In The Heart Of The Father

Starting the Day Anchored Instead of Running

This morning I woke up earlier than I ever do. Maybe because I went to sleep earlier, too.

When I got up, several things were on my mind. But at the front was this:
I don’t want to start my day running.

These days, my days can be pretty intense. But today, I wanted to start my day with Him.

What We Expect vs. What We Receive

I’m learning something vital in these quiet moments.

What we expect is not often what we get.

Now this isn’t a statement meant to lay a foundation for negativity, but one meant to bring a sober-minded reality back into play—that there are many different arenas of life, and when we are sent, it is not always to places that look like we thought they would.

I had a picture in my mind.
If I’m being honest, that picture may have been more about what I thought and believed than what was really needed.

We’ll come back to that.

The Lesson in Ezekiel

This morning, the Lord has had the book of Ezekiel on my mind yet again. It’s one of my favorite books of prophecy always has been.

But why is it on my mind today?

Not because I’m looking at it the way I once did as a picture of what the life and ministry of a prophet looks like but because of a lesson I’ve come face to face with over and over during the past few years:

The first lesson you learn as a leader but not just any leader, a sent one is that this is about the people.

If you study Ezekiel, especially the first few chapters, you realize two things happen in a specific succession:

• First, God reveals Himself
• Then, God reveals who Ezekiel is
• And after that… God tells him about the people

Now does this mean you and I do not matter? Of course not.
But the message, the ministry, the call it is all about the people.

When Our “Helping” Is About Us

When God tells us the people we are sent to, He tells us what they need.

And this is where our idea of what is needed often begins to be revealed as surface-level and often about us.

For me, I would have said I loved to help people. I loved to support people. And I’m not saying that isn’t true.

But truthfully, in my self-centered immaturity, I loved being the one people gave acclaim to for helping and supporting them.

Leadership is not about this.

Letting Go of the Picture

I struggled to write this.

Because in my mind I considered, What if people think differently about me after reading it?

But to my heart came:
“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus…”

And I realized something:

When I hold my picture up higher than the picture He is painting, I get in the way of His ministry to the people.

Eating the Scroll

I spent weeks pondering and meditating on the passage where the Lord told Ezekiel to “eat the scroll.”

Yes, it was the message.
Yes, it was the understanding of what was to come.

But if the scroll is the Word of God, maybe it’s also this:

Before we can be sent, we have to partake of the Lamb in His wholeness.

“Eat the whole body, or you can have no part with me.”

Eating the whole Lamb includes the parts where our plans and vision have to die.

Open Hands

I know those who have walked around for 30 years holding close to a vision they believe is from God but not for us, the body for them.

They hold it close like a toddler holding toys.

But the Lord calls us to come with open hands
willing to let go of everything but Christ,
understanding that His ways are higher than ours.

What People Really Need

What does this mean?

Sometimes the picture we’ve had the things we thought we’d need to navigate and the things we thought others would need are too surface-level.

• We think people need a mouthpiece, but they really need a mother
• We think they need a word, but what they really need is a hug
• We think they need encouragement, but what they really need is accountability

What’s my point?

What they need flows from the heart of the Father.
What we need flows from the heart of the Father.

The Cost of Being Sent

It’s only when we are willing to die to self—

When someone you came to help is angry at you for what helps…
When you have to say the same things over and over…
When you have to trust the Lord to speak to you…
And you have to learn to listen even to the simple things…

—that you begin to walk this out.

Why I Didn’t Want to Start Running

So why did I want to start my day with Him?

Because He is my anchor.

I cannot do this without Him.
He is not an option He is the breath.

So yes, I could get up running…

But I’d rather wake up breathing.

There’s something I’ve noticed recently in my life, and it’s something I’ve become really passionate about—leaning into the Spirit of God’s voice and allowing Him to bring things full circle into a complete manifestation in my life.

I felt like it was something worth sharing, because maybe others have experienced it too—seen it, felt it, and sensed the Lord’s heart in it.

