The First Awakening: When Criticism Becomes a Mirror

The First Awakening: When Criticism Becomes a Mirror

There are seasons in life where growth feels like watching the hour hand on a clock—technically moving, but hardly noticeable. Days blend, habits continue, and we assume we’re progressing simply because time is passing. And then, out of nowhere, something happens that shakes the dust off our souls and forces us to see ourselves with clarity we didn’t have the day before. It can be a sentence, a conversation, or a criticism so sharp it cuts straight through the surface and strikes something deeper.

Over the past few weeks, I found myself in that place—where slow, quiet growth suddenly accelerated because one moment demanded a response that wasn’t shallow, emotional, or defensive, but honest, humble, and spiritually mature. It’s interesting how God uses moments we would never choose to reveal truths we desperately need. In my case, these lessons came from two conversations tied to the same topic: my writing.

As you know, I write as a way of drawing people closer to the Kingdom. Not from a place of authority or theological superiority. Not from a desire to re-invent doctrines, or lead anyone astray, or elevate myself in any form. I write because something in me comes alive when I explore the ways God meets us in today’s world. I write because I believe stories are one of God’s oldest tools. And I write because, since November 4, 2020—the day everything changed for me—I have felt that gentle but unmistakable prompting of the Holy Spirit: Share what you are seeing.

So, when I shared a piece of writing on Jesus and marriage, my intention was simple: open the door to conversations that help people see God’s heart more clearly. That’s it. Nothing more.

I didn’t expect the response that followed.

The message came quickly—sharply written, absolute in tone, and delivered with a certainty that left no room for discussion. My writing, according to this person, was “heretical” and “the work of the enemy.” Not misguided. Not incomplete. Not needing refinement. No—heretical. Damaging. Dangerous. A tool of deception.

Those are not small words.

And I would be lying if I said they bounced off me. They didn’t. They landed hard. They pressed against the deepest fear any Christian with influence carries: the fear of misleading someone God loves. The fear of speaking carelessly. The fear of hearing on the last day that my words caused another to stumble.

I sat with that for days. I prayed—not politely, but with weight. I questioned whether I should stop writing altogether. I told the Lord that I couldn’t bear the thought of souls being on my “judgment day docket” because of me. And I meant it. If writing ever became a stumbling block for others, I would rather put the pen down forever.

But here is something God has taught me: truth can withstand questioning, but lies require silence. Truth invites conversation; lies shut it down. Truth is patient. Lies are fragile. Truth doesn’t run from dialogue; lies cannot survive it.

So after listening, praying, and giving it space, I responded gently: “Is it possible you may be responding as a modern-day Pharisee—focusing on strict, technical interpretations rather than the spirit and heart behind the message?”

It wasn’t an attack. It was an honest question. A reflective question. A question meant to open dialogue, not end it.

Yet the moment I asked it, all communication ended. No discussion. No scripture offered. No clarifying questions. No attempt to understand the heart behind my writing. Just silence—quick and absolute.

And that silence was more revealing than the criticism.

Because what I have learned is this:
When someone is rooted in truth, they welcome conversation. But when their confidence is rooted in fear, control, or pride, dialogue feels threatening.

NIV Proverbs 9:9 says:
“Instruct the wise and they will be wiser still; teach the righteous and they will add to their learning.”
Wisdom grows through conversation, humility, and shared searching. It does not fear correction or dialogue.

So when the conversation closed without explanation, it wasn’t my writing I began to examine—it was the spirit behind the criticism. I’m not talking about the person themselves; God loves them, and so do I. But there are times when the enemy uses truth-looking language to create division. Harshness disguised as righteousness. Judgment dressed in church clothes. A lack of grace called “discernment.”

I felt, in that moment, that round one went to the enemy—not because the criticism hurt me, but because a relationship with a fellow believer was frozen. And the enemy thrives in isolation. He thrives when believers retreat into their separate corners. He thrives when dialogue ends, when connection breaks, and when fear replaces discernment.

But God didn’t leave me there.
He doesn’t leave any of us in the first moment of discouragement.

While that internal wrestling continued, I was serving as a co-leader for Alpha—a space where new believers come with open hearts, open questions, and a hunger for understanding. During one of the sessions, a young man found out that I wrote about Jesus. Without hesitation, he asked if he could have one of my books.

I handed it to him with quiet caution still lingering in my heart because of the earlier criticism. And that’s when God brought the second part of this lesson—the balance to the discouragement I was carrying.

