In What Ways Has Modern Society Influenced Protestant Perspectives On Divorce Compared With Those In Biblical Times?

Something disappointing about the question itself is that it assumes we no longer live in “biblical times.” In my opinion, that could not be further from the truth. A simple point I like to make when this question comes up, and it comes up more often than people think, is that people treat “biblical times” as if the Bible is no longer necessary as a moral compass, as if God’s Word is outdated, and as if human nature has somehow improved. 

When that assumption shows up, I point people to the closing verses of Acts. Luke ends Acts with Paul still preaching, still teaching, and still calling Gentiles to hear the salvation of God (Acts 28:28–31). Luke, the author of the Gospel of Luke and Acts, wrote what he received from eyewitness testimony, and he records Paul’s words as the gospel moves outward to the nations. The point I am making is that the idea that we are “past biblical times” often flows from the same human pattern that Acts records: rejection of God’s truth, followed by people living as if they no longer need it, living according to their own worldly wisdom. 

Paul repeats the same reality in Romans: Israel’s “blindness in part” continues “until the fullness of the Gentiles has come in” (Rom 11:25). In other words, the story is still unfolding. So when a Gentile claims we no longer live in “biblical times,” I hear more than a cultural opinion; I hear a way of thinking that wants permission to detach from biblical authority. 

And that leads into the heart of the question. Because once someone assumes we are “beyond” biblical authority, they tend to treat divorce as a matter of personal preference and modern ethics rather than covenant faithfulness before God. That is the foundation I want to lay for the first part of the question: many people use the “we’re not in biblical times” mindset as a license to follow the world’s wisdom and the world’s ways (and Scripture warns us about everyone simply doing what is right in their own eyes, Judg 21:25). 

Now, on the historical side, the shift in Protestant perspectives on divorce reflects a reorientation from biblical authority to secular frameworks. Early Protestants grounded divorce and remarriage in Scripture, identifying limited grounds, most commonly adultery (cf. Matt 19:9) and desertion (cf. 1 Cor 7:15), as legitimate exceptions. That represented a departure from medieval Catholic doctrine, but it still remained constrained by theological conviction.

However, the Reformation also helped move marriage into the category of civil life in many Protestant societies, because marriage was increasingly treated as a civil matter rather than a sacrament. As marriage came to be understood as essentially a civil contract, it fell under state jurisdiction, and laws began to vary according to legislators’ views of justice or expediency, rather than being governed by Scripture’s covenant framework (Mal 2:14–16). 

The decisive shift did not occur solely during the Reformation, but through modern secular philosophy. Enlightenment thinking elevated autonomous reason and prioritized the individual’s pursuit of happiness. Over time, that framework pressed divorce law toward extensive liberalization: the modern idea that a person has the “freedom” to exit an unhappy marriage and pursue a new version of happiness. In practice, that way of thinking has shaped the surrounding culture so deeply that many Protestant churches now function as if civil law is the real authority, while biblical constraint becomes optional or merely “ideal.” 

The consequences have been profound. As Western societies became increasingly secular, marriage was treated primarily as a civil contract, and divorce became progressively normalized. What began as Protestants trying to recover biblical teaching on marriage ultimately helped enable divorce to be decoupled from theological constraints, a trajectory the Reformers themselves likely would not have anticipated or endorsed. 

As I said at the outset, worldly wisdom is often the root that leads to secularism: religious preferences replace biblical authority, marriage becomes “my contract,” church authority is minimized, and personal happiness becomes the highest standard. In other words, everyone does what is right in their own eyes (Judg 21:25). 

I cannot tell you how many divorces I have seen justified this way, because one spouse, more often the husband, decides he wants to pursue adultery with a younger woman because his wife is no longer satisfying him. He wants to chase lust and fulfill the passions of his flesh. God calls that sin. And for a man or woman to abandon vows and break covenant faithfulness is not simply “self-care.” Scripture treats marriage as honorable and covenantal, not disposable (Heb 13:4; Mal 2:14–16; Matt 19:4–6). 

Thus, just as many rejected Christ when He came as the suffering Servant (Isa 53), we in the modern West cast off the moral compass we desperately need. We are guilty of rejecting God’s truth when we allow selfish pursuits to rule us, and we are “without excuse” when we suppress what we know and excuse what God calls sin (Rom 1:20–2:1). 

Nothing has changed about the human heart since the so-called “biblical times.” God is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Heb 13:8). And Scripture still stands: “Let God be true but every man a liar” (Rom 3:4). 

Thus, the result is that modern society has influenced Protestant perspectives on divorce by steadily shifting marriage from a biblical covenant under God’s authority into a civil contract governed by personal fulfillment, secular law, and “what seems right” to the individual. 

Why Do Some Christians Still Struggle After Believing In Christ, Especially In Life Direction, Finances, Everyday Life, And Even Manifestation?

When someone asks, “Why do some Christians still struggle after believing in Christ—especially with life direction, finances, everyday life, and even manifestation?” I hear disappointment underneath the question that I, too, know all too well. And sometimes I want to answer it roughly, but that is not the reality of how I needed to hear the answer. My reality was somewhat slapped in the head hearing the following. We often struggle because our expectations are louder than God’s promises. To be honest, all I could hear was, “What, I expect too much from God. I thought becoming a Christian meant life would be easier, not harder.” So, that whole counting the cost, picking up my cross, and following after Christ was meant for other people, not me. So here is some truth that none of us are ever truly prepared for, but the reality, again, is that living for Christ in this life far outweighs anything this present world offers, and that is the truth. 

 

So, I used to think that believing in Christ meant my life would finally “work.” And if you knew me before I came to faith in Christ, you would know how far my life looked from working. I was a mess. I thought faith would equal clarity, comfort, financial stability, and quick answers. But Jesus didn’t live that kind of life. He lived a life of obedience, sacrifice, and trust in the Father. He taught us not to build our peace on material security, but to seek God’s kingdom first (Matt 6:25–34). That means the Christian life is not a guaranteed escape from pressure; it is learning to walk with God inside the pressure. And to be brutally honest, I know my soul is saved, but sometimes I think my bank account is backslidden. But then other days, I know my bank account is saved, what is with that? 

 

Here are a few reasons why we still struggle—even after we truly believe. 

 

1) We confuse salvation with instant transformation. 