How We Learn Stability the Wrong Way

For a long time especially before I began working predominantly in recovery had a very specific idea of what it meant to be stable.

And I’m going to tie this to scripture, because to me, scripture is in everything. There is nothing in my life that I look at where I don’t see God His heart, His nature, His Word, His voice resounding in it.

But what I began to realize is this:

A mind that is unwell perceives stability very differently than someone whose heart and mind have actually become settled.

What I Thought Stability Was

I recently had a situation where I had to address some things with some of my clients. These weren’t things people were excited to deal with. They were things that people had avoided things they had learned to tell themselves were “okay.”

And as I was walking through that, I began to reflect on my own life.

If I look back five years ago, four years ago, even a year ago—my idea of stability was completely different.

At the time, I wouldn’t have been able to say it like this, but now I can see it clearly:

The more settled my heart became,
the more at rest my soul became,
the more I aligned with the image of Christ…

the more my expectation of what a stable life looked like began to change.

The Lie I Believed

There was a time where I truly believed that peace, stability, joy, and happiness were just slightly out of reach.

My mindset was:

• If I get this, then I’ll be happy.
• If I fix that, then I’ll be okay.

But what I failed to acknowledge is that true joy and true peace are not things we achieve…

They are things found in a place of rest.

Why We Don’t See It

And here’s what I began to understand:

Until the mind is renewed, we are not able to discern truth clearly.

That’s a hard pill to swallow especially for those of us who have leaned into spiritual things without addressing our internal framework.

Do I believe people can encounter God outside of that? Yes.

But sustained change real transformation, real stability comes through the renewing of the mind.

Because without that, we interpret everything through:

• our experiences
• our wounds
• our learned patterns

And we end up filtering truth through something that was never built on truth to begin with.

Delivered… But Not at Rest

The Bible says in the book of Hebrews that the Israelites were delivered out of Egypt, but they never entered into rest.

And that made me start asking:

What is this rest?

What does it actually mean to enter into it?

Because the Word tells us to strive to enter His rest—which sounds like a contradiction at first.

But the more I sat with it, the more I realized…

This is not about working to earn something.

This is about laying down everything that keeps us from trusting it.

When Chaos Becomes Normal

At one point in my life, chaos didn’t feel like chaos.

It felt normal.

And the reason for that wasn’t because it was good it was because it was familiar.

So when things were still…
when things were calm…
when things required me to slow down…

it didn’t feel like peace.

It felt uncomfortable.

Sometimes even unsafe.

The Life of Striving

When we haven’t entered into rest, we live a life of striving.

We are constantly:

• searching
• fixing
• fighting
• trying to figure everything out

We chase moments that we think will give us peace, joy, and love…

When in reality, those things are already found in rest.

The Only Thing We’re Told to Strive For

Scripture never tells us to strive for:

• position
• acceptance
• approval

But it does tell us to strive to enter into His rest.

Why?

Because we have to move through so much just to believe that rest actually holds what we’ve been searching for.

“The Lord Is My Shepherd”

I believe Psalm 23 gives us a picture of this.

“The Lord is my shepherd.”

That means I take the position of being led.

It means I trust:

• that what I need will be provided
• and what I don’t need will be removed

But here’s where we struggle:

We want the promises of Psalm 23…

without actually allowing ourselves to be shepherded.

Because being shepherded means letting go of our own framework.

Letting Go of Our Framework

For a long time, I believed it was my responsibility to figure everything out.

To find the answers.
To make things work.
To hold everything together.

But that mindset doesn’t produce stability.

It produces striving.

And striving is not rest.

What Stability Actually Looks Like

What I’ve come to understand is this:

Stability is not about everything going right.

It’s not about feeling good all the time.

It’s about being:

• rooted
• steady
• grounded

It’s about being able to bear fruit in every season.

Laying Down the Fight

As my understanding of stability has shifted, I’ve noticed something else:

I’ve started laying down battles that are not worth fighting.

Because the truth is:

I could fight every battle for the rest of my life…

But that’s my soul trying to be right.
That’s my soul trying to win.

And that…

is not stability.

