Almost everyone thinks it, including people who would never call themselves religious. It’s the oldest math there is — good people get good things, bad people get bad things, and if something has gone wrong, you must have earned it. There’s a letter in the Bible, written to people getting hammered by their own culture for what they believed, that takes that question head-on. Its answer is not the one most people expect.

The assumption almost nobody examines
Most of us carry a quiet arrangement in the back of our minds: if God is real, and God is good, then only good things should happen to me. So when something bad lands, there are only two explanations left. Either it slipped past God’s attention, or somebody out there is stronger than He is.

The Bible has never agreed with that arrangement. It does not promise a comfortable life — not anywhere. What it claims instead is that a good God is doing something deliberate with the hard parts.

That is a very different claim than “you had this coming.”

The word that almost always gets misheard
Hebrews 12 says God “disciplines” the people He loves. For a lot of people that word lands hard, and it should be said plainly: discipline sounds like punishment. It sounds like a father in a bad mood, handing out what you’ve got coming.

That isn’t what the word meant to the people who first read it. The original Greek word is the word for raising a child — the entire project of teaching, correcting, and shaping a kid into a capable adult. Correction is part of it. But it’s a small part, the way one hard conversation is a small part of parenting.

Try it this way. Imagine two army units, a thousand soldiers each. The first one eats three meals a day, snacks in between, and watches war movies. The second is up before dawn running, out on the range all morning, working straight through lunch until supper. Everyone knows which unit you want when it actually matters. And almost everyone would rather be in the first one.

Nobody trains a soldier because they resent him. They train him because of what he’s going to face.

It isn’t karma, and it isn’t a verdict on you
This is where the Bible gets careful, and it’s worth being careful too. It never says God authors the evil that happens to you.

Take Joseph, one of the oldest stories in Scripture. His brothers sold him into slavery out of jealousy. His employer’s wife lied about him and he sat in prison for years. God did not do those things — people did, and Scripture calls it exactly what it was. Yet years later, facing the brothers who sold him, Joseph could say that what they meant for evil, God meant for good. Not that the evil was good. That God was not wasting it.

So the hard thing in your life is not a scorecard, and it is not a bill you’re paying off. This is not karma. What the letter promises is that God is at work in it, shaping you into someone whose character increasingly looks like His.

It also refuses to pretend it feels fine. “All discipline for the moment seems not to be joyful, but sorrowful,” it says — and then, “afterwards, it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness.” First the honesty. Then the hope.

The part where you don’t do it by yourself
The passage ends with an instruction, and in the original language every word of it is plural: strengthen the hands that are weak, and the feeble knees.

It isn’t telling the hurting person to buck up. It’s telling everyone else to hold them up. That’s the honest reason a church exists — not a building or a schedule, but people who notice the bad knee, tie it up, and keep running alongside you.

And underneath all of it is the thing that keeps this from being a pep talk. None of it runs on deserving. The Christian claim is that Jesus lived the perfect life none of us has lived, died in our place, was buried, and was raised three days later. Whatever anyone gets from God, they don’t get because they earned it. They get it because He did.

Which cuts both ways. Your suffering isn’t the bill coming due. And your future isn’t a wage you have to keep working for.

If life is hurting right now, the better question isn’t what did I do? It’s what is God making of me — and who is running next to me while He does it?

First Baptist Church Concord meets every Sunday — Sunday School at 9:30 AM and worship at 10:45 AM.
We’re at 200 Branchview Dr SE, Concord, NC 28025, and we’d love to meet you.

→ Planning your first visit? Here’s what to expect.
→ Looking for community? Here’s how to meet people.
→ Ready to get involved? Here’s where you can serve.

A meal that remembers a death

The ritual is often called communion; a lot of churches call it the Lord’s Supper. It traces back to the night before Jesus was executed, when He shared a final meal with His closest friends. He took bread and said, “This is my body, which is for you.” He lifted a cup and called it a “new covenant” — a new promise — sealed in His blood. Then He said something simple: *do this to remember me.*

So at its heart, the Lord’s Supper isn’t magic and it isn’t a performance. It’s a memory. People eat the bread and drink the cup to remember that Jesus willingly gave His life for them. As one line in the Bible puts it, every time they do it, they “proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.”

Why a death is good news

If talk of body and blood sounds intense, you’re not wrong — it is. But there’s a reason the language is that vivid. Christians don’t remember Jesus’ death as a tragedy they’re stuck grieving. They remember it as a rescue.