When we come to Christ, we are forgiven and belong to Him. But we still live in a fallen world, and we still carry flesh that fights against the Spirit (Gal 5:16–17). That tension is real. Paul describes it honestly: wanting to do what is right, yet still battling sin in the body (Rom 7:15–25). So, when we struggle, it doesn’t always mean our faith is fake. It often means we’re still in the war. 

 

2) We expect “hope” to look like what we can see right now.

Scripture says hope that is seen isn’t really hope (Rom 8:24–25). Faith is learning to trust God when the evidence isn’t visible yet (Heb 11:1; 2 Cor 5:7). That matters for direction and finances, because we want certainty. We want a timeline. We want a guarantee. But God often teaches us to walk with Him one step at a time—trusting Him with the next right thing (Prov 3:5–6; Prov 16:9). The phrase, “If you fail to plan, you’ve planned to fail,” applies here.

 

3) We think contentment means “I got what I wanted.”

Paul’s testimony is the opposite. He learned contentment in both lack and abundance, hunger and fullness, need and provision (Phil 4:11–13). That’s not denial. That’s maturity. It means we can have real peace in real hardship because Christ strengthens us, not because life becomes easy. Ask yourself: how many times have you gotten what you thought you wanted or needed, only to realize later that it did not fulfill you or make you feel satisfied? 

 

4) Some of our prayers are sincere, but our motives are mixed.

James says we can ask and not receive because we ask “amiss,” wanting to spend it on our pleasures (James 4:3). I have to check myself here. Sometimes I’m asking God for comfort when God is trying to form character. Sometimes I’m asking for a shortcut when God is building endurance. 

 

5) God often uses weakness to teach us dependence.

Paul begged for relief, and God didn’t remove the thorn. Instead, God said, “My grace is sufficient… My strength is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor 12:9–10). That’s hard for us because we want strength to look like control. But God’s strength often shows up when we run out of ourselves. 

 

6) We’re still living inside a groaning creation.

Romans 8 says creation is subjected to futility and corruption, and even we who have the Spirit still groan while we wait for full redemption (Rom 8:18–25). That explains why direction can feel confusing and why finances can feel tight. We are saved, but we are not home yet. 

 

7) “Manifestation” is often a sign our expectations have drifted.

I want to say this carefully: this is a lie straight from the pit of hell. It aligns directly with the health-and-wealth prosperity doctrine. When Christians borrow the “manifestation” framework, it often turns faith into a technique—“If I believe hard enough, I can force results.” But the Bible calls us to trust God, not control outcomes. We plan, but the Lord directs steps (Prov 16:9). We commit our way to Him and rest in His timing (Ps 37:4–7). That’s very different from trying to “speak” reality into existence as if we are sovereign. This has nothing to do with planning for one’s future and saving, and building a savings account for retirement or the college fund for your children, or the savings for the car repairs that come due. All that is wise stewarding. If one does not plan accordingly, they have planned to fail. None of us is the captain of our own destiny. 

 

So why do Christians still struggle? 

Because believing in Christ doesn’t remove the battlefield—it gives us a Shepherd on the battlefield. Jesus promised tribulation in this world, but also peace in Him (John 16:33). God’s goal is not merely our comfort; it’s our formation. Trials produce perseverance, character, and hope (Rom 5:3–5). Testing produces maturity (James 1:2–4). And along the way, God comforts us so we can comfort others (2 Cor 1:3–7). And lest we forget, “We must through many tribulations enter the Kingdom of God,” Acts 14:22. Not a few trials, or a couple, or even a handful, no, many tribulations is what God said, and all that means is what He said, many. 

 

If you’re struggling right now, I want to offer one gentle question that often helps me reset: Am I measuring God’s goodness by my circumstances, or by the cross and His promises? God may not be giving you what you want on your schedule, but He will not leave you or forsake you (Heb 13:5). And if you keep walking with Him, even your struggle can become part of how He shapes you into someone steady, humble, and useful. 

How Did I Prep My Teen To Be Ready For Dating?

For me, preparing a teen for dating did not begin with dating itself. It began much earlier, with building a biblical foundation for how to think, choose, relate to others, and live before God. Proverbs 22:6 says, “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” That verse mattered deeply to me because I did not believe I could neglect character formation for years and then suddenly expect wisdom once romance entered the picture. 

So before dating was even considered, my wife and I wanted our children to grow in social maturity, self-control, honesty, respect, and discernment. I wanted them to learn how to listen, communicate, carry themselves with dignity, think through consequences, and value what is true, noble, just, pure, lovely, and of good report, as Philippians 4:8 says. I did not want culture shaping their view of relationships before Scripture did. 

My wife and I also knew from our own teenage years that we needed to do some things differently. Based on our own experiences, we told our kids that dating in the committed high-school sense was not an option because we believed that kind of relationship could easily distract them from our long-term goal for them: college and a stable future. We had already made sacrifices for their education, and we did not want them sidetracked. 

That did not mean we treated normal social life like sin. Going out with friends was not the problem, and going out itself, as long as they kept up with their grades and responsibilities. We also told them that when the time came, we would help them with cars so they would not always have to depend on friends or on us. A lot of what shaped our parenting came from looking honestly at our own teenage years, the mistakes we made, and the consequences those choices brought into our lives. By God’s grace, we made course corrections, and our children benefited from that. 

So in many ways, we prepared them by looking honestly at our past, by examining both the good and the bad, and by talking openly with our children about where choices lead. I would often labor one point as a father: “What’s next?” I would walk them through situations and ask, “If you make that choice, what comes after it?” 

For example, if one of our daughters were to drink alcohol, I would say, “Alright, you drank. Now what? You are in the house or in the car with whoever you are with. What happens next? What do you think he wants? Are you ready to say no? And do you think he will simply accept that no, if he is only thinking about himself?” I wanted my children to think through consequences before they were ever standing in the middle of pressure. Proverbs 4:23 says, “Keep your heart with all diligence, for out of it spring the issues of life.” That kind of guarding begins before the crisis moment, not during it. 

As dating approached, I believed clear biblical expectations had to be established. Love is not simply attraction or emotional intensity. First Corinthians 13:4–7 teaches that love is patient, kind, humble, truthful, and not self-seeking. That meant I wanted my children to understand that if a relationship is manipulative, impure, selfish, or rooted in pressure, it is not biblical love, no matter what label people put on it. 