About five years ago, I began having dreams from the Lord, each one carrying a common thread woven through it.

It was always a river.

I was always in a river, jumping into a river, or standing near a river. Through these moments, God was revealing something to me about the age we are now stepping into.

Over the past six years, being in ministry circles and observing how different ministries function, I’ve noticed a tension a push and pull between production and flow. Between producing something and being led by the Spirit.

As I’ve reflected on these dreams and visions, one thing has become clear: the river was never just a setting. It was a symbol. A reminder that I was designed to live in the flow of His Spirit.

Every time I’ve tried to place myself within a rigid system where everything must be done a certain way—the result has always been the same: internal chaos and unrest.

But the more free I become…
The more untethered I am from systems, methods, and man-made expectations…
The more I find myself flowing effortlessly in the river of His Spirit.

When I look at Scripture, especially the early Church, I do not see rigid systems.

Do I see order? Yes.
Do I see organization? Yes.
But do I see rigidity? No.

And yet today, many expressions of ministry seem consumed with outcomes reaching a plateau, achieving a result, or becoming something.

But this mindset is inherently flawed.

Because the beauty of union with the Lord is not in arrival it’s in flow.

It’s in living, moving, and being in Him.
In flowing with Him through every moment, every space, every season.

A Dream That Changed My Understanding

I once had a dream where I believe I was watching the span of the church age.

I saw vehicle after vehicle drive up. People would step out, grab wheelbarrows from the back of their trucks, walk to a river, fill them with water, load them back into their vehicles, and drive away.

At the time, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.

But years later, it became clear.

This is how ministry has often functioned.

We create vehicles; ministries, organizations, systems, and we go to the river to “collect” something. We gather what we believe is the presence of God, package it, and carry it into the places we feel called to go.

And when we feel empty, we return to the river for another encounter—another filling—so we can go out and do it all over again.

But this cycle reveals something deeper:

We have forgotten that we are the vessels.
We are not meant to carry the presence we are meant to be filled with it continually.

The Shift Into a New Age

What the Lord began to show me is that we are stepping into another age—an age not of carrying, but of being.

The age of the river.

In this age, there is no need for a vehicle to transport His presence because we live in constant union with Him.

As it says in the book of Acts:

“In Him we live, and move, and have our being.”

This is the invitation to flow in tandem with the Spirit of God.

To become the very expression of His life, His power, His grace moving through us.

We are the fruit He spoke of.
The grain of wheat that fell to the ground and bore much fruit.

Understanding the Tension

So when you look around and see ministries struggling or even collapsing, understand this:

This is not simply disorder.
This is not the world unraveling.

This is transition.

Some time ago, the Lord gave me a message called “The Tension Between Two Ages.” And what we are experiencing right now is that very tension.

We can feel that something is shifting.
We know something is changing.

But we don’t always have the language for it.

And I believe that’s intentional.

Because He is not looking for us to define it, systematize it, or contain it.

He is not inviting us to build a new structure to hold it.

Because it was never meant to be held by a system.

It was always meant to be held by you.

An Invitation

So in this age of the river…

Live freely.
Love freely.
Flow freely.

Let go of the need to produce.
Let go of the pressure to arrive.
Let go of the desire to define what was never meant to be contained.

Instead fix your gaze on Him.

Be transfixed by His presence.

And let the river of His Spirit carry you.

“Come to me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28

There’s a feeling I’ve been trying to describe my entire life, but I never quite had the language for it—until recently.

In preparing a group for my clients, I came across a phrase often used in recovery:

“Irritable, restless, and discontent.”

The moment I read it, something in me settled. Not because the feeling went away—but because I finally had words for it.

That’s the feeling I’ve known for as long as I can remember.

The Life of Reaching

For most of my life, I lived with a quiet sense that wherever I was… was just short of where I was supposed to be.

Like if I could just get the right job, the right relationships, the right recognition—then everything would finally settle.

So I lived in a posture of reaching.

Always searching. Always striving. Always believing peace was just one step ahead of me.