He came up to me later with emotion in his eyes. He said my writing moved him to tears—more than once. Not because I’m special or particularly gifted, but because the Holy Spirit reached him through the words. Then he told me something that stopped me in my tracks:

“I’m not comfortable taking my Bible to work yet. I’m still new in my faith, and I’m worried about what people will think. But I take your book with me because no one knows what it is. And when they ask what I’m reading, I get to talk about Jesus. Your book gives me courage I don’t have on my own.”

I almost stopped writing because one person said I was working for the enemy.
And here was another person using my writing to introduce Jesus to his coworkers.

Only God can orchestrate moments like that.

It reminded me of Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 4:7:
“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.”
We are clay jars—not perfect, not polished, not flawless. Yet God chooses to place His message in fragile vessels. The value isn’t in the jar; it’s in the light it carries.

So I had to ask myself:
Who benefits more from me silencing myself—the Kingdom or the enemy?
Whose voice was louder in my ear—fear or the Holy Spirit?
Whose opinion was I allowing to carry more weight—one critic or the God who has repeatedly called me to speak?

That was the turning point.

The very place the enemy tried to shut me down became the place God used to strengthen my calling, but not in the emotional, early-faith way I used to respond. No. Something deeper was forming—something steadier. Something wiser.

NIV James 1:5 says:
“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.”

Wisdom is not a burst of inspiration. It’s a slow burn. It’s formed in seasons like this—where our ego is humbled, our motives are tested, and our calling is clarified through pressure.

The first awakening for me these past weeks was simple but profound:
Not every critique is the truth, but every critique can be a classroom.
It can teach us humility.
It can teach us discernment.
It can teach us to separate emotional reaction from spiritual response.
It can teach us to pause instead of panicking.
It can teach us to evaluate our motives with clarity.
And it can teach us that the voice of God will always bring conviction, but never condemnation.

Conviction leads to growth.
Condemnation leads to paralysis.

I had to learn which voice was speaking.

Looking back now, I see the mercy in this moment. God allowed the criticism to reach me, but He did not allow it to define me. He used the sting of those words to refine me. To slow me down. To make me discern not just what I write, but why I write. And, more importantly, how I write.

This was the beginning of a new phase—not of shutting down my gift but maturing it. Not of writing with unrestrained enthusiasm but with more profound understanding. Not of silencing my voice, but shaping it to carry weight, wisdom, and clarity.

NIV Proverbs 4:7 says:
“The beginning of wisdom is this: Get wisdom. Though it cost all you have, get understanding.”

Sometimes the cost is discomfort.
Sometimes the cost is criticism.
Sometimes the cost is the courage to keep going when you feel inadequate.

But wisdom is worth the price.

This first awakening taught me that truth is never threatened by honest questions, that maturity is built through pressure, and that God uses even the harshest moments to shape those He calls.

The journey toward wiser writing didn’t start with encouragement.
It started with discomfort.

And maybe that’s exactly how God intended it.

The Unexpected Confirmation: When God Sends Encouragement at the Exact Moment We Need It

If Part 1 was the awakening that comes through discomfort, then Part 2 is the awakening that comes through encouragement—because God rarely corrects without also confirming. He rarely allows a stripping without a strengthening. If the first lesson came through a harsh critique, the second arrived through something tender, unexpected, and deeply humbling.

It began at Alpha.

Serving as a co-leader at that table has been one of the most grounding experiences of my faith journey. In a world filled with theological debates and doctrinal disagreements, Alpha reminds us of the simplicity and honesty of early faith. Something is refreshing about hearing questions that haven’t been touched by decades of religious habit—questions that are pure, unfiltered, and sincere. And there’s something even more powerful about seeing the Holy Spirit move in real time in the life of someone just beginning their walk with Jesus.

One evening, in casual conversation, someone at the table discovered that I write about Jesus. Not academically. Not formally. But relationally—through personal stories, reflections, and moments of wrestling with God. Immediately, he asked if he could have one of my books.

I handed it to him without giving it much thought. But the timing was profound, because this happened shortly after the harsh criticism that had made me question whether my writing was harming the Kingdom rather than helping it. So, when he asked, I felt a subtle hesitation—not because I doubted God’s truth, but because I doubted my own ability to steward it well. Yet something in my spirit told me to let it go, to place it in his hands, and trust the Holy Spirit with whatever happened next.

What came next still humbles me.

A few days later, he approached me with visible emotion. Not loud emotion. Not dramatic emotion. But the unmistakable, softened look of someone whose heart had been moved by something they didn’t expect. He told me he had read parts of the book and come to tears—more than once, not because of the polish of the writing or the beauty of the phrasing, but because the Spirit spoke through the words.