The belief underneath it is that every one of us carries a real problem — we’ve done wrong, and we can’t undo it on our own. Instead of leaving us to settle that ourselves, Jesus stepped into our place and settled it for us. The bread and the cup are physical reminders of a debt that’s already been paid. That’s why the mood is usually quiet but not sad. It’s the difference between mourning a loss and exhaling in relief.

The surprising part: who the table is for

Here’s where it gets pointed. One of the earliest churches, in a city called Corinth, turned the Lord’s Supper into a status contest. The wealthy ate well and ate early; the poor got the scraps, if anything was left. A leader named Paul sent them a blunt letter: you’ve missed the entire point. The whole meaning of this meal is that everyone at the table stands on equal ground.

That’s still the scandal of it. There’s no VIP section. It doesn’t matter whether you make seven figures or you’re doing your best just to get by. It doesn’t matter how put-together your life looks or how far from put-together you feel. The table was made for people who know they need help — which, if we’re honest, is every single one of us.

What that means if you’re just exploring

You don’t need your beliefs sorted out to be welcome in the room. Watching a church share the Lord’s Supper is actually one of the clearest windows you’ll get into what Christians believe: that no one is too far gone to be included, and no one is too important to need grace.

If that’s something you’d like to see up close — no pressure, no spotlight — you’re welcome to just come and watch.

—

**First Baptist Church Concord** meets every Sunday — Sunday School at 9:30 AM and worship at 10:45 AM.
We’re at 200 Branchview Dr SE, Concord, NC 28025, and we’d love to meet you.

→ Planning your first visit? [Here’s what to expect.](https://www.fbcconcord.org/planning-your-visit/)
→ Looking for community? [Here’s how to meet people.](https://www.fbcconcord.org/how-do-i-meet-people/)
→ Ready to get involved? [Here’s where you can serve.](https://www.fbcconcord.org/where-can-i-serve/)

If that’s close to where you are, here’s something that might surprise you. The Bible saw that objection coming, and instead of dodging it, one of its most famous chapters walks straight into it.

An ancient list that refuses to airbrush the truth

There’s a chapter near the end of the Bible — Hebrews 11 — that reads like a hall of fame for people known for their faith. The first half goes about how you’d expect: people who won impossible battles, escaped danger, and saw their weakness turned into strength.

And then, halfway through, it turns. The same chapter says that others who had the exact same faith were mocked, imprisoned, tortured, and killed. It doesn’t tuck that into a footnote. It lists it, plainly, right alongside the victories.

Two groups. The same trust in God. Two completely different outcomes in this life. And the Bible calls both of them faith.

Why that honesty is worth paying attention to

Most things that want your loyalty hide the downside. The ad shows you the highlight, not the fine print. So it’s genuinely striking to find a book that puts the hard part in writing.

Christianity, at its source, never promised that trusting God buys you a smooth life. The people who first received the letter of Hebrews were losing homes, jobs, and standing in their community for their faith — and the author doesn’t tell them it will blow over. He tells them the truth.

There’s something you can actually trust in that. A faith that’s honest about suffering isn’t a weaker faith. It’s the only kind worth having when suffering finally shows up at your door — and it will, for all of us, religious or not.

So what is the promise, if it isn’t an easy life?

Here’s the center of it, and it’s not “try harder and grin through the pain.”

The Christian claim is that God didn’t stay at a safe distance from human suffering. He stepped into it. Jesus — who Christians believe is God in person — lived the life we couldn’t, then took on the worst this world does: he was betrayed, tortured, and executed, though he had done nothing to deserve it. He was buried. And then, three days later, his followers say God raised him from the dead — bodily, permanently alive again.

That’s what the Bible means by *resurrection*: not a comforting idea that we live on in someone’s memory, but the claim that death itself gets reversed. Because Jesus walked out of his own grave, he can promise the same to everyone who trusts him.

So the promise was never a pain-free life now. The promise is a life to come where the pain doesn’t get the final say — what the passage itself calls a “better resurrection.”

Where that leaves you, and your questions

None of this asks you to have your grief tied up in a bow, or to pretend the hard things don’t hurt. The people in that ancient chapter didn’t. Some of them died still waiting on a promise they trusted but never got to see.

If faith, for you, has felt like something that only works for people whose lives came out okay — that’s not the faith this passage describes. This one has room for the question you’re actually carrying. And it points to a God who has been through suffering himself, and came out the other side.