Even after coming into a deeper understanding of my identity in Christ, if I’m honest… that didn’t immediately go away.

The language changed. The justification changed. But the posture? It was still there.

I just spiritualized the striving.

When Striving Looks Like Purpose

Those closest to me have seen it.

Chasing position. Wrestling for clarity. Longing for affirmation.

All while being convinced I was following God.

But here’s what I’ve come to realize:

That same “irritable, restless, discontent” state we talk about in addiction can exist just as easily in spiritual pursuit.

And the solution isn’t to replace one pursuit with another.

It’s to stop striving altogether.

The Question That Exposed Everything

Before my ordination, the Lord asked me a question I couldn’t escape:

“If no one knew your name, would you still do this?”

Would you still love? Still serve? Still give your life away… if no one ever recognized it?

I said yes.

But the truth was… the answer was no.

Because something in me was still trying to resolve that inner unrest through being seen.

I hadn’t died to the need to be known.

What Contentment Really Means

In Philippians 4, Paul says, “I have learned to be content in all things.”

Contentment isn’t passivity. It’s not laziness.

It’s the absence of striving.

It’s what happens when you are no longer reaching for something outside of what has already been given in Christ.

We were never created to live searching for life.

We were created to live from it.

From seatedness. From union. From being fully known and fully found in Him.

The Invitation Into Rest

“Come to me… and I will give you rest.”

Not distraction. Not improvement. Not a better strategy.

Rest.

The Only Place Peace Is Found

The answer to that lifelong feeling of being irritable, restless, and discontent is not to fill your life with more.

It’s to lay your life down.

Because the only place that feeling truly dissolves is in the realization that you are already held, already known, already complete in Him.

I’ve tried to find peace in many things—identity, achievement, calling, even purpose.

But the only place I ever truly found it was in surrender.

The Dream That Became Reality

Years ago, I had a dream.

I was on a rooftop, busy doing all the things I thought would bring fulfillment—but I wasn’t at peace.

Then I saw a river.

I knew that the river was the life of Christ—His Spirit, His flow, His fullness.

And suddenly, nothing on that rooftop mattered anymore.

All I wanted was the river.

So I jumped.

The Invitation Still Stands

Will you keep striving to become something?

Or will you step into the One who already is everything?

Maybe the peace you’ve been searching for your entire life is waiting on the other side of letting go.

By

Jennifer McPherson

When I allow myself to think about it, even for a moment, I realize something about my journey in this life: for a long time, I have run from the healing found in the light.

This week I had an opportunity to slow down and sit with a question that can feel both simple and terrifying at the same time: Who am I, really?

I mean beyond the titles.

Beyond the positions.

Beyond the roles I carry.

When you remove the things that describe me—mother, counselor, minister, leader what remains? Who am I when all the labels fall away?

Have you ever looked into the mirror of your soul and come face to face with that person?

Not the version polished for the outside world. Not the version strengthened by accomplishments, money, status, or recognition. Just you—bare, honest, and exposed before God.

It is in those moments that we begin to understand something about the human story.

I think we often give Adam and Eve a hard time for what happened in the garden. In that moment, they ran. They hid. They tried to cover themselves and shield their vulnerability from the light of God’s presence.

But if we are honest, isn’t that exactly what we do?

We cover ourselves with achievements, responsibilities, distractions, and identities. We fill our lives with noise and activity so we don’t have to sit too long in the quiet places where the deeper questions live.

Because in those quiet places, the light begins to shine.

And the light has a way of revealing things.

It reveals wounds we have tried to ignore.

It exposes fears we have worked hard to bury.

It uncovers places where shame has quietly built a home in our hearts.

Sometimes we run from the light because we believe it will condemn us. We assume that if God truly sees us, the broken pieces will disqualify us from His presence.

But the truth is the opposite.

The light of God was never meant to shame us.

It was meant to heal us.

Healing cannot happen in the shadows.

Restoration cannot take place in hiding.

The places we are most afraid to expose are often the very places the Father wants to restore.