Then he said something I will never forget:

“I’m not comfortable taking my Bible to work yet. I’m still new in my faith. But I took your book. No one knows what it is. And when they ask what I’m reading, I get to talk about Jesus. Your book makes it easier for me to start conversations I’m still nervous to start on my own.”

I stood there stunned.

Here I had been, just days earlier, contemplating whether I should silence my writing altogether because someone labelled it “dangerous.” Yet this young believer was using those same words to quietly evangelize his workplace. What the enemy tried to weaponize as discouragement, God turned into encouragement. What the enemy tried to use as a muzzle, God used as a megaphone.

It was a quiet but unmistakable reminder of a truth I needed:

When God calls you to speak, the enemy will always try to silence you.
But God will place fruit in your hands to remind you why you must keep going.

The Apostle Paul said it well in 1 Corinthians 15:58 (NIV):
“Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labour in the Lord is not in vain.”

Not in vain.
Even if one person misunderstands you.
Even if one person opposes you.
Even if one person calls you names.
Even if one person tries to shut you down.

God never lets His work return empty.

Isaiah 55:11 (NIV) says:
“So is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.”

This is the part we often forget:
We are responsible for obedience.
God is responsible for impact.

But that wasn’t the end of the second lesson. The confirmation didn’t stop with encouragement from a new believer. God also used someone much closer to me—a fellow Christian brother—to refine the way I think about my writing.

One afternoon, feeling the weight of the criticism and the encouragement at the same time, I asked him directly: “Do you think my writing glorifies God? Or am I missing something?” I wasn’t looking for flattery. I wasn’t looking for comfort. I was looking for truth—because truth, even when uncomfortable, builds us.

He paused for a moment, clearly reluctant to say anything that might hurt me. But I reminded him that truth never destroys friendship—it refines it. He nodded, took a breath, and then said something that has stayed with me ever since:

“I believe without question that your writing glorifies God. But I also believe your writing is still immature—not in a bad way, but in the way a teenage boy writes about his first love. It’s full of passion, earnestness, and sincerity, but lacks the seasoned wisdom that comes after the waves of life have hit a few more times.”

He said it kindly.
He said it with love.
He said it with care.

And most importantly—he said it with honesty.

At first, I resisted the word immature. Not outwardly. Not defensively. But internally. Because that earlier harsh critic had accused me of harming the Kingdom, and now my friend—someone who genuinely cares about me—was telling me my writing still carried the energy of a new believer, not the depth of a seasoned one.

But as the words settled, I didn’t feel discouraged. I felt something else—something deeper.

I felt clarity.

He was right.

My writing has always carried fire—passion, emotion, excitement, momentum. That’s one of the gifts of being a newer Christian. The Spirit lights you up, fills you with awe, reveals truth after truth, and your heart races to share it with anyone who will listen. But passion alone is not maturity. Enthusiasm is not wisdom. Fire needs a vessel. Heat needs shape. Calling needs grounding.

The Apostle Peter had the same experience. One moment, he was passionately declaring Jesus as Messiah; the next moment, Jesus was rebuking him for speaking out of emotion instead of discernment. Still, Jesus didn’t stop using Peter. He didn’t silence him. He shaped him.

This is the part many Christians forget:
God doesn’t only use the mature; He matures those He uses.

My friend’s words reminded me of Proverbs 19:20 (NIV):
“Listen to advice and accept discipline, and at the end you will be counted among the wise.”

Wisdom requires listening.
Listening requires humility.
Humility requires letting go of ego.
Letting go of ego requires trusting that correction is not rejection.

My friend wasn’t saying my writing lacked value.
He was saying it lacked seasoning.

There is a difference.

Salt without seasoning can still nourish.
But salt with seasoning carries depth and balance.

As I reflected on his words, I realized something else:
He was not criticizing my passion.
He was inviting it to grow.

There is a maturity that only time can produce—when joy meets suffering, when faith meets endurance, when enthusiasm meets patience, when zeal meets wisdom. Not a loss of passion, but a rounding of its edges. Not a decrease in fire, but a deeper, steadier burn.

I went home that night and thought about my writing journey from 2015 until now. I thought about my earliest pieces—how unrefined they were, how inconsistent, how messy. I thought about how far the writing has come since then, how more focused and intentional it is now, and how the Spirit has used even the roughest sentences to reach people in ways I never expected.

And then I realized something important:
Growth always comes in layers.

First comes calling.
Then comes obedience.
Then comes passion.
Then comes refining.
Then comes wisdom.

I had mastered the first three.
Now God was inviting me into the fourth.
And the fifth.

