The Tension We All Feel
Let me level with you. This isn’t one of those detached theological essays written from a dusty ivory tower with zero pastoral awareness. No, this one comes from a place of real conversations with real people—people like you who’ve sat across from me, coffee in hand, tears welling up, asking the question that guts you to your core:
“How could a good God send someone to hell who spent their whole life being kind, giving, selfless—even if they didn’t believe in Him?”
Maybe it’s your favorite college professor—the one who taught with integrity, treated students with respect, and always gave to the local food pantry. Maybe it’s your atheist neighbor who mows your yard when you're sick, donates to every cause under the sun, and wouldn’t hurt a fly.
They’re decent. They’re moral. They're everything you think a "good person" should be. So the idea of God judging them sounds... well, a little messed up, right?
If you’ve wrestled with that, I want you to know two things right off the bat:
1. You’re not alone.
This is one of the most common and emotionally loaded questions I encounter as a pastor. And frankly, if you’re not asking this question, you’re probably not paying attention.
2. It’s okay to ask.
God isn’t insecure. He doesn’t get nervous when people push back. Scripture is filled with people who brought their raw, painful questions to Him—Job, David, Jeremiah. You’re in good company.
But let me also say this, as someone who deeply loves both God and people: we don’t get to rewrite the truth just because it hurts.
So let’s talk. Not in angry soundbites or smug memes, but like two old friends who can speak plainly. I’ll be honest. I’ll be snarky where it helps cut through the fog. But I’ll also be deeply compassionate, because this topic isn’t theoretical. For many, it’s personal.
And it should be.
Let’s start with the elephant in the theological living room: we love the idea of grace until it confronts our definitions of goodness.
We picture hell as the place where murderers and megalomaniacs get their comeuppance, not where the affable guy who volunteers at the animal shelter ends up. And when we hear someone say, "Well, if he didn’t believe in Jesus, then..." it feels cold. Cruel. Unjust.
But here’s the catch: that sense of injustice comes from our standard of good, not God’s.
And friend, those two standards are about as similar as a participation trophy and the Ark of the Covenant.
“There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way to death.” — Proverbs 14:12
We think of goodness as kindness. Politeness. Generosity. A solid moral resume with minimal blemishes. Pay your taxes. Help your neighbors. Be nice to baristas.
And hey, that matters. Scripture never downplays earthly kindness or common grace. But when it comes to eternity, God isn’t asking if your neighbor was decent by 21st-century suburban standards. He’s asking if they were holy.
That’s a much taller order.
“You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” — Matthew 5:48
Yeah. Perfect.
See, our problem isn’t just that we’re imperfect. It’s that we think we can make up for it by outweighing the bad with enough good—as if God is some cosmic accountant balancing our moral books.
But sin doesn’t work that way. Rebellion against the Creator isn’t fixed with a few acts of charity. You can’t bribe a just Judge with Boy Scout merit badges.
I know this sounds heavy. Maybe even unfair. But stay with me.
Because this question—"Why would God send good people to hell?"—actually reveals something deeper:
We don’t fully grasp what hell is.
And we definitely don’t fully grasp what God is like.
Hell isn’t a place God gleefully throws people into because they didn’t check the right doctrinal box. It’s the natural consequence of a life spent saying, "No thanks, God. I’ll run my own life."
“And this is the judgment: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil.” — John 3:19
It’s not that your professor or neighbor hated God actively. Maybe they didn’t shake their fists at heaven. Maybe they were more of a gentle skeptic. But ignoring God is still rebellion. Not bowing the knee is still pride. Living without Christ is still spiritual treason.
And God doesn’t overlook treason just because the traitor also donated to hurricane relief and returned the grocery cart.
Now, before you throw your hands up in frustration, let me say this:
I get it.
You saw someone who modeled love, sacrifice, and integrity. You saw the fruit, and you’re struggling to reconcile it with what the Bible says about faith. You’re not being unreasonable—you’re just hurting.
That’s why this conversation matters so much. Because if we let emotion override truth, we end up redefining God in our image. We make Him nicer, softer, more "understanding"—and in doing so, we rob Him of both His justice and His mercy.
You don’t want a God who looks the other way at sin. You want a God who is holy. Righteous. Just. That’s the kind of God who can truly bring peace, set things right, and be trusted forever.