We also believed in establishing boundaries before emotions cloud judgment. First Thessalonians 4:3–5 teaches sanctification, purity, and honor. Second Timothy 2:22 says to flee youthful lusts and pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace. First Corinthians 6:18–20 says to flee sexual immorality and glorify God in your body. Those truths mattered because our children were growing up in a culture that normalizes lust, mocks restraint, and confuses desire with love. I wanted them to understand that holiness is not old-fashioned, purity is not weakness, and restraint is not shameful. It is obedience. 

Who they spent time with mattered too. Second Corinthians 6:14 warns against being unequally yoked. Proverbs 13:20 says that the one who walks with wise men will be wise. First Corinthians 15:33 says evil company corrupts good habits. So I taught that attraction is never enough. Character matters. Faith matters. Purity matters. Direction matters. If someone is not walking with Christ, that relationship is not spiritually safe, no matter how exciting it may feel. 

I also believed dating should be framed as discernment, not entertainment. The question is not merely, “Do I like this person?” but, “Is this wise before God?” Romans 12:1–2 teaches us not to be conformed to this world but transformed by the renewing of our mind. Proverbs 3:5–6 tells us to trust in the Lord and not lean on our own understanding. Matthew 6:33 tells us to seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness. I wanted my children to learn that relationships must be evaluated under the lordship of Christ, not simply under emotion. 

I also wanted them to know what to look for in themselves and in others. First Timothy 4:12 tells the young to be examples in word, conduct, love, faith, and purity. Titus 2:6–8 calls young men to sobriety, integrity, and sound speech. First Peter 3:3–4 points to the hidden beauty of the heart. Proverbs 31 points to virtue, wisdom, strength, diligence, and kindness. Ruth 3:10–11 highlights the honor of a virtuous woman. These passages remind us that readiness for dating is not first about appearance or popularity. It is about spiritual and moral formation. 

By God’s grace, our children are doing very well today. Our youngest is studying to be a nurse. Our middle child is a data analyst for a large drug manufacturer. Our oldest manages a large name-brand store. Our two older children have master’s degrees, and our youngest is still working toward her master's degree. I am grateful for all of that. 

But I want to be clear: I do not take credit for myself or my wife, as though we were wise enough on our own. If you knew me as a teenager, you would know I could have ruined them if left to my own devices. We give God the glory. It was our faith in Him that taught us to think differently, to plan differently, and to try to raise our children in His ways. Whatever good came of our parenting came because the Lord was merciful to us and faithful to our family. 

So if I were encouraging another parent, I would say this: do not wait until your teen wants to date before you start discipling their heart. Build the foundation early. Teach social maturity before romance. Teach them how to speak, how to think, how to handle pressure, how to guard their heart, how to recognize character, how to honor God with their body, and how to ask, “What’s next?” after every choice. Do not only give rules. Give wisdom. Give biblical categories. Give honest conversations. And above all, keep pointing them to Christ, because in the end, our children do not just need our protection. They need the wisdom and grace of God. 

How Does Our Faith Grow Because Of Parenting—Not In Spite Of It?

I think the Bible answers that by showing us that parenting is one of God’s most consistent “training grounds” for spiritual maturity.

 

How our faith grows because of parenting (not in spite of it) 

1) Parenting forces our faith out of theory and into daily practice.

God doesn’t mainly tell us to teach our children in a classroom setting. He tells us to weave His truth into the normal rhythms of life, when we sit at home, when we walk, when we lie down, and when we rise up (Deut 6:6–7; Deut 11:18–19). That rhythm forces us to ask, “Do I actually believe what I’m saying?” Because kids don’t just hear our words, they watch our tone, our patience, and our repentance.

 

2) Parenting exposes what’s in our hearts, so God can shape us 

Scripture says our inner life matters because “out of it spring the issues of life” (Prov 4:23). Parenting presses on the heart sleep deprivation, stress, conflict, fear, and responsibility. And when pressure reveals what’s in us, we can either harden… or we can let God refine us. That is one reason parenting grows us: it shows us where we still need God. 

 

3) Parenting grows our faith because it humbles us into dependence. 

Most of us start parenting thinking we can “figure it out.” Then reality hits: we can’t control outcomes, we can’t guarantee a child’s choices, and we can’t fix everything. That drives us to prayer and dependence, especially when we remember children are not trophies; they are a stewardship and a heritage from the Lord (Ps 127:3–5). Parenting teaches us to trust God with souls we cannot ultimately control. 

 

4) Parenting matures our faith when we move from perfectionism to repentance. 

This follow-up question is honest: Why do so many fathers in Scripture fail—even the ones who knew better? Even Solomon? 

One major answer is this: knowing truth is not the same as walking in it. Proverbs is full of wisdom, yet Solomon still had divided desires. The Bible doesn’t hide that: Scripture is not selling us heroic parents; it’s showing us the human condition. 

And that’s where parenting can grow our faith: not by making us perfect, but by making us repentant. Our children often learn the gospel best when they see us confess, apologize, make it right, and keep walking with God. God calls us to train and admonish our children (Eph 6:4), but He also warns us not to provoke them or crush them (Eph 6:4; Col 3:21). When we fail, and we will, our next step is not denial. It’s humility. 

 

5) Parenting grows our faith because we become a “bridge” between generations. 

Psalm 78 says we tell the next generation what God has done so that our children “set their hope in God” (Ps 78:4–7). That means our parenting is bigger than behavior management. It’s about hope, memory, and worship, helping our children see God’s faithfulness across time. 

And sometimes the greatest growth comes when our children ask hard questions. A child’s “Why?” often becomes God’s tool to deepen our own convictions. That’s not a punishment. That’s discipleship, ours and theirs. 

 

6) Parenting grows our faith because love is practiced, not imagined. 

Biblical love is patient, kind, not self-seeking, not easily provoked, enduring (1 Cor 13:4–7). Parenting gives us thousands of small opportunities to practice that love when we don’t feel like it. In that sense, parenting is daily discipleship in the fruit of the Spirit, especially patience, gentleness, and self-control (Gal 5:22–23). 

 

7) Parenting grows our faith when we see that God is the ultimate Father. 

When I have struggled as a parent, when I felt inadequate, tired, or discouraged, I have done my best to remember that God pities His children like a father (Ps 103:13), heals the brokenhearted, and binds wounds (Ps 147:3). That doesn’t remove responsibility. It gives hope. God doesn’t only command us; He helps us. And if I am being totally honest, I have to force myself to remember that our God is our Father, He is perfect in His love for and toward us. So, when I have sought to discipline my children, I have had to keep in mind that God, my Father, my children’s true Father, is the one who should be the ultimate discipliner, which has helped me temper my temper when those trying times showed up. 

