When Righteousness Wears You Out

It wasn’t rebellion that burned me out.
It was obedience.

I was doing everything “right.”
Praying. Fasting. Memorizing. Serving.
Never missing church. Never saying no.

If there was a checklist for spiritual maturity, I had every box marked — twice.
And yet, the more I did, the emptier I felt.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I wasn’t living the Christian life.
I was performing the Christian role.
And like every role that depends on me holding the mask in place, eventually my arms got tired.

The weight wasn’t from sin.
It was from “righteousness.”
At least, my version of it.

See, I thought righteousness was about proving my worth to God — staying spotless, always producing, never failing.
But the gospel I lived by was closer to a corporate ladder than a cross.
Climb higher. Work harder. Don’t slip.

And when you start thinking God is your boss, burnout is inevitable.

Jesus once said to the religious leaders:

“For they bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men’s shoulders; but they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers.”
(Matthew 23:4)

I knew those leaders.
I had been one.
Worse, I had been my own Pharisee — binding heavy burdens on my own back and calling it faithfulness.

Then I heard Him again, not in rebuke but in invitation:

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
(Matthew 11:28–30)

The problem wasn’t righteousness.
It was my definition of it.
I was trying to become righteous by doing more, instead of living from righteousness already given to me in Christ.

Paul put it bluntly to the Galatians:

“Are ye so foolish? having begun in the Spirit, are ye now made perfect by the flesh?”
(Galatians 3:3)

That was me — saved by grace, sustained by hustle.
But grace doesn’t need my hustle.
It needs my surrender.

Now, I still pursue righteousness.
But it’s not a ladder I’m climbing.
It’s fruit from abiding.
And fruit grows in rest, not in frantic motion.

So if you’re tired from sin, you need repentance.
But if you’re tired from righteousness, you need Jesus.
Not the checklist version. Not the boss version.
The Shepherd who restores your soul.

If that’s where you are, you’re not alone. Rest isn’t failure. It’s faith.

The Bible Is About Cracked Altars

Altars aren’t supposed to crack.
At least, that’s what I thought.

In my mind, an altar was this perfect, polished place where people came to meet God. A place you’d prepare—clean, strong, unblemished—so the offering would be “good enough.”

But Scripture tells a different story.

🔥 When God Breaks the Altar

In 1 Kings 18, Elijah calls down fire on Mount Carmel. The altar is soaked in water—impossible to light—until the fire of the Lord consumes it all.

But the real surprise? Before the fire, Elijah rebuilds the altar that had been torn down. He doesn’t craft a new one. He doesn’t import fresh, unmarred stones. He takes the old, broken pieces and makes a place for God’s glory to fall.

And the fire doesn’t wait for perfection.
It comes to cracked stones.

🪨 Why the Cracks Matter

A perfect altar makes you think you’ve done your part.
A cracked altar reminds you that you can’t.

Cracks tell the truth—that our worship is never flawless. That the best we can offer is still chipped, weathered, and fragile. And still… God comes.

Isaiah 57:15 says God dwells “with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit.” That word contrite? It means crushed. Broken. Cracked.

The altar’s strength is not in its polish.
It’s in the God who answers with fire.

🫀 Your Heart Is the Altar

The temple’s gone. The stones of Mount Carmel are dust. Now, you are the altar (1 Corinthians 3:16).

And maybe you’ve been holding off rebuilding because you think God only comes to perfect places.
But the truth? The fire falls on the cracks.

You don’t need to hide the broken parts. Bring them.
Don’t sand over the story—stack it, stone by stone, before Him.

✝ The Bible Is About…

The Bible is about a God who meets us in the ruins.
Who accepts worship on broken altars.
Who proves His power, not by avoiding the cracks, but by filling them with fire.

Who’s Your Mommy

🔥 Who’s Your Mommy?

We don’t like to talk about slavery.

We’ve rebranded it with words like “habits,” “issues,” or “strongholds.” But in Galatians 4, Paul doesn’t pull punches. He says, “You’re either a child of the slave woman or of the free.”