That’s a good reason to come sit in a room with people who are asking the same things you are.

→ Planning your first visit? [Here’s what to expect.](https://www.fbcconcord.org/planning-your-visit/)
→ Looking for community? [Here’s how to meet people.](https://www.fbcconcord.org/how-do-i-meet-people/)
→ Ready to get involved? [Here’s where you can serve.](https://www.fbcconcord.org/where-can-i-serve/)

Abraham had one too. His name was Isaac.

He waited twenty-five years for that boy. Sarah laughed when God first made the promise, so they named him laughter when he finally came. The whole future of God’s promise was packed into one child. And then, one ordinary morning, God said: “Give him to Me.”

This is one of the hardest passages in all of Scripture — and if we read it too quickly, we miss what God is actually doing in it. This week we slowed down and sat with just three verses. Here’s what we found.

1. Belief believes, but faith works

“By faith, Abraham, when he was tested, offered up Isaac.” The faith is at work. It’s not just believing.

Belief says, “I believe that chair can hold me up.” Faith is sitting down in it and proving it so. Even the demons believe — and tremble. So there has to be something more than belief. Faith says, “I believe what Jesus did was enough, and I’m staking my life on it. I’m not hedging my bets.”

The test is where belief becomes faith. It’s the decision to follow through, even when you don’t know how the story ends. Abraham didn’t know there would be a ram. He simply trusted, and then he acted on that trust.

2. God tests our biggest vulnerabilities

God doesn’t usually test us with the small things. It’s not the old pair of sneakers or the offering plate. He puts His hand on the one thing — the thing we’re most tempted to put in His place.

Remember the rich young ruler? Jesus didn’t ask him for a pair of sandals or ten percent. He asked for everything. And the man went away sad. Jesus always puts His hand on the one thing and says: “You’re not going to enjoy a faith walk with Me until you let Me have that one thing.”

That’s what the test is really asking: Do you love Me, or do you love what I can do for you? God isn’t being cruel. He’s purifying us — proving that our trust is in Him, not in the gift.

3. True faith pursues God’s character

Abraham “considered that God is able to raise people even from the dead.” His faith wasn’t wishful thinking. It was anchored in who God is.

• We trust His person. Like Job said, “Naked I came, and naked I’ll return — blessed be the name of the Lord.” It’s Him we want, not just His blessings.
• We trust His power. The same God who can raise the dead is strong enough to handle whatever He asks us to lay down.
• We trust His promises. God intends only good for His children — even when His definition of good doesn’t match ours.

Grace for those who feel like they’re failing

Here’s the hope: faith isn’t a pass/fail exam where one stumble gets you kicked out. Think of Peter stepping onto the water. The moment he began to sink, Jesus was right there to lift him up.

The same is true for you. When you fail, God is right there to pick you up, clean you off, and set you on your feet again. The test isn’t over — but He will not let you fail.

So keep looking for the ram. And whatever happens, believe this: God is able to raise the dead. That’s where our hope rests.

But not once, not even one time, did she stop the car at the sign and say, “We’re here.”

Because the sign wasn’t home. The sign just said: you’re getting close to home.

That’s a good picture of where we find ourselves this Fourth of July. We’re celebrating a signpost. And a signpost is worth celebrating — as long as we don’t mistake it for the city.

A signpost worth celebrating

Let’s be clear about something. The nation we live in is a genuine blessing — not just for those of us who live in it, but for the whole world. Are we perfect? Not even close. Have we done heinous things in our history? You betcha. But God has also used this country as a blessing to others, and there are real gifts here worth naming plainly.

We’re governed by consent, not by a throne. No king owns us. No bloodline rules us.

We can worship unforced. Nobody woke you up this morning and made you come to church. We can gather any time we want, stand up, and sing praises to God — and nobody can stop us. That’s liberty. And that same liberty means we can’t force anyone to trust Christ, either; faith has to be freely given, or it isn’t faith.

This has historically been a sending nation, too. People like Adoniram Judson — who packed his family’s belongings in coffins to sail overseas — and Lottie Moon and a whole host of others carried the gospel to the ends of the earth. Because somebody here had the freedom to go, there are people all around the world today who trust Christ.

So we ought to be the most thankful people on earth. Missionaries who’ve served overseas have told me they weep walking down an American grocery aisle, overwhelmed by how much we have. Truthfully, we ought to be grateful for something as small as a box of cereal. These are all gifts. Every one of them.