 

8) So why do biblical fathers fail, even with truth in hand? 

I think it comes down to this: sin is real, the flesh is real, and wisdom can be present while obedience is resisted.The Bible records those failures so we don’t pretend parenting is easy, or that spiritual maturity is automatic. God uses even those records as warnings and as invitations: learn, humble yourselves, return to the Lord, keep teaching, keep walking. 

And the encouraging part is this: God still works through imperfect parents. Timothy’s faith, for example, grew through a faithful mother and grandmother (2 Tim 1:5; 2 Tim 3:14–15). God can build a legacy through flawed people who keep turning back to Him.

 

A simple way I say it is: Parenting grows our faith because it makes us depend on God, forces us to live what we teach, exposes what needs healing, and trains us in repentance and love. We don’t grow because parenting is easy. We grow because parenting repeatedly drives us back to the Father. Moreover, parenting is learning new things about ourselves as we learn about our children. It is often the reality that children are raising children, and because we are children raising children, our lack of knowledge and understanding is more than cause enough to seek out the wisdom of our parents, but first seek the wisdom of our true Father in Heaven through His Word. 

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). 

How Can You Forgive A Parent Who Didn’t Protect You From Family Abuse While Understanding Their Own Traumatic Background?

Forgiving a parent who didn’t protect us from family abuse is one of the hardest kinds of forgiveness, because it isn’t just about something that was said or done once. It is about what should have happened and didn’t. It is about a role that was violated. A parent was supposed to cover us, and we were left exposed. Even if we can understand that our parents had their own traumatic background, that understanding doesn’t erase what happened to us. It can explain some of it, but it cannot excuse it. So we have to learn how to hold two truths at the same time: our parents were wounded, and we were wounded by them. 

Scripture helps us because it doesn’t pretend this is easy. The Bible calls us to forgiveness, but it also calls us to honesty, wisdom, and healing. We can’t rush forgiveness as if it were a single emotional moment. Jesus told Peter that forgiveness isn’t a neat number, but an ongoing posture, “seventy times seven” (Matt 18:21–22). That tells us forgiveness is often a process. We forgive in layers. We forgive again when the memories come back. We forgive again when grief surprises us. We forgive again when we realize how much that childhood wound shaped our adult habits. 

Forgiveness also doesn’t start with pretending we’re fine. It starts with naming what is actually in our hearts and bringing it to God. When we are hurt, angry, confused, and exhausted, we are invited to cast that burden on the Lord because He cares for us (1 Pet 5:7; Ps 55:22). If we don’t do that, bitterness can take root and defile us from the inside out (Heb 12:14–15). That is one reason forgiveness matters so much: not because the abuser “deserves it,” but because we need to be free. 

At the same time, forgiveness is not the same thing as pretending it wasn’t abuse, or that it didn’t matter, or that we should just “move on.” Scripture commands us to put away bitterness and malice, but it also calls us to tenderness and truth (Eph 4:31–32). The goal is not denial. The goal is release. God is not asking us to call evil “good.” God is asking us to stop letting evil own us. 

One key that helps us forgive a non-protective parent is recognizing what God has forgiven in us. We are not forgiven because we were righteous; we are forgiven because of Christ’s mercy. “All have sinned,” and we are “justified freely by His grace” (Rom 3:23–24). God does not deal with us according to our sins, but removes them far away in mercy (Ps 103:8–12). When we see how God forgave us in Christ, we begin to understand why Scripture says we forgive “even as God in Christ forgave” us (Eph 4:32; Col 3:12–13). That becomes the foundation. Forgiveness becomes a response to grace, not a performance to earn it. 

This is also where understanding our parents’ traumatic background can be useful, but only if we use it properly. Understanding can soften our desire to condemn, because Jesus told us not to live in condemnation but to forgive (Luke 6:37). It can help us see that our parents may not have had the internal strength, wisdom, or courage to protect us as they should have. And sometimes the tragic truth is that people cannot give what they do not have. They were formed in dysfunction, and they passed it on. But even when we understand that, we still have to say clearly: they were wrong. They failed. They sinned. Compassion does not require us to minimize reality. 

Forgiveness also does not always mean reconciliation. The Bible teaches forgiveness, but it also teaches wisdom and boundaries. We can forgive and still refuse to live in an unsafe relationship. We can forgive and still limit access. We can forgive and still require honesty and accountability. Jesus teaches us a process for dealing with sin, including confrontation and escalation when someone refuses to hear (Matt 18:15–17). That shows us something important: love does not mean enabling. Love can be truthful and firm. We can forgive from the heart and still take heed to ourselves in how we relate (Luke 17:3–4). Forgiveness is the release of vengeance to God; reconciliation is the rebuilding of trust, and trust is not automatic. 

Scripture gives us models for this kind of forgiveness that does not deny evil. Joseph looked at real betrayal and said, “You meant evil… but God meant it for good” (Gen 50:19–21). That wasn’t Joseph pretending his brothers didn’t harm him. That was Joseph refusing to sit in God’s place as judge. He handed ultimate justice to the Lord and chose to comfort rather than destroy. Jesus, in the deepest injustice imaginable, prayed, “Father, forgive them” (Luke 23:34). Stephen, while being murdered, said, “Do not charge them with this sin” (Acts 7:60). Those examples don’t make pain smaller; they make grace bigger. 

If we are asking, “How can we forgive a parent who didn’t protect us?” part of the answer is that we may need to grieve first. Grief is not unforgiveness. Grief is the honest recognition of what we lost: innocence, safety, trust, a normal childhood, and a parent who covered us. God heals the brokenhearted and binds up wounds (Ps 147:3). He comforts us in tribulation so that we can later comfort others (2 Cor 1:3–4). That is not quick work. It is deep work. And it often happens through prayer, truth-telling, and support from wise, godly people. 

When forgiveness begins to grow, it often looks like this: we stop rehearsing revenge, we stop wishing harm, and we begin to pray for God to do what is right. Romans tells us not to repay evil for evil, not to avenge ourselves, and to leave vengeance to God (Rom 12:14–21). That is one of the most freeing lines in Scripture for someone who has been abused: God is a better judge than we are. We don’t have to carry the courtroom in our hearts anymore. We can say, “Lord, You see. You know. You judge rightly.” Then we can start taking steps toward peace as much as it depends on us, without pretending the other person is safe or trustworthy (Rom 12:18). 

