue Morgan Freeman voiceover). Expositional preaching is slow glory. The Word does the heavy lifting, and the preacher just sweats and bleeds on the page. I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything else.

This commitment did mean that we were not going to move as a family to look for better career options, and they were plentiful. Options to move to Canada, or America, the land flowing with milk and honey. Yet, here we remained, and we have no regrets, my family and I.

I’ve married off saints, wept as some walked away, and watched the church grow, not just in number, but in the kind of hard-won maturity that only comes by fire. And yes, I’ve had to exercise spiritual discipline, which sounds a lot holier than it feels. Meanwhile, in the other half of my life, I’ve sharpened my software engineering skills, because someone had to pay for the diapers and domain renewals. I’ve written a few books, composed a few songs, and discovered that the real work of writing is mostly deleting.

The point of it all being that I couldn’t have written a more meaningful story even if I tried. If the hand of the Lord hadn’t turned the wind on my sails through it all, I would have been shipwrecked long ago. And one of the greatest allies in this journey were the people that God placed in my life, weak and struggling Christians, just the kind who were powerful in the Master’s hands. However I helped them grow from behind the pulpit, they helped me grow from the messy middle of church life.

And theologically? I started out a hard-nosed Piperian¹. Resolute, and a little allergic to fun. But somewhere along the way, I became a postmillennial Wilsonian². That means I still believe in God’s absolute sovereignty, Christian hedonism, and the whole deal, but I’ve stopped acting like we’re losing. I believe Jesus is winning. I believe the world is being discipled. I believe the Great Commission works. And I believe laughter and headship go hand in hand.

So what changed? Everything changed. Except the King. Except the Glory. Except the goal.

Therefore, my aim remains the same, as I stated ten years ago – the very desire and pursuit of God that the Holy Spirit cultivates in me, will motivate me with sufficient grace to endure this race for however many years that God will give to me. Now, at thirty-five, I need Him desperately and I know that in another ten years, I will still be needing Him even more desperately.

1. A reference to John Piper ↩︎
2. A reference to Doug Wilson ↩︎