How Does Someone Who Grew Up In A Transactional Relationship Break Free From That Mentality?

When we grow up in a transactional relationship, we learn a survival language: “If I do enough, I’ll be safe. If I perform well, I’ll be loved. If I fail, I’ll be punished or rejected.” Over time, we carry that scorekeeping mentality into everything, even into our relationship with God, our spouse, and the people we care about. We end up living like love is a contract and acceptance is a wage. 

Breaking free starts with naming the lie for what it is. The lie is that our worth is something we earn. Scripture confronts that lie head-on. We are saved “by grace… through faith,” and it is “not of works” (Eph 2:8–9). That means God does not relate to us on a payback system. He doesn’t love us because we are impressive. He loved us “while we were still sinners” (Rom 5:8). If grace is real, then the foundation of our relationship with God is not our performance; it is His mercy. And once we start trusting that, the transactional mindset begins to lose its authority over our hearts. 

This is where we have to let the gospel rewire us. Many of us treat God like a boss: “If I do my job, He’ll bless me. If I fail, He’ll fire me.” But Jesus says something completely different: “No longer do I call you servants… but I have called you friends” (John 15:15). That doesn’t erase obedience, but it changes the posture. We obey as sons and daughters, not as fearful employees trying to keep a job. Scripture even calls this out as a shift from bondage to adoption: we did not receive “the spirit of bondage again to fear,” but “the Spirit of adoption” (Rom 8:15–16; Gal 4:6–7). Transactional thinking is usually fear-based. Adoption is love-based. 

 

So what does it look like, practically, to break free? 

 

We start by refusing to keep score with God. If we grew up with conditions, we unconsciously assume God is keeping a spreadsheet, too. But Romans tells us there is “now no condemnation” for those who are in Christ Jesus (Rom 8:1–2). That doesn’t mean there are no consequences in life, and it doesn’t mean holiness doesn’t matter. It means our standing with God is settled by Christ, not negotiated by our anxiety. The score was not left open. The debt was paid. That is why Psalm 103 is so healing for people like us: God “has not dealt with us according to our sins,” and He removes our transgressions “as far as the east is from the west” (Ps 103:10–12). That is not transactional. That is mercy. 

We also have to renew the way we think. The transactional mind is trained, and it will not disappear just because we heard a sermon once. That’s why Scripture says we are “transformed by the renewing of our mind” (Rom 12:2). In real life, that means we learn to catch the old script when it rises up: “I failed, so God must be done with me.” Then we answer it with truth: “He who has begun a good work in us will complete it” (Phil 1:6). We learn to put off the old man and put on the new man (Eph 4:22–24; Col 3:9–10). This is slow work. But it is real work, healing work. 

Another key is learning to receive love without trying to pay for it. Transactional relationships teach us that gifts always come with strings. But the Bible says every good gift is from the Father (James 1:17), and that grace is something we “receive,” not something we earn (John 1:16). Even the story of the prodigal son is meant to crush the transaction: the son tries to negotiate his way back in, “make me like one of your hired servants” but the father interrupts him with restoration, affection, and celebration (Luke 15:20–24). That’s the gospel in a picture. Many of us want a contract. God offers a home. 

As we heal in God’s grace, our human relationships begin to change as well. Transactional love sounds like: “I’ll love you as long as you meet my needs.” But biblical love doesn’t behave that way. Love “does not seek its own,” and it “endures” (1 Cor 13:4–8). That doesn’t mean we tolerate abuse or ignore boundaries. It means we stop relating like accountants, always calculating who owes what. We start valuing people as people, not as emotional vending machines. We learn to give because we are loved, not to get loved. 

We also need to face the fear underneath the transaction. Transactional thinking is often a way to avoid vulnerability. If I can “do enough,” then I don’t have to risk being known, needing, or depending. But the gospel requires dependence. God doesn’t ask us to white-knuckle our way into holiness. He works in us “both to will and to do for His good pleasure” (Phil 2:13). We are not saved by works, but neither are we left alone; His Spirit produces a new kind of obedience that flows from love, not panic. 