But you also want a God who saves the unworthy. Who loves the undeserving. Who steps into the courtroom and says, "I’ll take the punishment." And that’s the Gospel. That’s what Jesus did.
“But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” — Romans 5:8
Friend, that includes you. That includes me.
This is why we don’t preach, "Be good, and God might let you in." We preach, "You can’t be good enough, but Jesus was." And He gives His righteousness freely to all who believe.
So before we dive deeper into this, let me say one more thing:
This blog isn’t about condemning your friendly neighborhood atheist. Or anyone else you love who lived well but died without professing Christ. I won’t pretend to know their final moments, their thoughts, or the unseen ways God may have reached for them.
But I do know this: God is just. God is good. God is merciful.
And He doesn’t make mistakes.
So let’s press in. Let’s ask the hard questions. And let’s let God speak for Himself through His Word, not through our assumptions.
Because at the end of the day, the truth might hurt, but it also heals.
Good by Whose Standard?
Let’s play a little game. You say the word "good" and I’ll say what comes to mind.
Ready?
- Fresh coffee.
- Pay raises.
- Puppies.
- That neighbor who snow-blows your driveway without asking.
See what just happened? You and I—just like everyone else on this planet—associate goodness with how something benefits us. We define good horizontally: what feels fair, kind, helpful, or admirable by our standards.
The guy who holds the door open for ten people? Good. The lady who gives up her seat for a stranger? Good. The atheist who donates half his income to cancer research and spends weekends feeding the homeless? Really good.
And to be fair, those are good things. Morally upright, socially beneficial, admirable behaviors.
But when God says "good"—He’s not grading on a curve. He’s not impressed by the same stuff we are.
Because God defines good by His own character.
"You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect." — Matthew 5:48
Let that sink in.
Perfect.
Not sincere. Not mostly nice. Not "hasn’t committed a felony." Not "does their best." No.
Perfect.
If that feels like an impossible standard, you’re finally starting to understand the problem.
Here’s where most people get it wrong: we assume that goodness is relative. We think, "Sure, I’m not perfect—but I’m better than that guy." We play the comparison game, as if God’s going to weigh our lives against serial killers and internet scammers and go, “Well, at least you weren’t Jeffrey Dahmer.”
That’s not how holiness works.
God isn’t comparing you to the worst person you know. He’s comparing you to Himself.
And if we’re honest, even our best moments don’t measure up. Our “good deeds” are often tainted by pride, selfishness, or the desire to be seen as good. It’s goodness on a leash. It’s morality with strings attached.
“All our righteous acts are like filthy rags.” — Isaiah 64:6
That verse isn’t saying your kindness is meaningless—it’s saying that your kindness can’t save you.
Even our brightest human virtue is dim compared to the blazing holiness of God.
Let’s get real for a second. If I walked into a courtroom, having broken every law on the books, and my defense was, "But your honor, I volunteer at the animal shelter and tip 25%," I’d be laughed out of the room.
Justice doesn’t work that way.
Yet somehow, we expect God to operate like a lenient grandfather—winking at our sin because we smiled at the mailman and used paper straws. That’s not grace. That’s delusion.
God isn’t corrupt. He’s not persuaded by charm, niceness, or public acts of charity. He’s not a cosmic Santa sorting naughty from nice. He is holy. Righteous. Perfect.
And He demands the same.
“For whoever keeps the whole law but fails in one point has become guilty of all of it.” — James 2:10
One sin. One act of rebellion. One selfish thought. That’s enough to make you “not good.”
This isn’t about being “better than most.” This is about being flawless. And spoiler alert: you’re not.
Neither am I.
Now maybe you’re thinking, “Well that’s absurd. Who can live up to that?”
Exactly.
That’s the whole point of the Gospel. The law wasn’t given to show us how righteous we are. It was given to expose how desperately we need saving.
“For by works of the law no human being will be justified in his sight, since through the law comes knowledge of sin.” — Romans 3:20
So when people say, “But he was a good man,” I want to respond gently but truthfully: good by whose standard?
If we’re talking about human decency, great. But if we’re talking about eternity, heaven, and standing before a God whose glory makes angels tremble—then the standard shifts dramatically.
We need something more than good. We need righteousness. Perfect righteousness. Spotless holiness.
And that’s why Jesus came.