Forgiveness is challenging because it feels like letting someone “get away with it.” But biblical forgiveness is not letting someone get away with it. It is letting God handle it. It is releasing the person from our grip and placing them into God’s hands. And at the same time, it is choosing not to be overcome by evil, but to overcome evil with good (Rom 12:21). Sometimes “good” looks like prayer. Sometimes it looks like distance. Sometimes it looks like a hard conversation. Sometimes it looks like silence and healing. But it always looks like refusing to let bitterness become our identity. 

If we are still struggling, we should remember this: forgiveness is not a feeling we manufacture. It is an obedience we practice. Love “thinks no evil” and “bears all things” (1 Cor 13:4–7), which means love refuses to keep sharpening the knife in our mind. It doesn’t mean we forget. It means we stop feeding the poison. Forgiveness may begin as a trembling prayer: “Lord, I am willing. Help me.” And God honors that kind of prayer, because He cares for us (1 Pet 5:7), and He is committed to healing what people broke. 

How Can A Person Tell If They Are Truly Ready To Share Their Life With Someone Else?

When we ask, “How can a person tell if they are truly ready to share their life with someone else?” we’re really asking whether we are ready for covenant, not just companionship. Scripture frames marriage as something God designed because “it is not good that man should be alone” (Gen 2:18), yet it also shows us that sharing life means leaving, cleaving, and becoming “one flesh” (Gen 2:24; Matt 19:4–6). That kind of union is beautiful, but it is also serious, because it joins our decisions, our habits, our future, and our spiritual direction. 

One of the clearest ways we can test readiness is by looking at what is ruling our inner life. “Keep your heart with all diligence, for out of it spring the issues of life” (Prov 4:23). If our heart is led primarily by lust, loneliness, fear, or the need to be “completed” by another person, we are not truly ready; we are vulnerable. Scripture warns us not to let passion become our compass, and it teaches that self-control is part of maturity (1 Cor 7:1–9; Gal 5:22–23; 1 Thess 4:3–5). Readiness shows up when we can govern our desires rather than be governed by them. 

Another test is whether we are seeking God first or using the relationship to replace God. Jesus said to “seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness” (Matt 6:33). When our life is already ordered under Christ, we don’t approach marriage as an idol or a desperate solution; we approach it as stewardship. We can say, “Lord, direct our paths,” and mean it (Prov 3:5–6). If we’re not living under God’s direction as single people, we shouldn’t assume marriage will suddenly make us spiritually stable. 

We also have to ask about spiritual alignment. Scripture does not treat spiritual mismatch as a small detail. “Do not be unequally yoked together with unbelievers” (2 Cor 6:14–18) isn’t about superiority; it’s about direction. A yoke is about pulling together. If our worldview, our worship, and our moral convictions are pulling in opposite directions, the relationship will eventually feel like a strain rather than a source of peace. Readiness includes the humility to admit: we cannot build a godly life with someone who is committed to a different god, even if that god is self. 

We can also measure readiness by our capacity to love biblically rather than romantically. 1 Corinthians 13 describes love as patient, kind, humble, truthful, and enduring (1 Cor 13:4–8). That kind of love is not mood-based; it is character-based. When we’re ready to share life, we can bear with another person without becoming bitter (Col 3:18–19), we can prefer the other’s well-being and not live for ourselves (Phil 2:3–4; Rom 15:1–2; 1 Cor 10:24), and we can forgive and repair rather than punish and withdraw (Col 3:12–14; Eph 4:2–3). That’s not perfection, none of us has that. But it is direction. If our default is pride, control, harshness, or “I’ll love you as long as you meet my needs,” we are not ready for covenant love. 

Readiness is also revealed by whether we can handle the vulnerability of being truly known and truly responsible. Marriage joins lives in ways that require honesty, tenderness, and restraint. Scripture speaks of honoring and understanding one another so that our prayers are not hindered (1 Pet 3:7). That means our spiritual life is affected by how we treat our spouse. If we are not ready to communicate, repent, listen, and grow, we are not ready to share a life. 

Another sign is whether we are building life wisely instead of rushing. Proverbs warns us about haste and praises diligence (Prov 21:5). Wisdom also says there is an order to preparation, “prepare your outside work… and afterward build your house” (Prov 24:27). We don’t need to be wealthy, but we do need to be responsible. Scripture even ties provision to faithfulness: if we refuse responsibility for our household, we are living in contradiction to our confession (1 Tim 5:8). Readiness means we’re not fantasizing about marriage while avoiding discipline in daily life. 

We should also look for the kind of character Scripture celebrates. Proverbs 31 and Ruth 3 highlight virtue, trustworthiness, industry, and kindness (Prov 31:10–31; Ruth 3:10–11). Those passages don’t exist to create a checklist that crushes us; they exist to show what blesses a home: a trustworthy heart, wisdom in speech, steadiness in work, generosity in spirit, and fear of the Lord. If we can’t be trusted with small responsibilities, we should not expect to be trusted with someone’s heart. 

Finally, readiness includes accepting what marriage will cost us in attention and focus. Paul says that married people naturally have additional concerns about pleasing their spouse and managing life together (1 Cor 7:32–35). That isn’t condemnation, it’s realism. It means we should enter marriage with our eyes open: this will take time, energy, and sacrifice. We will not be “free” in the same way. If we resent that idea, we may want romance but not want covenant. 

So how can we tell if we are truly ready to share our life with someone else? We can look at our heart (Prov 4:23), our spiritual direction (Matt 6:33; Prov 3:5–6), our capacity for biblical love (1 Cor 13:4–8), our self-control and holiness (1 Cor 7:1–9; 1 Thess 4:3–5; Gal 5:22–23), our willingness to sacrifice and honor (Eph 5:25–33; 1 Pet 3:7), and our commitment to unity without compromise (2 Cor 6:14–18; Amos 3:3). When those things are growing in us, not perfectly, but truly, we are moving toward readiness. And when we’re unsure, we can slow down, seek wise counsel, and let God establish our steps in His time (Prov 15:22; Prov 3:5–6). 

What Does The Bible Say About Forgiveness, And Why Is It Such A Challenging Concept For Many People?

What is interesting about forgiving someone who has wronged us is that the healing appears to be primarily for us, the one wronged. Many of us will understand that the root of bitterness that grows within us, because of holding onto the wrong, makes moving forward in life difficult at best and impossible at worst. While we hold the thoughts of past wrongs and/or abuses, what we are doing, as it is said, is allowing the individual or situation to live rent-free in our head, taking up the space that love, mercy, grace, compassion, and yes, forgiveness need to live within. Bitterness and a hard heart can spin us out, taking over a person’s entire life, especially while they take up space in our heads rent-free. Christ not only died to deliver us from our sin, but He also died on our behalf to deliver us from ourselves. 

