For a season, I had stepped away from writing altogether. What had once been something I enjoyed had become something I questioned. I wondered whether I had been too quick to speak, whether I had mistaken an interest for a calling, or whether the Lord simply had not given me the gift I had assumed I possessed. Perhaps it would be better to remain quiet.

It was during this time that Pastor Rusty encouraged me not to give up on writing. He told me that writing was a gift God had given me. He told me that I was a great writer and encouraged me to continue using that gift. Those words meant more to me than I probably knew how to express at the time.

I have always found compliments concerning myself difficult to receive. When someone tells me that I have done something well, my immediate inclination is not to receive the praise comfortably, but to redirect my thoughts toward the Lord. I know what I was before Christ. I know what remains in me now. I know how incapable I am of producing anything spiritually good apart from the grace of God working in me. Whatever good comes from me does not originate in me.

If I write something that encourages another believer, it is not because I possess some goodness in myself that I can claim as my own. If I understand something from Scripture, it is not because I am naturally wiser than the man beside me. If I am able to communicate something clearly, even that ability is a gift that I did not create for myself. The Lord gave me the ability to write, the desire to write, and ultimately gave me His Word to write about. And if He chose to use what I wrote for the encouragement of another person, then He was the One who deserved the glory.

That did not mean Pastor Rusty’s encouragement was meaningless. Quite the opposite. The Lord was using the encouragement of my pastor to help me see something I had been unable to see clearly for myself. I had been so focused on my failures that I had begun to overlook the possibility that the Lord could use something I had considered insignificant. Perhaps writing was not something I needed to abandon. Perhaps I needed to learn how to do it more faithfully. I began to understand that humility does not require pretending that God has given us no gifts. True humility acknowledges that whatever gifts we possess came from Him in the first place. If there was any fruit in my writing, Christ was the source of it.

With that encouragement, I decided to begin again. I created a new blog called “PreceptUponPrecept”. The name itself reflected something of what I had been learning. I did not want to pretend that I had arrived at some great depth of biblical knowledge. I was still learning, still being corrected, still having my assumptions challenged by Scripture, and I was still discovering how much I did not know. But I wanted to keep learning. Precept upon precept. Line upon line.

The new site became another place where I could write about the things I was discovering in God’s Word and the truths that were shaping my understanding of the Christian life. It was not about building a platform for myself. I did not want people to come away impressed with me. I wanted them to be encouraged to open their Bibles, examine what Scripture says, and see Christ more clearly.

Pastor Rusty’s encouragement gave me the confidence to continue, but it also gave me something more important: a reminder that the gifts God gives His people are not meant to be buried simply because we are uncomfortable acknowledging that we possess them. I could acknowledge the gift without taking credit for the Giver. That distinction would become increasingly important as I continued writing.

I could say, “The Lord has given me an ability to write,” without saying, “Therefore I am something great.” I could receive encouragement without turning it into self-exaltation. I could be thankful when someone found my writing helpful while remembering that I was merely an instrument in the hands of the One who had given me both the gift and the message.

And so I began again. Not with the confidence that I had mastered the craft. Neither with the confidence that everything I wrote would be correct. Not even with the confidence that many people would read what I wrote. I simply wanted to be faithful with what the Lord had placed in my hands. And perhaps that was where the Lord wanted me all along. Yet the Lord was not finished teaching me.

Looking back now, I can see that although He had greatly matured me since those earliest days of “The Potter’s Molded Clay”, remnants of the same tendencies still remained. I loved the truth, but I did not always know how to speak it well. I was zealous for sound doctrine, yet my zeal could easily outrun my wisdom. I often viewed theological error as something to be confronted immediately, but I had not yet learned that the manner in which truth is spoken matters because the One who is Truth cares not only about our words, but also about the spirit in which we speak them.

As articles appeared on “Precept Upon Precept”, Pastor Rusty continued reading many of them. He was never harsh, he never sought to discourage me from writing. Rather, he consistently encouraged me to continue using the gift the Lord had given me while also helping me see where I still needed to grow.

There were times when he would lovingly pull me aside after reading something I had written. We would sit together with our Bibles open, and he would patiently explain where he believed I had spoken more harshly than Scripture warranted.

One conversation has remained with me through the years. He called me in a gracious and loving tone as he described my writing and said that I often came out “guns blazing.” I knew exactly what he meant. When I became convinced that something was contrary to Scripture, my instinct was to confront it directly and forcefully. I wanted error exposed. I wanted truth defended. In my mind, clarity demanded boldness.

Pastor Rusty agreed that truth should indeed be defended. But then he gently pointed me to the Apostle Paul. Paul was no stranger to strong language. He confronted false teachers. He rebuked error publicly when necessary. He defended the gospel with unwavering courage. Yet even while doing so, his speech was often marked by a tenderness that I was still learning. Rusty encouraged me to notice that Paul’s boldness was never divorced from his love. He spoke the truth. But he spoke it with grace. He reminded me that Scripture calls us to speak “the truth in love.” Those two realities are not enemies. Truth without love can become unnecessarily harsh. Love without truth ceases to be biblical love altogether. The Christian is called to hold both together.

As he spoke, I found myself seeing a pattern that had followed me long before my conversion. Before Christ, I had been argumentative because my pride demanded that I be right. After Christ, while the Lord had changed my heart, traces of that old man still lingered. I now desired to defend God’s truth rather than my own opinions, yet there were still moments when my manner revealed that sanctification was far from complete. I was learning that it is possible to be right in substance while being wrong in spirit. That realization humbled me.