And yet so many of us stay busy. We keep moving. We keep building. We keep striving. All the while avoiding the stillness where the Father’s gaze waits patiently for us.

Because the intimacy of His gaze requires honesty.

It requires surrender.

It requires letting the light touch the places we would rather keep hidden.

But here is the invitation:

What if the light is not something to fear?

What if the light is actually where our healing begins?

What if the very places we are trying to hide are the places God wants to restore most deeply?

So today, as uncomfortable as it may feel, I want to offer a simple invitation.

Sit in the light.

Not for performance.

Not for perfection.

Just for presence.

Allow the light of God to reach the wounded places. Allow it to touch the parts of your heart that feel broken, ashamed, or afraid.

You do not have to hide.

You do not have to run.

The light was never chasing you away.

It was always inviting you home.

A few years ago, I had a dream.

In the dream I was standing on a rooftop. I was visible. I was important. I had built something that appeared successful. The rooftop felt symbolic of the “high places” we see in Scripture elevated, seen, known. It was the place of visibility and recognition.

But I was unfulfilled.

As I stood there, I looked over the side of the building and what I saw took my breath away. Below me was a river flowing, deep, powerful. It wasn’t stagnant. It wasn’t decorative. It was alive.

In that moment, I realized why I was unsatisfied.

I was not meant for the rooftop.
I was meant for the river.

I looked back at the roof, second-guessing myself. Everything I had built was there. Everything that made me visible was there. And then, in a moment of boldness, I dove backward off the side of the building into the river.

And here is what marked me:
The freedom came the moment my feet left the ledge.

Not when I hit the water.
Not when I adjusted to the current.

When I let go.

The Rooftop Illusion

For years, I believed ministry was about building something that could be seen.

I thought the title mattered.
News flash it doesn’t.

I thought the connections mattered.
News flash they don’t.

You cannot fake a frequency.
You cannot manufacture spiritual weight.

What I have learned over the last few months has undone me in the best way possible. Much of what I thought ministry was about was undeniably wrong. I chased affirmation. I obsessed over how others perceived me. I measured impact by visibility instead of by love.

And if I’m honest, when I look back over the last six years, my heart breaks a little.

I think about co-workers.
I think about brothers and sisters who walked into church hungry.
I think about speakers and their teams.
I think about my family, my children, my own mother.

All of them often received the leftovers of me, while the best of me chased a platform.

That realization is not comfortable.

But it is holy.

The Grain Must Fall

Jesus said, “Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”

We love the fruit part.
We rarely volunteer for the falling.

I could stay on the rooftop. I could build a platform. I could invite the “who’s who” to visit and make it look impressive. But the truth is this:

I am called to die.

Not physically.
But egoically.
Ambitionally.
Publicly.

To father and mother a generation is not glamorous. It means you will die to your importance. You will allow yourself to become the foundation — unseen, trampled, carrying weight so others can stand. You will lift your voice in praise when your heart is heavy. You will show up in rooms where no one has any idea what you have done.

Leadership is not about standing above.
It is about holding from beneath.

When Paul described the apostles as “last,” he was not performing false humility. He was painting a picture of seed willing to be buried so something else could grow.

Until we are ready to be the bottom pillar of the house Yeshua is building, we are not ready for leadership in the church or in the world.

The Ordination Question

Almost two years ago, when I was ordained, the Lord asked me something that has never left me:

“Would you still say yes if no one ever knew your name?”

At the time, I shouted yes.

But if I’m honest?
Back then, the real answer was no.

I’m not ashamed of that. It was the truth of where I was. But He has changed my heart. I no longer desire the spotlight. In fact, I would much rather give it away.

What changed?

I saw tears in the faces of others.
I felt the pain of the world around me.
I watched people break under the weight of systems, trauma, and rejection.

And I realized something sobering: while we chase platforms, the world is begging for presence.

Jesus said there is no greater love than to lay down your life for your brother.

He was not talking about livestreams.
He was not talking about visibility.

He was talking about sitting with the broken.
Loving the least.
Becoming seed.