“For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” — 2 Corinthians 5:21
Jesus didn’t come to make good people better. He came to make dead people live. He came to take guilty sinners—moral ones, messy ones, religious ones—and wrap them in His goodness.
Because at the end of the day, “good enough” is a lie.
Only Jesus is good enough.
And He offers that goodness as a gift—not a reward for effort, but a miracle of grace for those humble enough to admit they could never measure up.
So next time you hear someone say, “He was such a good person,” don’t roll your eyes.
But do remember to ask, “Good by whose standard?”
Because eternity doesn’t run on our definitions. It runs on God’s.
And friend, He’s not lowering the bar.
But praise God—He sent Christ to carry us over it.
The Myth of Moral Neutrality
Let’s clear the air.
There’s this cozy little myth floating around modern culture, and it goes like this: “As long as someone isn’t hurting anyone, they’re fine.” Neutral. Morally safe. Like Switzerland with a recycling bin.
Sounds nice. Feels nice.
But biblically?
It’s fiction. Grade-A, hand-stitched, feel-good fiction.
There is no such thing as a morally neutral human being. The Bible doesn’t give us that option. You’re either reconciled to God through Christ—or you’re living in rebellion. There’s no spiritual Switzerland.
“Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters.” — Matthew 12:30
Let that hit you. Jesus doesn’t say, “There are committed believers, evil people, and a big chunk of middle ground.” Nope. It’s binary. With Him or against Him.
That’s not harsh. That’s honest.
And it’s why this myth of the morally neutral person—like your super chill agnostic cousin who composts, fosters kittens, and listens to NPR—is so dangerous. Because on the outside, everything looks peaceful. Respectable. Safe.
But biblically? That person is still separated from God by sin.
Here’s the deeper issue: we don’t want to believe that nice people can still be spiritually lost. It feels wrong. It rubs against our emotional instincts.
But Romans 1 slams the door shut on moral neutrality:
“For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth.” — Romans 1:18
Suppress. The. Truth.
This isn’t ignorance—it’s willful resistance. Paul says every person has enough evidence to know there’s a God. Creation screams it. Conscience confirms it. Deep down, everyone knows—but not everyone wants to deal with it.
“For although they knew God, they did not honor him as God or give thanks to him.” — Romans 1:21
This isn’t passive unbelief. It’s active suppression. It’s not that they missed the memo—it’s that they threw it away. Repeatedly.
Let’s say you walk into someone’s house, and they pretend you’re not there. They acknowledge the couch, the dishes, the cat—but not you. They live around you. Maybe they’re polite. Maybe they even put snacks on the counter for you. But they ignore you.
Are they neutral? No. They’re rude. They’re rejecting relationship.
Now crank that up to the level of God, and you start to see the offense.
Living life while ignoring the One who made you isn’t neutral—it’s rebellion dressed in beige. It’s polite treason.
And God doesn’t overlook rebellion just because it’s accompanied by philanthropy and a compostable toothbrush.
Here’s the kicker: most people don’t see their unbelief as rebellion because it feels passive.
They’re not joining Satanic cults. They’re not sacrificing goats. They’re just... living. Working. Loving their families.
But sin isn’t just about what you do. It’s about who you are apart from Christ.
“And you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked... carrying out the desires of the body and the mind, and were by nature children of wrath.” — Ephesians 2:1–3
Dead. Not neutral. Not limping. Not spiritually fatigued. Dead.
Which means people don’t drift toward salvation. They don’t “grow” into grace. It’s not some cosmic personality quiz where you check enough moral boxes and get sorted into heaven.
They need rescue. They need regeneration. They need Christ.
Let’s pull it together:
- There is no neutral ground with God.
- Ignoring Christ isn’t safe—it’s rebellion.
- Living a moral life apart from faith is still spiritual death.
This should both break our hearts and clear our thinking.
Because while we can absolutely admire the kindness and sincerity of someone who doesn’t believe, we must not confuse that with spiritual life.
And this is why evangelism isn’t just for the visibly broken. It’s for your respectable coworker. Your hilarious cousin. Your loving friend.
The Gospel isn’t just for the guilty who know they’re guilty. It’s for the guilty who’ve been duped into thinking they’re safe.
And our job? To lovingly, truthfully, and persistently remind them:
There’s no neutral. But there is a Savior.