Forgiveness is one of the clearest teachings Christ taught in the Bible, and it is also one of the hardest teachings to live out, because it goes directly against what my flesh wants when I’ve been wronged. When I read Scripture honestly, I see that forgiveness is not optional “extra credit” for the unusually spiritual people. It is central to what it means to live as a forgiven person. 

Jesus ties forgiveness to our relationship with God in a way that should sober us. He teaches that if we refuse to forgive others, we should not pretend we’re living in the freedom of God’s forgiveness ourselves (Matt 6:14–15). He even connects unforgiveness to prayer, saying that if I am holding something against someone, I need to forgive as I stand praying (Mark 11:25). That does not mean I pretend the offense never happened. It means I stop carrying it like a weapon, and I stop feeding resentment like it’s a pet I keep alive. 

When Peter asked Jesus how many times he should forgive, Jesus did not give him a neat limit. He said, in essence, “Don’t count,” and then He told the parable of the unforgiving servant (Matt 18:21–35). That parable is one of the most clarifying and confronting pictures of forgiveness in the Bible. A man is forgiven an impossible debt, then turns around and refuses mercy to someone who owes him something small. The point is not that small debts don’t hurt. The point is that I cannot receive massive mercy from God and then live as if mercy were scarce when someone sins against me. Jesus ends that parable with a warning about refusing to forgive “from the heart,” which tells us forgiveness is not merely a polite outward act; it’s an inner release that God must work into me (Matt 18:21–35). 

That’s why forgiveness is so challenging. Forgiveness requires me to release a legitimate grievance. If the offense weren’t real, forgiveness wouldn’t be necessary. Forgiveness means I give up the emotional satisfaction of holding someone “in my debt.” It means I refuse to replay the injury as a way of staying morally superior. It means I stop craving the moment when the other person finally hurts the way I hurt. And when I’ve been deeply wounded, those cravings can feel like the only “justice” I’ll ever get. That is why forgiveness is hard: it feels like I’m letting the offender go free. However, in reality, I am the one set free. 

The Bible helps us see what forgiveness is and what it is not. Forgiveness is not denial. It is not calling evil good. It is not automatically rebuilding trust. It is not removing boundaries. Forgiveness is me releasing personal vengeance to God and choosing mercy over revenge, even while consequences may still exist. That is why passages like “forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you” are so powerful: they ground forgiveness in what I have already received, not in what the offender deserves (Eph 4:32). Paul repeats the same truth: as Christ forgave me, I must forgive others (Col 3:13). That is the standard. Not my feelings. Not my mood. Christ. 

Now, the moment we talk about forgiveness, people often feel a tension: if forgiveness is required, does that mean salvation is earned? Let me explain the thinking of seeing forgiveness tied to our salvation. This is where I must keep two categories clear in my mind. Salvation is by grace through faith, not by works, so that no one can boast (Eph 2:8–9). Yet that same passage immediately says we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ for good works that God prepared for us to walk in (Eph 2:10). So, I don’t get saved by forgiveness; as if I must forgive the one who wronged me to receive forgiveness from God the Father through Christ. I forgive because I am being saved, because grace has begun to change my heart. Forgiveness is fruit, not payment. Another way to say this is I can forgive the one who wronged me because I am forgiven. I am saved, yes, but I am saved first because God forgave me, and by that forgiveness, I am then able to forgive those who have wronged me. 

Logically, this also connects to repentance. Repentance is not me trying to “buy” forgiveness with moral performance. Repentance is the turning of my heart toward God when the Holy Spirit awakens me to my sin and my need. In other words, repentance and faith are responses to grace, not wages I earn. When I hear the gospel, God works through His Word to convict, illuminate, and draw me, and I respond, really respond. I believe. I turn. I ask for mercy. That does not make me the hero of my salvation; it shows that God’s grace is alive and active in me. 

And yes, I understand the deeper question many of us eventually ask: what exactly is “not of yourselves” in Ephesians 2:8? Is it salvation? Is it faith? Is it the whole package? However, someone parses the grammar, the point remains the same: I cannot boast. I was dead, and dead men do not raise themselves. If I believe, it is because God has done something in me that I could not do on my own. Yet it is still my belief. God does not believe for me, but He does awaken my heart so that I truly believe. That preserves what Scripture keeps holding together: God’s sovereignty and my real responsibility. 

That brings me to the “But why?” question, the one that often sits underneath every discussion of forgiveness, salvation, and transformation. If I am not worthy, why does God bother with me? The Bible’s answer isn’t that I’m secretly more deserving than I think. The answer is that God is gracious, and His love is not drawn out by my worthiness but by His nature. God saves because He delights to show mercy. God saves because He intends to display the riches of His grace. God saves because He is creating a people for Himself, and He is glorified in taking broken rebels and making us His children. That is why forgiveness is not a side issue. Forgiveness is one of the clearest displays that grace has truly touched me. 

So, what am I missing if I still struggle? In my experience, the missing piece is not more information; it’s abiding. It’s the difference between a moment of salvation and a daily life of surrender. I can know the doctrine of forgiveness and still get derailed by my flesh if I’m not staying close to Christ. That is why Scripture keeps pointing me back to an ongoing posture: presenting myself to God, renewing my mind, and refusing to let sin rule me again. When I’m living close to Christ, forgiveness becomes possible in a way that feels impossible when I’m living on my own fumes. 

This is also why forgiveness is such a challenging concept for many people: it forces us to live out the gospel we say we believe. It exposes our pride. It exposes our need for control. It exposes our demand to be the judge. And it exposes whether we have truly understood what God has forgiven in us. Forgiveness is hard because wounds are real. Forgiveness is necessary because grace is real. And forgiveness is possible because Christ is real, and He does not merely command forgiveness; He supplies it as we walk with Him. 

This last phrase, He supplies it as we walk with Him. While that statement is true, it is much more powerful than that because when Christ forgave us, He enabled us to forgive others. Without His first loving us, forgiving us, we could not and would not forgive others truly as He has forgiven us. For some of us, who have experienced horrible abuse at the hands of those we trust, forgiving them is a command. While we may not want to forgive them, we must remember the command is for our benefit, for our health, for our spiritual well-being; thus, we must obey the command to forgive as we have been forgiven. 