It’s not about your church attendance.
It’s not about your doctrinal accuracy.
It’s about who your mother is.

And the crazy part? He’s not talking about genetics—he’s talking about theology.

📖 Two Mothers. Two Covenants.

Paul rewinds the clock to Abraham. You remember him—the one who was promised a child in his old age.

But Abraham didn’t wait. He and Sarah took matters into their own hands and had a child through Hagar, the servant. His name was Ishmael.

Later, the child of promise—Isaac—was born through Sarah.

Paul says these two women represent two covenants:

• Hagar = Mount Sinai = the law = bondage

• Sarah = the heavenly Jerusalem = the promise = freedom

And then Paul asks the Galatians a question that hits hard: Why are you choosing to live like you’re Hagar’s kids when you’ve been born of Sarah?

⚖️ Law Can’t Make You Free

This wasn’t just a theological argument—it was personal. Paul had preached freedom to these believers. They had tasted grace. They had the Spirit. But now they were trading it in for performance-based righteousness.

Because law feels safe. It’s predictable. You can measure it.

But that safety is a trap.

Like Hagar, the law gives birth to slaves. And once you’re in that system, you’re never enough. Your value is tied to your output. Your holiness is tied to your hustle.

I know this because I lived it.

💥 My Life with Hagar

I built a whole version of faith on performance. It looked righteous. It felt intense. But it was still slavery. I thought if I prayed enough, fasted enough, soul-won enough, God would bless me.

But my bus route was empty. My prayers were dry. My heart was tired.

And then I heard the whisper: Maybe God isn’t real… or maybe He just doesn’t like me.

That’s when I met grace.

Grace didn’t look like what I expected. It didn’t show up with results. It showed up with rest.

Not laziness. Not apathy. But a quiet freedom that said, You don’t have to earn your way in. You’re already mine.

🕊 Live Like You're Free

Paul says, “Cast out the bondwoman and her son.” That might sound harsh—but he’s not talking about people. He’s talking about the system.

Kick out the scorecard.
Evict the anxiety.
Remove the pressure to perform.

You don’t need law to be loved.

If you’re living like a slave, ask yourself: Who’s your mommy?

Because if you’ve been born again, your lineage is freedom. Your inheritance is grace. And your life—your whole identity—is not rooted in what you do, but in who Jesus is.

That’s not a cute theology. It’s a call to action.

So stop visiting the slave house. You don’t live there anymore.

A Glorious Ministry (And Why It Broke Me)

The first time I tried to minister for God, I did it with everything I had. I gave my time, my energy, my sleep, my future. I built it on discipline, pressure, and sacrifice.

And I believed that if I did everything right, God would show up.

But He didn’t.
At least not in the way I expected.
And the more I tried to force His presence, the more I collapsed under the weight of trying to earn what He had already offered freely.

This is the story of how I lost my ministry—and finally found my God.
Not behind a performance. But behind a vail that had to be torn down.

📖 2 Corinthians 3 – The Vail That Still Blinds

When Paul defends his ministry in 2 Corinthians 3, the Corinthians are basically asking: “Where’s your proof? Who gave you authority?”

Paul's response?
“You’re the proof.”
He says the only letter of recommendation he needs is the Spirit-written transformation in the lives of those he’s ministered to.

Then he says something that cracked my theology in half:

“…not of the letter, but of the spirit: for the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life.”

The Law—good as it was—was still a ministration of death.
Even Moses, when his face shone with glory, had to hide it behind a vail. But Paul says that vail is gone in Christ. And what we have now is an unveiled ministry—one that exposes, transforms, and doesn’t fade away.

That’s not just a theological statement. It’s a map of how I fell apart… and how grace put me back together.

🔥 My Story: Ministry by the Letter

After high school, I enrolled at Hyles-Anderson College. Everything was about soul-winning, sacrifice, and urgency. It was intense—and I loved it.

So I gave it everything.
I fasted. I prayed through the night. I read Proverbs weekly, Acts weekly, Psalms monthly. I became a bus captain. I prayed twenty hours a week. I worked, visited, burned out, repeated.

And the results?