And He’s better than their best behavior.
He’s good enough to save the ones who don’t even realize how lost they are.
Why God’s Justice Is Right (Even When It Hurts)
Let’s go ahead and say the hard thing: hell offends us.
It hits a nerve, especially when we think of people we care about. People who lived well. Loved deeply. Helped others. The idea that they could be separated from God forever makes something in us flinch.
And honestly? That’s understandable.
But it also reveals something uncomfortable:
We believe we’re more just than God.
We wouldn’t say that out loud, of course. But when we accuse God of being cruel for judging sin, when we put Him in the courtroom and demand He justify Himself to us—we’re not defending justice. We’re defining it by our standards.
And that’s a problem.
Let’s imagine a real judge. A man stands trial for committing a violent crime. The evidence is airtight. The law is clear. Everyone in the courtroom knows he’s guilty.
But when the time comes for sentencing, the judge shrugs and says, "Well, he volunteers on weekends and gave a bunch of money to charity. Let’s just let it slide."
What would you call that?
Mercy?
No. You’d call it injustice.
Because good deeds don’t erase guilt. A just judge doesn’t ignore the law because the defendant seems like a decent guy outside the courtroom.
Yet that’s exactly what we expect God to do.
We want Him to overlook rebellion, pride, idolatry, and sin because someone loved their kids or donated to cancer research.
But if God let sin go unpunished, He wouldn’t be loving. He’d be corrupt.
"For the wages of sin is death..." — Romans 6:23
Now, maybe you’re thinking, "Okay, sure, some people deserve judgment—murderers, abusers, dictators. But my friend? My neighbor? They were good. They didn’t deserve this."
But again, we’re using our definition of good.
God sees what we don’t. He doesn’t just judge actions. He judges the heart. He sees the secret motives, the pride hidden under charity, the bitterness under politeness, the quiet rejection of His lordship.
"Man looks on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart." — 1 Samuel 16:7
That sweet neighbor who always brought cookies but lived their life ignoring God? That wasn’t neutrality. That was defiance wrapped in sugar.
And God doesn’t mistake pleasantness for purity.
But let’s be honest: what really bothers us is the permanence of it. We think, Isn’t hell... overkill?
Let’s reframe that.
Hell isn’t unjust because it’s eternal. It’s eternal because it’s just.
When you sin against an infinitely holy God, the offense carries infinite weight. The punishment isn’t based on how we feel about it. It’s based on who we sinned against.
You punch a wall, no big deal. You punch your boss, there are consequences. You punch the president, you’re going to jail. The severity of the punishment rises with the authority of the one you offend.
So what happens when you defy the sovereign, holy, eternal God of the universe?
Exactly.
"It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God." — Hebrews 10:31
But here’s the twist that melts every argument:
The Judge took the judgment.
He didn’t just slam the gavel and throw the book at you. He stepped down from the bench, wrapped Himself in flesh, and stood in your place.
"He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness." — 1 Peter 2:24
You want justice? There it is.
The full wrath of God—the holy fury against every ounce of rebellion, pride, lust, greed, and unbelief—was poured out on Christ.
Hell is real. And hell is just.
But Christ went through hell to make a way out for you.
So if you’re still hung up on God being too harsh, let me challenge you gently but firmly: what more could He do to show you mercy?
He made a way. A real way. Not by ignoring your sin, but by punishing it fully in the body of His Son.
If you walk away from that—from grace so costly, so blood-stained, so freely offered—then yes, judgment remains.
But if you run to Him?
You won’t find a cruel tyrant. You’ll find a pierced Savior.
God is just. But He’s also merciful. And He proved both—at the cross.
The Real Scandal: Grace
Let’s flip the script.
You want to talk about scandal? About unfairness? About something so outrageous it should offend every self-righteous instinct you have?
Let’s talk about grace.
Because if hell offends our emotions, grace offends our pride.
Grace is the most beautiful, jaw-dropping, head-shaking truth in the universe. It says you don’t earn salvation. You don’t deserve forgiveness. You didn’t qualify for heaven—and yet, God opened the door wide anyway.
"For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast." — Ephesians 2:8–9
Let me say it in plain terms: Heaven isn’t for good people. It’s for forgiven people.
And that’s the scandal. That’s the reversal. That’s what should trip every alarm in your sense of fairness.