And when we stumble, and we will, we practice coming back quickly. Transactional thinking says, “Hide until you’re better.” Grace says, “Come to the Father now.” We cast our cares on Him because He cares for us (1 Pet 5:7). We refuse to be entangled again with a yoke of bondage (Gal 5:1). We remember we are accepted in the Beloved (Eph 1:5–6). We remember sin does not have dominion over us because we are “not under law but under grace” (Rom 6:14). That’s how the cycle breaks, not by pretending we don’t struggle, but by refusing to interpret our struggle as disqualification. 

So if I had to say it plainly, here is the way out: we stop negotiating for love and start receiving it. We stop performing for worth and start living from our identity. We stop keeping score and start trusting the One who already settled the score through Christ. The transactional mindset was learned in the context of survival. Freedom is learned in grace. And the good news is that God is not asking us to heal ourselves alone; He is already at work in us, finishing what He started, one honest step at a time (Phil 1:6). 

Could You Forgive Someone Who Seeks to Cause You Unimaginable Pain, Even Your Death?

That question presses on us more deeply in an hour like this because when violence rises around public leaders, we are forced to look beyond headlines and ask what is happening in the human heart. We may want quick conclusions, quick blame, and quick certainty. But if I am going to think as a Christian, I have to begin at a deeper level. I have to begin with sin, hatred, fear, power, and the sobering reality that when a nation is deeply divided, those things do not stay hidden for long. 

What we are watching in our country, “again,” and in the world is not merely a political disagreement. It is a collision of visions, loyalties, and moral commitments. President Trump is not viewed as a neutral political figure. To many of his supporters, he represents an attempt to restore order, national identity, public restraint, religious liberty, and a more openly conservative moral framework. To many of his opponents, he represents a threat to the postwar progressive settlement in government, culture, education, and foreign policy. That makes him more than a politician in the public mind. It makes him symbolic. And symbolic leaders draw both intense devotion and intense hatred. 

That is why assassination attempts and violent threats should never be treated lightly or reduced to a passing spectacle. History shows that such acts often arise in moments when a leader is perceived as threatening entrenched interests, destabilizing accepted norms, or standing in the way of powerful ideological currents. In ancient Israel, violent changes in leadership were rarely about a single person. They reflected broader convulsions in the nation. The same pattern has appeared throughout world history. Sometimes personal instability plays a role. But many attempts on leaders emerge in times of political and spiritual fracture, where deeper tensions are already alive beneath the surface. 

That is also why I do not think we can understand what is happening in America apart from the wider world. Washington is not isolated from Tehran, Jerusalem, Hormuz, London, Moscow, or Beijing. The United States is already strained by political polarization, war in the Middle East, anxiety over global order, and fears of economic disruption. Israel and Iran remain at the center of a dangerous regional struggle. The Strait of Hormuz remains one of the world’s most sensitive energy chokepoints. Great powers are watching, calculating, and preparing. We are living in a time when domestic instability and international conflict can feed each other very quickly. 

That does not mean we should rush into sensationalism. It does mean we should be sober. Great upheavals rarely begin with one single event. They build through pressure, grievance, ideology, strategic interests, and repeated acts of brinkmanship. One attack does not cause a world war on its own. But it can reveal how unstable the atmosphere has become. 

As a Christian, though, I cannot stop with political analysis. I have to ask the harder question: what does God require of us when hatred becomes this open and this intense? Jesus said, “Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you” (Matthew 5:44, NKJV). That is not sentimental language. That is a different kind of warfare. It is Christ calling us to refuse the spirit of vengeance even when the world around us is feeding on it. 

That is where the question of forgiveness becomes central. Could I forgive someone who sought to cause me unimaginable pain, even my death? In my flesh, I know how hard that question is. But as a believer, I also know I cannot ignore it. Stephen prayed, “Lord, do not charge them with this sin” as he was being murdered (Acts 7:60, NKJV). Jesus prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do” from the cross (Luke 23:34, NKJV). Forgiveness does not mean evil is excused. It does not mean justice no longer matters. It means I refuse to let hatred become my master. 