If we need further proof or evidence of forgiveness modeled, look no further than when Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do.” Moreover, the first Martyr Stephen, seeing the heavens opened and Jesus, the Son of Man, standing at the right hand of the Father, said, “Lord, do not charge them with this sin.” Jesus, God knew the heart of man and knew that those who crucified Him did not know what they were doing on the deepest level of spirituality known to Christ. Stephen, for the first time in his life, was fully learning about true spirituality. Today, those of us who have the Holy Spirit indwelling us know true spirituality as well. May we be thankful that we have the same spiritual life that dwelt in Christ, in Stephen, and all the saints who have gone before us, who too have also learned what true forgiveness is. 

Could You Forgive Someone Who Caused You Unimaginable Pain?

Whether we can forgive someone who has caused us profound suffering depends on understanding forgiveness as God presents it. Forgiveness is not a feeling we must manufacture, but a deliberate choice rooted in recognizing what we ourselves have received. So, yes, I believe I can forgive someone who has caused me unimaginable pain, but not because I’m naturally strong, and not because the pain was small. I can forgive that person because God has shown me what forgiveness actually is, and because He has forgiven me in ways I could never repay. Forgiveness, as Scripture presents it, is not pretending the evil didn’t happen, and it is not calling injustice “okay.” Forgiveness is me releasing my right to personal vengeance, refusing to let bitterness become my master, and entrusting final judgment to God, who sees perfectly and judges righteously (Rom 12:17–21; Prov 24:29). 

I also want to say this again, plainly, forgiveness is not a feeling I wait for. It is a decision I make again and again when the memories resurface, when old wounds flare up, and when my heart wants to replay the wrong. Jesus told Peter that forgiveness isn’t measured by a limited number, but by a heart posture that keeps choosing mercy, because that is exactly how God has treated us (Matt 18:21–35). That parable hits us hard because it reminds us that we are the ones who have been released from a debt we could never pay. If God in Christ has forgiven us, we cannot turn around and make unforgiveness our identity (Eph 4:32; Col 3:13). 

When I think about the unimaginable pain I have experienced, like that of physical, mental, psychological, and sexual abuse, I also think about the examples God put in Scripture on purpose, because He knows we would need them. Joseph’s brothers did him real evil, betrayal, slavery, and stolen years, but Joseph refused to play God with vengeance. He acknowledged the evil, but he also trusted God’s sovereign ability to redeem what others meant to destroy. “You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good” is not denial; it is faith that God is bigger than the sin committed against us (Gen 50:19–21). That is one of the anchors that help us forgive when our emotions lag behind our obedience. 

And then I look at Jesus. The cross is the clearest picture of forgiveness because it shows us what we cost God and what God was willing to absorb so we could be free. Jesus, while being unjustly executed, prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do” (Luke 23:34). That does not mean their sin was small. It means His mercy was greater. Stephen echoed that same heart when he was being murdered, “Lord, do not charge them with this sin” (Acts 7:60). Those words confront me, because they remind me that forgiveness is not rooted in what the offender deserves; it’s rooted in what God has given us (me), and what God calls me to reflect. 

So when asked, “Could you forgive?” my honest answer is: I can, and I must, but I also understand why it feels impossible. Unimaginable pain leaves marks. Some wounds change you. Some losses don’t get “fixed” in this life. Forgiveness does not erase consequences. It does not always restore the relationship. Scripture even leaves room for wisdom, boundaries, and dealing with sin truthfully (Matt 18:15). Forgiveness is me refusing to hate, refusing to plot revenge, refusing to carry the offender’s sin like a permanent weight in my own soul. It is me choosing not to return evil for evil, but to overcome evil with good as far as it depends on me (1 Pet 3:9; Rom 12:17–21). It is me obeying God even when my flesh wants justice in my time and in my way. 

This is also why I take bitterness seriously. Bitterness is not a private emotion that stays quiet. It spreads. It defiles. It changes our tone, our relationships, and our spiritual clarity (Heb 12:15). I’ve learned that if I keep replaying what happened, rehearsing the injury, repeating the matter, I may feel justified, but I also stay chained to it (Prov 17:9). And if I’m honest, unforgiveness doesn’t punish the offender nearly as much as it poisons the one carrying it. That is why God warns me not to let anger turn into sin that opens a door for the enemy to exploit (Eph 4:26–27), and why Paul says forgiveness can be spiritual warfare, so Satan doesn’t take advantage of us (2 Cor 2:10–11). 

Forgiveness, then, becomes part of my healing, not because the offender earned it, but because Christ bought it. The gospel tells me that when I was still an enemy, God moved toward me in love and reconciled me through the death of His Son (Rom 5:8–10). That changes how I see everyone who has sinned against me. It does not make their sin right. It makes my posture clear: I am not the judge, and vengeance belongs to the Lord (Rom 12:19). My call is mercy, because I have received mercy (Matt 5:7; James 2:13). My call is to forgive as I have been forgiven (Eph 4:32; Col 3:13). 

Now, I also want to say that forgiving unimaginable pain does not mean we stop grieving. It does not mean we stop telling the truth about what happened. It means we bring our pain into the presence of the God who is “ready to forgive” and “abundant in mercy” (Ps 86:5), and you let Him teach our hearts what we cannot manufacture on our own. Oftentimes, I have to pray with honesty: “Lord, I am willing, but I’m not there yet; help me.” And God does help. He has a way of softening what has hardened and healing what I thought would never heal. 

So yes, I can forgive someone who caused me unimaginable pain, because Jesus forgave me first, because He commands me to forgive, and because I refuse to let evil have the last word in my soul. I may still have to work through the pain, set boundaries, and live with certain scars, but I will not be overcome by evil. By God’s grace, I will overcome evil with good (Rom 12:21). And if you are struggling to forgive, I want you to know this: you are not alone, and you are not being asked to do this in your own strength. God never commands what He will not supply. If He calls us to forgive, He will also give us what we need to obey Him in doing so.

What Evidence, Not A Feeling, Convinced You That The Bible Is Accurate And Inspired By God?

When someone asks, “What evidence, not a feeling, convinced you that the Bible is accurate and inspired by God?” I understand what they’re really asking. They’re asking whether Christianity can stand in the light of reality, history, and reason, or whether it collapses into private emotion. I cannot speak for others, I can only speak for myself, but I can do it honestly: So, “What evidence, not a feeling, convinced me that the Bible is accurate and inspired by God?” The strongest “evidence” God used in my life was not a single argument; it was the merging of God’s sovereignty in my history, His providence in my personal life, and the Bible’s consistent ability to explain what I was seeing in the world and in myself, in a way nothing else could. 