Because grace means the judgmental Pharisee who repents will be saved. The porn addict who clings to Christ will be washed clean. The selfish, greedy, bitter sinner who falls on their knees and cries out for mercy will be declared righteous.
Meanwhile, the kind, generous, neighborly agnostic who refuses Christ will not.
Does that sting a little? Good. It should. Grace should mess with your categories.
See, we want a God who saves the people we like.
The people who are polite. Who vote like us. Who live clean lives. Who mean well.
But grace doesn’t bow to our preferences.
It reaches into the pit, grabs the ones who know they’re unworthy, and says, "I paid for this one."
Grace doesn’t sort people by niceness. It saves the undeserving.
"But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us." — Romans 5:8
Not "while we were trying really hard." Not "once we started doing better." Not "when we proved we were sincere."
While. We. Were. Sinners.
That’s the good news of the Gospel. That’s the message that levels the playing field. That’s why no one gets to boast, and no one gets to despair.
Let me be crystal clear: grace doesn’t ignore sin.
Grace stares sin straight in the face, acknowledges its full weight, and says, "I’ll take that."
Grace is Jesus, hanging on a cross, absorbing every drop of wrath, bearing the curse that should have crushed us.
He didn’t die to make good people better. He died to make dead people live.
"He made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God." — 2 Corinthians 5:21
That’s the scandal: Jesus gets our sin. We get His righteousness.
He drinks the cup of God’s wrath. We drink the cup of salvation.
He is crushed. We are healed.
And all of it—all of it—is a gift.
So when someone says, “It doesn’t seem fair that a nice person would go to hell,” ask this instead:
Was it fair that Jesus went to the cross for rebels like us?
Because that’s the real shocker. Not that hell exists. But that heaven does. And that sinners like us are welcomed into it by sheer mercy.
The thief on the cross didn’t have time to clean up his act. He just cried out, "Remember me."
And Jesus said, "Today you’ll be with me in paradise."
That’s the Gospel. That’s grace. That’s the offer.
Not to the good. Not to the qualified. Not to the impressive.
To the humbled. The broken. The desperate. The ones who know they don’t measure up.
And if you think that offer should be reserved for those who "deserve" it, then you don’t understand grace.
Grace is the greatest scandal of all.
And it’s your only hope.
The Question Behind the Question
Let’s be honest—really honest.
When we say, “How could God send good people to hell?”—there’s usually something else under the surface.
That question isn’t just about theology. It’s personal. Emotional. And more often than not, it’s standing on top of a deeper, more dangerous one:
“Can I actually trust this God?”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Because let’s not pretend this is just about abstract morality. Let’s not act like we’re detached philosophers pondering celestial justice like a riddle. No. This is about your fear, your grief, and sometimes—your pride.
We don’t ask these questions in a vacuum. We ask them with real names in mind. Real people we’ve loved. People who showed us kindness. People who gave without asking for credit. People we can’t imagine being under God’s judgment.
And in our pain, we start to ask:
"If God is good... why would He judge them?" "If God is just... why didn’t He make an exception?" "If God is love... why does this feel so harsh?"
It’s not just about others. It’s about us. It’s our attempt to hold court and cross-examine the Almighty.
And it’s in that moment—right there—that we need to pause and ask the real question:
Do I trust that God is better than me?
Do I trust that He is more loving than I am? More righteous? More just? More merciful? More wise?
Or do I secretly believe I would make a better God?
That I would judge more fairly? Forgive more freely? Love more purely?
Because that’s what this question really reveals: our tendency to make ourselves the standard. To put God in the dock. To act as if His ways must align with our intuitions to be valid.
"Woe to him who strives with him who formed him, a pot among earthen pots! Does the clay say to him who forms it, 'What are you making?'" — Isaiah 45:9
You might not like the idea of God judging your "good" loved ones. I understand that. But you have to decide something foundational:
Is God always right, even when I don’t understand Him?
Because if you can only worship a God who agrees with you, then you’re not worshiping God. You’re worshiping an idealized version of yourself with a halo.
God isn’t accountable to us. We are accountable to Him.
And here’s the turning point: if you let go of the illusion that you know better than God, you may finally begin to trust Him.
You may finally let Him be who He actually is—not who you wish He was.