That matters in public life too. When a leader accepts the risk of office in a divided and angry age, he is stepping into a place where hatred can become deadly. Whether one agrees with Trump on every matter or not, the willingness to remain in such a role under real threat helps explain why many of his supporters see his motives as more serious than mere ambition. But even there, our response as Christians must be governed by Scripture, not only by political loyalty. We are called to pray for kings and all who are in authority (1 Timothy 2:1–2, NKJV), not because every ruler is righteous, but because God cares about peace, order, and the conditions under which truth may still be spoken. 

So how close are we to global upheaval? Close enough to be vigilant, prayerful, and morally awake. Close enough to recognize that the world is under pressure on many fronts at once: political violence, religious hostility, war in the Middle East, economic strain, and growing civilizational conflict. But not close enough for any of us to speak with false certainty about the timetable of world war or the return of Christ. Scripture calls us to discern the times, but it also warns us against prideful certainty where God has not spoken plainly. 

I do believe many Christians understandably see in these events an end-times atmosphere. Israel, Iran, war, oil, global tension, and the moral unraveling of nations all press us in that direction. But the clearest biblical call in such an hour is not panic. It is readiness. It is repentance. It is courage. It is prayer. It refuses both naïveté and hysteria. 

So I come back to the opening question. Could I forgive someone who sought my pain or death? By nature, no. Not truly. But in Christ, I must be willing to move in that direction, because forgiveness is not weakness. It is a testimony that evil will not get the final word in me. At the same time, forgiveness does not cancel vigilance. We still tell the truth. We still oppose evil. We still pray for justice. We still ask God to restrain wickedness and protect those in authority. 

What is happening today matters because it reveals something deeper than politics. It reveals the human heart's condition and the volatility of a world under judgment, strain, and spiritual confusion. That should not drive us to despair. It should drive us to Christ. In a time of hatred, we need holy clarity. In a time of violence, we need moral courage. In a time of upheaval, we need to be found watchful, faithful, and ready. 

“Therefore, you also be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect” (Matthew 24:44, NKJV). 

Why Do Some People Find The Silence Of God Terrifying, While Others See It As A Sign Of Spiritual Growth Or Maturity?

When we talk about “the silence of God,” we have to start by admitting what the Bible itself admits: silence can feel terrifying. That fear is not imaginary, and it is not automatically a sign that we are fake or weak. The Scriptures give us permission to say what we actually feel. David asked, “How long… will You hide Your face?” (Ps 13:1–2). Another psalm cries, “My God… why have You forsaken me?” (Ps 22:1–2). Habakkuk asked why God seemed to tolerate evil and not answer (Hab 1:2–4). Even our Lord Jesus quoted Psalm 22 from the cross, expressing the anguish of abandonment (Matt 27:46). So when God feels silent, we are not the first ones to tremble. We are walking a path God’s people have walked before us. 

 

So why do some of us experience that silence as terror, while others later look back and call it maturity? A lot of it comes down to what we believe silence means. 

 

For some of us, silence feels like abandonment. If our faith is still learning God’s character, we may interpret quiet as rejection. That’s why the psalmist pleads, “Do not be silent to me, lest… I become like those who go down to the pit” (Ps 28:1). If we are already carrying fear, shame, or trauma, silence can press on that old wound and whisper, “God is done with you.” And when we are in pain, our minds do what minds often do: they look for the fastest explanation that matches our emotions. We start assuming God’s hiddenness means God’s absence. 

 

But Scripture repeatedly teaches that God’s hiddenness does not equal God’s absence. There are times when God “hides Himself” (Isa 45:15), and there are seasons when He is teaching us to trust what we cannot see. That is why faith is defined as “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Heb 11:1). There is a kind of spiritual infancy where we need constant reassurance, and God often gives it. But there is also a kind of spiritual maturity in which God trains our trust so that it is anchored in His character and His Word, not only in what we feel in the moment. 

Job is a strong example of that. Job speaks honestly about not being able to find God’s felt presence; “I go forward, but He is not there… I cannot perceive Him” (Job 23:8–9). Yet in the same breath, he says, “He knows the way that I take; when He has tested me, I shall come forth as gold” (Job 23:10). That is the shift from terror to maturity: we stop living only by what we can perceive, and we learn to rest in what God knows. Job even says something that sounds impossible until we have suffered a while: “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him” (Job 13:15). That isn’t denial. That is faith refusing to let silence rewrite who God is. 

