The Law That Lied to Me

The law made me a promise.
It told me: “If you do good, God will bless you. If you fail, He will curse you.”

It sounded simple. Clean. Black-and-white.
So I believed it. And I built my life around it.

But the law lied to me.

The Law Promised Life

Paul says in Galatians 3:21:
“For if there had been a law given which could have given life, verily righteousness should have been by the law.”

That’s the lie. The law looks like life.
It offers control, certainty, measurable results.

If you’re good enough, you’ll get what you long for.
If you’re pure enough, God will approve of you.
If you’re faithful enough, you’ll finally have peace.

It’s intoxicating because it feels achievable.

But in the end, it’s slavery.

The Law Delivered Death

Paul calls the law “the ministration of death” (2 Corinthians 3:7).
Why? Because no matter how hard you try, it’s never enough.

The law doesn’t heal sin. It exposes it.
The law doesn’t remove guilt. It multiplies it.
The law doesn’t make you holy. It leaves you hollow.

I know, because I lived it.
I stayed up late, fasted, prayed, hustled—hoping to buy God’s blessing with spiritual currency.
But all I got was exhaustion, shame, and bitterness.

The law promised life.
But it gave me death.

The Gospel Tells the Truth

Here’s the truth:

• Righteousness is not earned—it’s given.

• Holiness is not achieved—it’s received.

• God’s favor is not purchased—it’s poured out.

The gospel doesn’t say, “Do this and live.”
It says, “It is finished.”

Paul writes: “The law was our schoolmaster to bring us unto Christ, that we might be justified by faith.” (Galatians 3:24).

The law’s job was never to give life.
It was to drive us to the One who is life.

Why It Matters

If you live by the law, you will always measure yourself by failure.
But if you live by the Spirit, you measure everything by grace.

The law lied to me.
But Jesus told me the truth.

And the truth is this: I don’t have to earn God’s love.
I already have it.

Why I Stopped Trying to Be Holy

I used to think holiness meant effort.
If I prayed long enough, avoided the right sins, showed up at every service, maybe then I’d be holy.

And I tried. Hard.
I made holiness into a job description.
But instead of finding peace, I found exhaustion.

The harder I tried to be holy, the more unholy I felt.

The Problem With “Trying”

When Paul wrote to the Galatians, he asked:

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

That was me. I thought the Spirit saved me, but after that it was up to me to finish the job. To polish myself into holiness.

But holiness isn’t earned like a paycheck. It’s received like a gift.

Holiness Is Christ, Not a Checklist

Paul says it plainly:

“I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me…”
(Galatians 2:20)

The old me died.
The one who hustled for approval, who measured worth by effort—that person was crucified.
And the life I live now isn’t about my performance. It’s Christ living in me.

Holiness isn’t about trying harder.
It’s about trusting deeper.

The False Holiness That Burns Us Out

We often define holiness by externals:

• How often we pray.

• How clean our habits are.

• How good we look to others.

But that kind of holiness doesn’t free you. It chains you.
It’s Sinai all over again—rules that demand, but never deliver.

True holiness doesn’t come from human striving. It comes from the Spirit who makes us new.

The Freedom of Real Holiness

Paul again:

“Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage.”
(Galatians 5:1)

Holiness isn’t a cage.
It’s liberty.

When Peter said, “Be ye holy; for I am holy” (1 Peter 1:16), he wasn’t handing out a burden. He was pointing us to the source. Holiness isn’t something we manufacture—it’s Someone we reflect.

Why I Stopped Trying

I stopped trying to be holy because my trying was the problem.
Holiness isn’t my work for God.
It’s God’s work in me.

When I gave up the hustle and trusted the Spirit, I found what I was chasing the whole time: rest, freedom, and a holiness I could never have achieved on my own.

The Takeaway

The gospel doesn’t say, “Try harder.”
It says, “It is finished.”

That’s why I stopped trying to be holy.
And why, for the first time, I actually started to be.

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.

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.