You may stop editing His Word to fit your comfort zone. You may stop softening His justice to protect your emotions. You may stop doubting His goodness just because He’s not predictable.
"As for God, his way is perfect; the word of the Lord proves true; he is a shield for all those who take refuge in him." — Psalm 18:30
This is the moment where the Holy Spirit often starts pressing in.
Because suddenly, the weight of what we’re really doing becomes clear:
- We’re not just questioning hell. We’re questioning His heart.
- We’re not just wrestling with doctrine. We’re wrestling with the Divine.
- We’re not just trying to understand—we're trying to control.
But God doesn’t need your approval. He wants your surrender.
He wants you to say, “I don’t fully get it—but I trust You.” He wants your knees, not your verdict.
So what if you stopped arguing and started asking?
Not, “Why would God allow this?” But, “God, help me see what You see.”
What if you stopped building your theology on sentiment and started building it on Scripture?
What if you let the Holy Spirit do the heart surgery you’ve been resisting?
Because at the end of all our arguments, all our objections, and all our emotional resistance—there is only one question that really matters:
Will you trust the character of God, even when it costs you comfort?
That’s the question behind the question.
And the answer reveals everything about where your faith actually stands.
Let Him be God. He’s better at it than you.
A Hope That’s Bigger Than Our Standards
So here we are.
You’ve walked through the tough questions. You’ve wrestled with justice, with goodness, with hell, with grace, and maybe even with God Himself.
Now the dust begins to settle, and something else starts to rise up:
Hope.
But not the flimsy, sentimental kind—the kind sold on sympathy cards and feel-good memes. No, this is hope forged in fire. Hope that stands when your assumptions fall. Hope that doesn’t depend on you or the person you’re grieving over. Hope that’s anchored in a God who is bigger than our categories, better than our standards, and more merciful than we dared imagine.
"Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need." — Hebrews 4:16
That kind of hope doesn’t come from believing people are good. It comes from knowing God is good.
Look, I know this whole conversation may have felt like sandpaper against your soul. Especially if you’re carrying the weight of a loved one who never professed faith. I don’t take that lightly.
But I also won’t soften the truth to make it easier to swallow.
Because here’s what Scripture reveals:
- There is no salvation apart from Christ. (Acts 4:12)
- There is no righteousness apart from grace. (Ephesians 2:8–9)
- There is no one who is truly good. (Romans 3:10)
But also:
- God is rich in mercy. (Ephesians 2:4)
- God is patient, not wishing that any should perish. (2 Peter 3:9)
- God saves people in ways we can’t always see. (Luke 23:42–43)
So what do we do with all of this?
We rest. Not in our understanding. Not in the memory of someone’s decency. But in God’s character.
You can trust Him. Completely. He’s not capricious. He’s not cruel. He’s not sitting on a cloud waiting to zap people because they didn’t sign the right doctrinal statement.
He’s just. He’s holy. He’s good. And He saves.
So here’s your hope:
You don’t have to carry the weight of deciding who deserved what. That job above your pay grade.
Your job is to preach the Gospel. To live it. To pray for mercy. To trust that Jesus knows how to judge with perfect wisdom, justice, and compassion.
"Shall not the Judge of all the earth do what is just?" — Genesis 18:25
That rhetorical question still thunders today. And the answer is: Yes. He will.
He will do right by every soul. He will make no mistakes. He will not forget even a single cry of faith.
So stop trying to carry what only God can. Stop trying to rewrite what only grace can redeem.
And if you’re still breathing, still reading, still wrestling—then you still have time.
Time to repent. Time to believe. Time to turn from your own goodness and cling to Christ’s.
Because this isn’t just about someone else. It’s about you.
"Examine yourselves, to see whether you are in the faith. Test yourselves. Or do you not realize this about yourselves, that Jesus Christ is in you?" — 2 Corinthians 13:5
Maybe the reason this topic hits so hard is because it’s not just a theological struggle. It’s a personal invitation.
You can spend your life trying to be good enough. Or you can fall into the arms of the only One who is.
Jesus is enough.
More than good. More than fair. More than anything we deserve.
And for those who trust Him, even the darkest questions will one day be swallowed up in the light of His glory.
Until then, we walk by faith. Not by sight. Not by sentiment. Not by our standards.
By His.
Thanks for reading.