 

When we grow, we begin to see that God’s silence can function in more than one way. Sometimes it is discipline when we refuse to repent and keep turning to other gods, sometimes literally, sometimes in the form of our idols (Deut 31:17–18; Isa 64:7). Sometimes it is God letting us feel the emptiness of self-rule until we seek His face again (Hos 5:15). Sometimes it is not punishment at all, but a purposeful delay, like when Jesus heard Lazarus was sick and “stayed two more days” (John 11:6). That delay was not indifference. It was providence. 

 

And sometimes, silence is the training ground of endurance. Scripture says hope that is seen isn’t hope; hope matures when we wait for what we do not see “with perseverance” (Rom 8:24–25). Lamentations even says there is a kind of quiet waiting that is “good,” not because pain is good, but because God is good to those who wait for Him (Lam 3:25–28). The psalms tell us to “rest in the Lord” and “wait patiently” (Ps 37:7), and to “be still” and know He is God (Ps 46:10). That is not the language of abandonment. That is the language of formation. 

We also see this in Jesus Himself. Hebrews says He offered up prayers “with vehement cries and tears,” and that He “learned obedience by the things which He suffered” (Heb 5:7–8). If the sinless Son learned obedience through suffering, then we should not be surprised when God uses suffering, and even silence, to deepen our obedience and our trust. 

 

That’s why some of us, after years of walking with Christ, can say that silence grew our faith. Not because it felt good, but because it forced us to stop living on spiritual adrenaline and start living on God’s promises. We begin to understand that the Christian life is not built on constant emotional clarity. It is built on a faithful God and a persevering faith. That is why Scripture keeps saying, “Wait… be of good courage… He shall strengthen your heart” (Ps 27:13–14). Strength comes through waiting. 

 

Now, I also want to speak to the other side of this, because it’s where many of us actually live day to day. Sometimes the silence of God scares us because we are painfully aware of our own sin and inconsistency. We know what it is to love Christ and still struggle with the flesh. We can look at our failures and start interpreting God’s quiet as God’s disgust. That’s a real fear, especially for those of us who have walked with Him for decades and still feel the sting of falling short. 

 

Here is where I have to anchor our hearts in what the Bible actually says about God. Silence is not God canceling us. Silence is not God abandoning His children. Silence is not proof that our salvation is false. The psalms are full of God’s people saying, “Why?” and yet still calling Him “my Rock” (Ps 42:9–11). Job complains, but he complains to God, not away from Him (Job 30:20). The people of God cry out, sometimes for a long time, and Scripture tells us that we “ought to pray and not lose heart” (Luke 18:1–8). God is not threatened by our questions. What He is doing is often deeper than what we can see. 

 

So, how do we reconcile it in our hearts, minds, and souls? We reconcile it the same way the Bible models it: we keep bringing our raw reality into God’s presence, and we keep choosing trust as an act of worship. We pour out our hearts before Him because He is a refuge (Ps 62:5–8). We accept that His ways are sometimes hidden but never random. We refuse to let shame interpret God for us. We let Scripture interpret God for us. 

And when we do that over time, something changes. The silence does not automatically stop being painful, but it stops being ultimate. It becomes a place where our faith is tested like gold (1 Pet 1:6–7). It becomes a place where perseverance produces character and hope, and hope does not disappoint (Rom 5:3–5). It becomes a place where God’s grace proves sufficient in our weakness (2 Cor 12:7–10). It becomes a place where we learn that our life is being renewed day by day, even when the outward part of us is weary (2 Cor 4:16–18). 

 

So, why do some of us fear God’s silence while others see maturity in it? Because silence exposes what we are standing on. If we are standing on feelings, silence feels like a collapse. If we are standing on God’s Word and God’s character, silence becomes a hard classroom where trust becomes real. Either way, God is still God. He is not silent because He is absent. He is sometimes quiet because He is working in ways we cannot yet name. 

And if we need a single sentence to hold onto when we are scared, it is this: even when we cannot perceive Him, He still knows the way that we take, and He does not waste what He tests (Job 23:10).