My bus wasn’t growing. I was physically exhausted. Spiritually discouraged.
And emotionally—ashamed. Because in that world, when it didn’t work, it was always your fault.

“You expect me to believe you’re knocking doors and God isn’t blessing you?”
“Is God a liar—or are you?”

I believed the problem was me. So I pushed harder. I wrote letters. Called off work to visit midweek. Skipped sleep. Increased my program budget.
And when that didn’t work? They took my route from me.

That was the final crack.

I walked away—bitter, confused, and convinced that God either didn’t care or didn’t want me.

🌲 What Happened in the Woods

Eventually, I came back home. Spiritually cold. Angry.
I started working on a new bus route. I wasn’t prayed up. I wasn’t fasted up. I wasn’t anything but present. And suddenly, my bus route exploded. 100+ riders. Overflow.

And I was furious.

Why now?
Why when I wasn’t even trying?

I yelled. I shut down. I told myself, “God is blessing me to spite me.”

But then came a moment.
Alone. In the woods. No phone. Just me, a towel, and a Bible. And I told God:

“If this is what You want—a jobless, broke, suspended-license loser—fine. I’ll do it. But I have nothing left to earn it with.”

And the vail tore.
Not the one between me and God. The one I had hung between me and grace.

“Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.”
(2 Corinthians 3:17)

🔍 Reflection: From Veil to Mirror

Paul ends the chapter with this:

“But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed…”

That’s what changed me.
Not better effort. Not higher numbers. Not a more spiritual schedule.

I saw Jesus clearly—because I stopped hiding.
I stopped performing.
And I started letting the gospel do what no program could do.

🙏 If You’re Ministering With a Vail…

Let this post be your permission to stop.

The Law kills.
The Letter kills.
But the Spirit gives life.
And He doesn’t need your resume.

He just needs your face.
Unhidden.

📖 Why I Built Bare Altar

This is a place for the unhidden.

There was a time I thought God would show up if I just did enough.

So I did what I thought I was supposed to do. I prayed long. I fasted weekly. I read chapters of Proverbs and Acts like they were keys to the kingdom. I knocked doors. I skipped sleep. I stayed busy. And when it didn’t work—when God didn’t “show up” like I’d been taught He would—I assumed I had failed.

So I tried harder. And when that didn’t work either, I burned out. Not just emotionally. Spiritually. At the time, I wouldn’t have said it that way. I just felt tired, confused, and honestly—angry.

What Broke

Eventually the whole thing collapsed. My performance-based version of faith didn’t hold. Not because I didn’t care. I cared too much. That’s what broke me.

But underneath all the frustration, I started to see something:
I was following a system, not a Savior.

I had built an altar out of effort—and expected God to come down like fire.
But what I needed was to come to His altar. Bare. Honest. Unhidden.

Why This Blog Exists

Bare Altar is where I bring what’s real. Not what looks good.
It’s not a platform. It’s not a performance. It’s not a church growth strategy.

It’s a place to wrestle with Scripture, wrestle with the past, and let God search me—not just correct me.

“The word of God is quick, and powerful… a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.”
(Hebrews 4:12)

I used to quote that verse like it was aimed at others.
Now I know—I was the one in view the whole time.

I wasn’t just broken. I was exposed.
And the only thing that changed me wasn’t a better method—it was surrender.

What You’ll Find Here

I write about:

• Scripture—without the filters and performance I used to bring

• Spiritual burnout and rebuilding

• What I’ve learned from collapse—and what I’m still learning

Sometimes I’ll reflect on Job. Or Paul. Or Moses. Or Jesus. Other times I’ll share what broke me. What I misunderstood. And what God is still showing me.

I’m not here to convince anyone. I’m just telling the truth as I’ve lived it.

If You’re Still Here…

You might be someone who’s felt it too:
The burnout. The pressure. The guilt that somehow, even when you’re doing everything right—it still feels like something’s off.

If that’s you, I hope this place helps you feel seen. Not because I have answers, but because I’ve sat in the fire too.

And I’ve learned something in that fire:
You don’t bring offerings to impress God.
You bring them to be changed.