The temptation of every generation

Here’s the danger. It’s the temptation of every generation: to pull the car over at the sign and say, “We’ve arrived.”

The church has done it again and again all through history — we’ve arrived, we’ve arrived, we’ve arrived. And friends, I’m just telling you: we haven’t arrived. Things aren’t perfect. Only Jesus is going to bring the peace that passes understanding. Only Jesus is going to make all things just. And that won’t happen in this world — it happens when He comes and recreates the next one.

That’s exactly what Hebrews 11 is about. Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Jacob — they all died in faith without receiving the promises, “having seen them and welcomed them from a distance, and having confessed that they were strangers and exiles on the earth” (Hebrews 11:13). When Abraham died, all he actually owned of the Promised Land was a grave for his wife. And yet he kept looking forward, because he understood the grave was only a signpost of the city that was coming.

So we must not confuse the signpost for the city.

The country that’s actually coming

The city that’s coming has a better King — Jesus, King of kings and Lord of lords, before whom every knee will bow. It’s a better country, where the curse is lifted and creation is fruitful again. It’s a better citizenship — nobody can vote you off, nobody checks your passport, and the only thing that matters is that you belong to Jesus. And it comes with a better inheritance: everything that belongs to the King belongs to those who are His.

Here’s what I want you to hold onto this week. No politician — blue or red — no preacher, no billionaire, is going to bring you what only Jesus can bring. Every politician who’s ever lived has broken promises. Ask yourself: is there any leader who’s kept every promise they ever made?

Jesus has.

So celebrate the blessing God has given us here in America. Thank the Lord for it. Enjoy the freedoms while we have them. But be salt and light — not for a better America, but for the promise that’s coming. (And by the way: if we’re salt and light, America will get better. It’s just not our purpose.)

Our purpose is that we’re longing for the country we’ve been promised. A better one. A heavenly one. “Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them” (Hebrews 11:16).

If you’ve never trusted Christ, you don’t have to fix your life first, and you don’t have to wait. Recognize that you’ve sinned against a holy God, and that Jesus died in your place and rose again — guaranteeing that whoever calls on the name of the Lord will be saved. You can leave today belonging to Him.

We’re celebrating the signpost. But we’re not home yet.

That’s a fair suspicion. And it’s worth saying plainly: if faith were just that, it wouldn’t be worth much when life actually gets hard. But an old letter in the Bible called Hebrews offers a definition that’s sturdier than the cliché — and surprisingly practical.

Faith is not about how hard you believe

Here’s the first thing that trips people up. We tend to think faith is a kind of inner strength — that if you could just believe harder, things would work out. Pastor Jim Collier put it directly this past Sunday at FBC Concord: it’s never the power of your believing that matters. It’s who you’re believing in.

That’s a relief, actually. It means faith isn’t one more thing you have to be good at. A small, shaky trust placed in someone reliable is worth more than a mountain of confidence placed in nothing.

A surprising definition

Hebrews puts it this way: “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” That sounds abstract until you hear the picture Pastor Jim used.

Imagine you’ve bought a house that’s still being built. You don’t live there yet — but you hold the deed. So what do you do? You measure for curtains. You shop for appliances. You pick the spot where your favorite chair will go. You rearrange your life around something you can’t fully see yet, because you’re sure it’s coming.

That’s faith. Not pretending. Not forcing a feeling. It’s trusting a promise enough to start building your life around it.

Faith is an anchor, not a mood

There’s a second picture worth holding onto, especially if you’re in a hard season right now. Think of a ship in a storm. What keeps it from being lost isn’t the beauty of the ship or the skill of the crew. It’s a heavy anchor that digs into something solid beneath the water.

Faith works the same way. It holds you steady not because your grip is strong, but because of what it’s hooked to. When everything feels uncertain — a diagnosis, a loss, a season you didn’t choose — faith isn’t about mustering more optimism. It’s about being held by something that doesn’t move.

Where this leaves you

You don’t need impressive faith to start. One of the most honest prayers in the whole Bible is simply, “I believe — help my unbelief.” That’s a real place to begin. Faith often starts as a small, honest reach toward God, not a finished certainty.

If you’re somewhere between curiosity and doubt, that’s not a disqualification. It might be exactly where faith begins.

First Baptist Church Concord meets every Sunday — Sunday School at 9:15 AM and worship at 10:30 AM. We’re at 200 Branchview Dr SE, Concord, NC 28025, and we’d love to meet you.