One of the anchor evidences for me is this: the Bible does not present God as a helper who reacts to history. It presents God as the Lord who rules history. Scripture speaks of God doing “according to His will,” with no one able to restrain His hand or successfully put Him on trial (Dan 4:35). It speaks of God declaring “the end from the beginning,” and accomplishing His counsel (Isa 46:9–10). It says God works “all things according to the counsel of His will” (Eph 1:11). That is a claim you can actually test, not by putting God in a laboratory, but by watching whether Scripture’s worldview fits the real world: human pride, human evil, human plans, nations rising and falling, rulers making choices they swear were their own, and yet history repeatedly turning in directions no one fully controls. Proverbs says a man plans, but the Lord directs his steps (Prov 16:9), and it even says the king’s heart is in the Lord’s hand like watercourses (Prov 21:1). The Bible’s explanation of reality is that history is not random and human power is not ultimate. Over time, I found that framework consistently fits what I see. 

But I also need to be careful here: God’s sovereignty is not only a “big picture” idea. Providence is sovereignty applied to life on the ground, God ruling in the details, even when I don’t understand them in the moment. Acts describes the crucifixion itself, human evil and divine purpose operating at the same time, Christ delivered by God’s predetermined purpose and foreknowledge, and yet carried out by lawless hands (Acts 2:23). Acts also says the powers that opposed Jesus did what God’s hand and purpose predetermined beforehand (Acts 4:24–28). That is not sentimental language. It’s a claim about reality: God is so sovereign that even human rebellion does not derail His purposes. That kind of providence is exactly what I have seen echoed in the patterns of my own life, ways I should have been destroyed, but wasn’t; ways I should have been lost, but God preserved me; ways my story should have ended, but didn’t. That is not “wishful thinking” to me anymore. It’s the coherence between what Scripture says God is like and what I have watched Him do. 

Now, I also want to answer the “inspired by God” part directly, because Scripture doesn’t leave that vague. The Bible claims its own origin and nature: “All Scripture is given by inspiration of God,” and it functions to correct, train, and equip the man of God (2 Tim 3:16–17). It claims that prophecy did not come by the will of man, but men spoke as they were moved by the Holy Spirit (2 Pet 1:20–21). Jesus said God’s Word is truth (John 17:17), and He treated Scripture as unbreakable (John 10:35). He said His words will not pass away (Matt 24:35). Those are strong claims. The question becomes: do they hold up? 

One way the Bible itself tells me to test is fulfillment and reliability over time. God gives a standard: if something is truly from the Lord, it will come to pass; if it does not, it is not from Him (Deut 18:21–22). Then Scripture repeatedly testifies that God’s promises did not fail, “not a word failed” of what the Lord spoke (Josh 21:45; 1 Kings 8:56). The Psalms say God’s Word is settled forever (Ps 119:89), and that the entirety of His Word is truth (Ps 119:160). That isn’t the kind of thing I can fake into being true just because I want it to be. It’s either true or it isn’t, and over time, I have found the God of Scripture to be faithful to His Word in ways that have held up under pressure, suffering, and the passing of years. 

Another piece of evidence that matters to me is the way Jesus and the apostles handled Scripture as a unified storyline centered on Christ, not as a pile of religious sayings. After the resurrection, Jesus opened the Scriptures concerning Himself, showing that the Law, the Prophets, and the Psalms were pointing to Him (Luke 24:27; Luke 24:44–45). Jesus said the Scriptures testify of Him (John 5:39). In Acts, men like Apollos publicly demonstrated from the Scriptures that Jesus is the Christ (Acts 18:28). That matters because it means the Bible is not merely moral instruction; it is a coherent revelation that culminates in Jesus. That coherence, one story, one redemptive thread, is not something I’ve found any human religion reproduces with the same depth and consistency. 

Then there is the evidence of what the Word does, not merely what it claims. The Bible says the Word of God is living and active, and it discerns the thoughts and intents of the heart (Heb 4:12). It says the Word effectively works in those who believe (1 Thess 2:13). It says God’s Word accomplishes what God pleases and prospers in the purpose for which He sends it (Isa 55:11). That is not an argument I can “win” in debate, but it is something I can observe across time: Scripture exposes me, corrects me, steadies me, and remakes my thinking in ways that feel more like being read than merely reading. It confronts my pride. It names my sin. It calls me back when I wander. It leads me in ways I did not naturally choose. Psalm 119 says God’s Word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path (Ps 119:105). That’s exactly what it has been in my life. Not always comfortable, but consistently clarifying. 

I also want to speak carefully about my own background, because it shaped how I approached “evidence.” I was raised in a highly religious environment where I absorbed a strong “perform to be acceptable” mindset. I learned a lot of religious practice, but I did not understand a personal relationship with God. When Christ drew me to Himself, I began to see that God is not impressed by my performance, and the gospel is not God offering me a ladder I climb. It is God offering me a Savior I trust. Jesus Himself said no one comes unless the Father draws him (John 6:44–45), and He said the Spirit of truth would guide into all truth (John 16:13). That shift from religious performance to knowing God became part of my “evidence,” because it matched what Scripture says salvation and transformation actually are. 

So when someone asks for biblical evidence and proof, I don’t hear that as a hostile question by default. I hear it as a question of authority: “Can the Bible actually explain reality better than the stories we tell ourselves?” For me, the answer became yes, because Scripture’s view of God’s sovereign rule over history, His providential rule over the details of life, and His faithfulness to His promises formed a consistent, testable framework that held up under time and suffering. It wasn’t that I used Scripture to escape reality. It was that Scripture finally made reality make sense. 

And I’ll say this plainly: I don’t believe I can argue anyone into the kingdom of God. I can’t manufacture faith in another person. But I can testify to what I have seen and learned. I have watched human counsel fail, human strength fail, and my own righteousness fail. I have watched God’s counsel stand (Prov 19:21; Ps 33:11). I have watched His Word prove stable when everything else shifted. I have watched Him break me down and rebuild me. If you want the “not a feeling” evidence I live with, it is this: God’s Word has proven itself faithful, durable, and true in the real world, and the God it reveals has proven Himself sovereign, purposeful, and personal.