This wasn’t a correction; it was an invitation.
An invitation to evolve.
To deepen.
To mature.

To write not just with emotion, but with discernment.
Not just with enthusiasm, but with wisdom.
Not just with energy, but with measured depth.
Not just with passion, but with perspective.

And that is when the second awakening fully crystallized:

God is inviting me into a wiser season of writing—not instead of passion, but in addition to it.

Proverbs 16:23 (NIV) puts it beautifully:
“The hearts of the wise make their mouths prudent, and their lips promote instruction.”

Wise hearts speak differently.
Not softly—but steadily.
Not timidly—but intentionally.
Not restrained—but rooted.

This is where Part 2 ends—with a confirmation and a challenge:

• Confirmation that God is using your writing.
• Challenge to mature the writing.
• Confirmation that your voice carries impact.
• Challenge to deepen the wisdom behind it.
• Confirmation that the enemy wants to stop you.
• Challenge to grow past your early-stage passion and into a more seasoned expression of truth.

This is where the journey turns from reflection to transformation.

Growing Into Wisdom: The Next Level of Spirit-Led Writing

If the first awakening came through discomfort, and the second awakening came through unexpected encouragement, then this final part is about the slow, steady, deliberate work of growing into wisdom. Not the kind of wisdom the world celebrates—intellectual knowledge or cleverness—but the kind the Kingdom values: spiritual discernment, clarity of heart, humility in expression, and a willingness to be shaped by God through every season.

For a long time, I believed that passion alone was enough. Passion is powerful. Passion moves people. Passion gives confidence. Passion builds momentum. And in the early stages of faith, passion feels like the fuel of everything good. But passion without wisdom can burn hot and fast without direction. Passion without depth can be loud but not lasting. Passion without maturity can be misunderstood, misdirected, or misinterpreted.

I realized, through these recent experiences, that my writing has always been full of passion—but it’s time for something deeper. As Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 13:11 (NIV):
“When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.
When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.”

This isn’t about abandoning authenticity or emotion. This is about allowing the Holy Spirit to refine those things so they carry more weight. It’s about shaping passion into purpose. It’s about allowing experience, reflection, and the Spirit’s guidance to deepen the tone and sharpen the meaning behind the words.

And I think God has been preparing me for this for a long time—long before these weeks of rapid growth arrived. When I look back at my earliest writing in 2015, I can hardly believe those pieces belonged to me. They were raw, scattered, stretching, like a child on a bicycle wobbling down the street. No balance. No rhythm. No sense of direction—just movement.

But movement was enough for that season.

Every writer, just like every believer, must begin somewhere. Nobody is born with steady hands. Nobody begins with seasoned wisdom. We grow into it—slowly, painfully, beautifully.

And yet, looking back nearly a decade later, I can see the pattern clearly:
I started with passion.
Then came purpose.
Then came clarity.
And now comes wisdom.

Or more accurately—the pursuit of wisdom.

Because wisdom is not a destination, wisdom is a relationship. Wisdom is walking with God, listening to His Spirit, acting with patience, and learning to see the world through the lens of eternity rather than emotion.

This is why Scripture repeatedly connects wisdom with time, humility, and surrender. It is not something we manufacture through effort. It is something God gives through intimacy.

James 1:5 (NIV) reminds us:
“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault.”

That verse struck me differently this time. I always focused on the second half—God giving generously. But this time, the Spirit drew my attention to the first part: If any of you lacks wisdom… ask.

Ask.

Not earn.
Not achieve.
Not prove.
Not strive.

Ask.

Wisdom isn’t something we unlock; it’s something we receive. And for the first time in my writing life, I felt myself asking God not just for inspiration, not just for creativity, not just for clarity—but for wisdom. For the ability to handle His words with care. For the ability to communicate His truth with depth. For the ability to write with the steady, seasoned tone of someone who has walked with God for a long time, even though my years in the faith are still young.

But wisdom doesn’t arrive all at once. It grows like a tree—slowly, quietly, rooted through time. It grows through seasons of joy and seasons of hardship. It grows through conversations, corrections, reflections, and silent moments when God reshapes your motives without you even realizing it.

And so I began to ask:
“How do I grow into the kind of wisdom that serves the Kingdom? How do I become the kind of writer whose words are not just passionate, but seasoned? Not just energetic, but discerning? Not just earnest, but timeless?”

As I prayed through this, three themes emerged from Scripture. Three ways to grow in wisdom according to the NIV—three tools God gives every believer to move from spiritual enthusiasm into spiritual maturity.