The River Is the Body

The rooftop isolates.

The river connects.

To live in the river is to move, live, and breathe within the Body of Christ. It is to lay down the need to be the loudest voice and instead amplify His voice through surrender.

The river carries what the rooftop cannot.

And here is what I now understand:

God is not looking for those who want to stand on top of the roof.
He is looking for those willing to be carried by the river.

Those who will say yes to hiddenness.
Yes to foundation work.
Yes to loving without applause.

Lord, Send Me

The question echoes again:

“Who will go for us, and whom shall we send?”

He is not recruiting influencers.
He is not assembling stages.

He is asking: Who will sit with the broken?
Who will lay down their life for the least of these?
Who will become seed?

Years ago, in a dream, I jumped.

Today, I understand why.

I am saying, “Lord, send me.”

What are you saying?

By

Jennifer M McPherson

I believe there is a deep and undeniable intersection between mental health and spirituality. In fact, I believe some of the most powerful explanations for the mental health challenges that plague our society are found right within Scripture itself.

Much of our difficulty lies in our misunderstanding of the soul—our mind, will, and emotions—and how these work in union with both the spirit and the body. We tend to compartmentalize the human person, separating what was never meant to be divided. Yet when Christ speaks in Isaiah 61 about why He came and why the Spirit of the Lord was upon Him, He is revealing something far more comprehensive than we often acknowledge. He speaks about the whole person being made well.

We love to quote Scriptures about physical healing. We celebrate stories of bodies being restored. But what I have noticed—both in my own life and within the church—is that we often shy away from the mental and emotional dimensions of healing. We avoid the soul.

And yet, when Christ came to make our spirit alive, He also made provision for our soul to be healed. This is not an optional add-on to salvation; it is part of the invitation.

WHY THE CHURCH HAS AVOIDED THE SOUL

As sons and daughters of God, we were never meant to outsource humanity’s deepest questions to the world alone. We were created to carry answers, rooted in divine truth and embodied in lived experience. But because the soul cannot be managed by religious formulas or controlled by dogma, we often retreat from engaging it fully.

Instead, we swing to extremes.

On one side, we leave mental and emotional health entirely to logic-based frameworks, valuable in many ways but often disconnected from spiritual identity and meaning. On the other side, we choose a hyper-spiritual approach that is so vague and idealistic that it becomes impossible to apply. We can talk about it endlessly, but people leave unchanged, still fragmented, still searching.

Neither extreme brings life.

When Jesus said, “To those who received Him, He gave the right to become children of God,” He was not offering religious language as a hiding place. Yet we often use that very language to stay comfortable. Vague symbolism allows us to avoid weight, responsibility, and honest self-examination.

HEALING IS RELATIONAL, NOT MAGICAL

One of the most damaging ideas we have absorbed is that healing should be instantaneous. As though walking into a room automatically resolves years of trauma and fragmentation.

For those who have experienced deep trauma, the soul is often shattered or segmented. Participation in life and connection with others can feel unsafe. Yet we tell people to simply show up and expect healing.

But the Spirit of God heals us by walking with us.

Psalm 23 tells us that He leads us beside still waters, where the soul is restored. Healing unfolds in safety, intimacy, and time.

This is why people can attend church for decades and still feel unchanged. Healing is available, but it requires participation. The door is open, but we must be willing to sit with the Lord in uncomfortable places and allow Him to speak truth where coping once lived.

THE HEALING THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

I have been in rooms filled with spiritual weight and power. Those moments mattered. But the deepest healing of my life did not come from spectacle.

It came from intimacy.

As I walked with the Lord, He revealed Himself to me—and in doing so, He revealed who I am and how I was created to function. He showed me that the soul is not an enemy to be conquered or suppressed. It is not separate from the spirit, nor is it evil.

He liberated me from internal warfare.

I now live from the place of knowing I am wholly loved—not partially loved, not conditionally loved, but fully and completely loved.

This revelation does not produce better rule-followers. It produces life.

Rules do not heal the soul. Love does.

By

Jennifer M McPherson

Mental health has been part of my story for as long as I can remember.

I grew up around addiction and mental illness. My mother struggled with both, and other family members carried what I now recognize as likely undiagnosed mental health disorders. Even in my own life, there were clear signs—especially during my adolescent years—that I was dealing with internal battles long before I had language for them. Brokenness wasn’t theoretical for me; it was the environment I learned to navigate.

But while I had lived around the effects of mental illness my entire life, my heart for healing didn’t fully awaken until my 30s.

One ordinary day, sitting alone at home, something extraordinary happened. Without warning, a passage of Scripture came alive in me in a way I can only describe as divine. Isaiah 61—specifically verses 1 through 3—was placed in my heart, not as inspiration, but as a blueprint. I knew instinctively that this was not just a verse to quote, but a map for how my life would unfold in bringing healing and transformation.

And then there was the next line:

“They will be called oaks of righteousness.”

That phrase has stayed with me ever since.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE AN OAK OF RIGHTEOUSNESS?

An oak of righteousness is not someone who performs well spiritually. It is someone who has been stabilized—formed, strengthened, and made whole by the inner work of the Spirit.

Not just in the spirit, but in the soul.

Scripture tells us, “I pray that you would prosper and be in good health, even as your soul prospers.” This reveals something critical: our spiritual vitality, our physical health, and our emotional well-being are not separate realities. They are interconnected.

Yet one of the greatest struggles of humanity—and of the church—is our tendency toward division.

We divide spirit from soul.
We divide theology from psychology.
We divide doctrine from lived experience.
We divide people by race, identity, and culture.

But union was always the design.

WHY PERCEPTION MATTERS

Our ability to perceive spiritual reality is directly connected to the health of our soul.

If the soul is fragmented—wounded, splintered, or defensive—our perception becomes distorted. We may be sincere, even passionate, but sincerity does not equal clarity. Scripture emphasizes trained senses, not just practiced gifts.

This helps explain why Scripture repeatedly asks, “Do you not see?” or “Can you perceive it?”

The gospel itself begins with a call out of distorted perception. Good news is preached to the poor because poverty—material, emotional, or spiritual—often comes with deception about identity, worth, and possibility.

MENTAL HEALTH AND SPIRITUAL BYPASS

In counseling, we talk about spiritual bypassing—using spiritual language to avoid addressing psychological and emotional wounds.

Fragmented soul behaviors include isolation, paranoia, chronic judgment, and relational instability. These are not signs of spiritual depth. They are indicators of inner fracture.

Too often, we reward gifting while ignoring wholeness. Platforms are given while souls remain unattended.

You can only give what you possess.

LEAVING EGYPT IS NOT ENTERING REST

Scripture tells us the Israelites physically left Egypt but failed to enter the rest of God.

They left bondage—but they did not enter rest.

Rest is the one thing we are told to labor for.

Rest is integration.
Rest is trust.
Rest is wholeness.

BECOMING OAKS

An oak does not grow overnight. It is rooted, weathered, and resilient.

This is the righteousness Isaiah describes—not performative, but formed.

When our souls are made whole, perception clears.
When perception clears, love flows accurately.
And only then can we truly become agents of healing for others.

By

Jennifer M McPherson

I love the prophetic.
A significant part of my healing and deliverance came through prophetic environments where the Spirit of God was moving powerfully and purely. Because of that, I’ve learned something that didn’t come from books or theory it came through lived encounter.

When the prophetic flows through a vessel consumed by the love of God, there are no limits to what it can do.

But when the prophetic flows through a vessel that is unhealed, still operating from trauma wounds, spiritual influence, or unresolved strongholds it becomes distorted. Not because the prophetic is wrong, but because the lens is.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped talking about the prophetic. We stopped trusting it. We stopped making space for it. And we were led to believe that something must be inherently wrong with it.

But the prophetic isn’t the problem.

The problem is unhealed vessels hiding behind gifts.

Hiding Behind Gifts Does Not Make the Gift Evil

The Lord spoke something to me recently that landed with weight:

“You can hide behind anything you want.”