---

1. Wisdom Grows Through Reverence — “The Fear of the Lord”

Proverbs 9:10 (NIV) says:
“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,
and knowledge of the Holy One is understanding.”

Fear here doesn’t mean terror. It means reverence, awe, and recognition of God’s holiness. It means remembering that when we write, speak, act, or teach, we stand on sacred ground. Not perfect ground—not sinless ground—but holy ground shaped by God’s mercy.

To grow in wisdom, I must continually remember that my words are not my own. They are vessels carrying something far greater. And vessels require humility. Wisdom begins when pride ends. Wisdom arrives when the heart bows. Wisdom grows when we handle God’s truth with reverence rather than certainty, humility rather than arrogance, and dependence rather than independence.

Wisdom begins with honour.
Honour produces humility.
And humility opens the door to deeper understanding.

---

2. Wisdom Grows Through Surrender — Allowing God to Reshape Us

Romans 12:2 (NIV) says:
“Do not conform to the pattern of this world,
but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

Transformation is not passive. It requires surrender. It requires allowing God to stretch us beyond our initial reactions. It requires letting go of emotional impulse and embracing spiritual discernment. It requires letting God reshape our tone, motives, and posture.

For writing, this means surrendering urgency and embracing patience. It means letting a sentence sit until the Spirit says it’s ready. It means allowing God to refine the tone, soften the sharp edges, deepen the meaning, and strengthen the foundation. It means letting God transform the writer before He transforms the writing.

Wisdom is shaped in surrendered hearts.
Surrendered hearts produce steady words.
Steady words build the Kingdom.

---

3. Wisdom Grows Through Application — Living What We Write

Jesus said in Matthew 7:24 (NIV):
“Everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice
is like a wise man who built his house on the rock.”

Wisdom is not only knowing truth. Wisdom is living it.

If my writing is to mature, it must come from a life that is maturing—not just thoughts on a page. My words must be shaped by experience, obedience, and integrity. My writing must reflect not what I’ve learned theoretically, but what I’ve lived practically.

This means:

• walking through storms with faith,
• forgiving quickly,
• serving quietly,
• reflecting deeply,
• repenting honestly,
• and loving sacrificially.

Wisdom is lived before it is written.
Wisdom is practiced before it is published.
Wisdom is embodied before it is expressed.

The more I live the truth, the more depth my writing will carry. And the more my writing aligns with my lived faith, the more the Holy Spirit will breathe through it.

---

A Beautiful Closing: Grace, Growth, and God’s Gentle Hand

As I look back on these past weeks, I see a pattern that only God could orchestrate:

• A harsh criticism that shook me.
• A vulnerable pause that humbled me.
• A quiet encouragement that revived me.
• An honest friend who refined me.
• A spiritual invitation that matured me.

It has been a season of stretching—but stretching is the mark of growth. It has been a season of correction—but correction is the mark of love. It has been a season of clarity—but clarity is the mark of wisdom beginning to take root.

I am not the writer I was in 2015.
I am not even the writer I was two months ago.
And by God’s grace, I will not be the writer I am today when I look back in ten years.

Wisdom takes time.
Wisdom takes humility.
Wisdom takes discipline.
Wisdom takes prayer.
Wisdom takes willingness.
Wisdom takes the shaping of the Potter’s hands.

And through all of this, I have learned something precious:

God does not waste a season. He does not waste a comment. He does not waste a conversation. He does not waste a tear. He does not waste a lesson.

Everything He touches becomes a tool for growth.
Everything He allows becomes a pathway to maturity.
Everything He corrects becomes a doorway to deeper grace.

If the enemy tried to silence my voice, God used that moment to strengthen it.
If passion once drove my writing, wisdom will now guide it.
If my early works were like a child wobbling on a bicycle, my future works will be steadier, not because of talent, but because of spiritual formation.

This is the beginning of a new stage of writing maturity.
A new tone.
A new depth.
A new season of wisdom.

Not less passion—but passion shaped by truth.
Not less fire—but fire grounded in reverence.
Not less emotion—but emotion refined by discernment.

This is God’s grace at work.
Grace that teaches.
Grace that disciplines.
Grace that strengthens.
Grace that grows.
Grace that shapes.
Grace that transforms.

My prayer is that in ten years, I will look back at this moment and say, with gratitude and awe:
“That was the day wisdom began to take root.”
“That was when God started a new chapter in me.”
“That was when my writing became not only heartfelt, but Spirit-formed.”

Because wisdom is not something we claim.
Wisdom is something God grows.

And today—by His grace, through His Spirit, and for His Kingdom—
the growing has begun.