Adam and Eve hid behind fig leaves.
The fig leaves weren’t evil.
They were simply never meant to be used as covering.

In the same way, we can hide behind anything:
– gifts
– callings
– leadership
– theology
– even what we call discernment

Using something as a hiding place does not make the thing itself wrong, outdated, or dangerous. It simply means we’ve turned a gift into a shield.

And the prophetic because it is expressive, authoritative, and revelatory can become one of the easiest places to hide.

When the Prophetic Is Filtered Through the Martyr Narrative

There is a particular distortion that happens when the prophetic flows through a veiled belief system—the belief that “I am the martyr.”

This mindset sounds like:
– “Everyone is against me.”
– “Someone is trying to stop me.”
– “I’m about to be replaced.”
– “I have to fight to stay positioned.”

When this belief governs the lens, everything becomes warfare.

But what we end up battling is not darkness we battle alignment.
We fight the very people we were meant to walk with.

That isn’t spiritual warfare.
That is identity warfare.

I had to ask myself a hard question recently:
How many times have I lived from that posture?

The answer was uncomfortable.

Most of my life.

Calling the Stronghold What It Is

This wasn’t discernment.
This wasn’t humility.
This wasn’t wisdom.

It was a demonic stronghold of rejection.

A lie that whispers:
– “You don’t really belong.”
– “You got in through the back door.”
– “Once someone better comes along, you’ll be discarded.”
– “You must prove your worth to stay.”

That voice is not the Holy Spirit.

Rejection masquerades as discernment when it goes unnamed.

And when rejection fuels the prophetic, it will always turn sons and daughters into soldiers fighting to survive rather than resting in belonging.

What God Is Actually Restoring

This isn’t a call to shut down the prophetic.

It’s a call to heal the vessel.

To remove the fig leaves.
To lay down the martyr narrative.
To allow love to become the governing atmosphere again.

The prophetic was never meant to be a weapon for survival.
It was meant to be an invitation into Christ.

When the prophetic flows from union instead of insecurity, it doesn’t fracture the body it reveals the Bride.

I was sitting and thinking about something recently: knowledge comes with a kind of power. What’s striking to me is not simply that knowledge is powerful, but that what we choose to do with it reveals the kind of power we actually desire. Knowledge can be stewarded in a way that gives life, or it can be wielded in a way that takes life. The actions that flow from knowledge expose the true posture of the heart far more clearly than intentions or language ever could.

Over time, I’ve come to believe that much of humanity’s brokenness is rooted in a desire to enslave to control, dominate, or place one another in bondage. This impulse doesn’t always look overtly violent. More often, it hides beneath systems, authority structures, and even moral certainty. It shows up whenever knowledge is used as leverage rather than as a gift.

A striking example of this can be seen in the splitting of the atom. The same scientific breakthrough led to radiation therapy, which has saved countless lives, and to the atomic bomb, which has taken countless lives and instilled fear on a global scale. The act of splitting the atom was not evil in itself. The knowledge uncovered was not inherently corrupt. What mattered what changed everything was how that knowledge was used.

That realization leads me into a deeper reflection, especially when it comes to spiritual understanding and revelation. When we are entrusted with spiritual truths, what do we do with them? Do we allow them to soften us, to expand compassion, to bring healing and freedom to others? Or do we use them—subtly or overtly as tools for control, as justification for authority, or as a means of elevating ourselves above others?

Spiritual knowledge, like all knowledge, carries power. And power always comes with a choice. It can be expressed as life-giving presence, or as dominance masked in certainty. It can invite freedom, or quietly reinforce hierarchy and fear. The danger is not in revelation itself, but in the heart that seeks to possess it.

This leaves us with an uncomfortable but necessary question: when we gain understanding especially spiritual understanding are we becoming more loving, more free, and more generous toward others? Or are we becoming more rigid, more defensive, and more invested in being right?

In the end, the question is not what we know.

The question is who we become because of what we know and whether the power we seek is the power to give life, or the power to hold it over others.