The Lord was teaching me that winning an argument is not the same as winning a brother. Faithfulness is measured not only by whether we speak the truth, but also by whether we reflect the character of Christ while speaking it. That lesson alone would have been enough to humble me. Yet another followed.

Not long afterward, I wrote an article dealing with eschatology. By that point I had spent considerable time reading and listening to various teachers on the subject. Like many areas of theology, I wanted to understand what Scripture taught concerning the return of Christ, the kingdom of God, the resurrection, and the events described throughout the book of Revelation. I sincerely believed I had reached sound conclusions.

Pastor Rusty read the article. Once again, rather than dismissing it or simply telling me I was wrong, he patiently called me aside after a Wednesday evening Bible study, sat down with me and walked through the Scriptures. He explained that many of the conclusions I had reached were flowing from assumptions I had brought to the text rather than conclusions that naturally arose from the text itself. He described my position as a presuppositional premillennial view and explained that such a framework differed significantly from the historic Reformed understanding he believed Scripture taught.

At the time, I found the conversation difficult. Not because he had spoken unkindly. He had not. Neither because he had been dismissive, he was anything but dismissive. It was difficult because I had once again become convinced that I understood something far better than I actually did. He did not demand that I immediately adopt his conclusions. Instead, he challenged me to study. He encouraged me to read more carefully; to slow down, to examine the passages again, and to compare Scripture with Scripture. To resist the temptation to settle upon a position simply because a respected teacher held it.

That counsel proved invaluable. Although I did not change my mind overnight, the Lord gradually used further study to expose weaknesses in my understanding. Over time, I found myself persuaded that the amillennial position more faithfully reflected the testimony of Scripture than the conclusions I had previously embraced. Looking back, I am thankful that Pastor Rusty did not merely hand me an answer. He taught me how to study. He reminded me that faithful theology is not built upon personalities or systems first, but upon the careful interpretation of God’s Word.

Even so, I did not respond as maturely as I wish I had. The correction weighed heavily upon me. Perhaps too heavily. Rather than seeing it simply as another opportunity to grow, I began questioning whether I should continue writing at all. Once again, I laid the work aside. This time, the silence lasted much longer. I did not stop loving God’s Word, I did not stop studying, I did not stop growing, but I stopped writing.

Part of that decision flowed from discouragement. Part of it flowed from humility. And if I am honest, part of it probably flowed from wounded pride. I wanted so badly to handle God’s Word faithfully that discovering I had handled portions of it poorly made me hesitant to put another sentence on paper. The Lord, however, was doing something even in that silence.

He was teaching me that faithfulness is not measured by how quickly I speak, but by how carefully I listen. He was also teaching me that there is no shame in admitting that I still have much to learn. Indeed, every Christian who desires to handle the Scriptures rightly must remain teachable. The day we become unwilling to be corrected is the day we cease to grow. By God’s grace, He had given me a pastor who loved me enough to correct me, patient enough to teach me, and humble enough to point me continually back to the Scriptures rather than to himself. Looking back now, I count those conversations among the Lord’s greatest kindnesses to me. They wounded my pride. But they strengthened my soul.

The longer I remained away from writing, the more I began to realize that the Lord had been exposing something deeper than poor wording or theological imprecision. He was exposing me. For much of my Christian life, I had thought the greatest dangers to my soul were the obvious sins that had characterized my life before conversion. I thought of drugs, drunkenness, pornography, profanity, selfishness, and all the outward manifestations of a heart in rebellion against God. By His grace, those things no longer held the mastery they once had. Yet sanctification has a way of uncovering sins that are not nearly as obvious.

Pride has many disguises. Sometimes it appears as arrogance, demanding recognition and refusing correction. Other times it hides beneath discouragement. It convinces a man that because he cannot do something perfectly, he ought not do it at all. It keeps him looking inward rather than upward. Instead of trusting Christ to use weak vessels, it mourns that the vessel is weak in the first place.

Looking back, I can see traces of both. I genuinely desired to handle God’s Word faithfully. That desire was good. Yet I had also begun measuring my usefulness by my ability to write without error or correction. Every criticism felt heavier than it should have because I quietly expected more of myself than Scripture ever required. The Lord had never called me to infallibility. He had called me to faithfulness.

There is a tremendous difference between those two things. Faithfulness welcomes correction because it desires to honor Christ more than it desires to protect its own reputation. Pride resists correction because it is more concerned with appearing right than becoming right. The Lord was patiently teaching me which one still lingered in my own heart.

I often reflected on the conversations Pastor Rusty and I had shared over those months. Not once had he attempted to shame me. Never did he suggest that I abandon writing permanently. In fact, he had encouraged the very opposite. His concern had never been that I was writing. His concern was that I continue growing while I wrote.

At the time, I struggled to separate those two ideas. Every correction felt like a reason to become silent. Looking back, I realize they were actually invitations to become more careful. The Lord was not closing a door. He was teaching me how to walk through it more wisely. I have often thanked God for giving me a pastor who was willing to tell me difficult things. There are many people willing to flatter us. There are many who will praise us simply because they appreciate our zeal. Far fewer are willing to open the Scriptures, patiently show us where we have erred, and then continue encouraging us rather than discarding us.

That kind of shepherding is a gift. Pastor Rusty never made me feel as though I had failed beyond usefulness. He simply kept pointing me back to God’s Word. Again and again, the answer was never, “Trust yourself more.” It was always, “Search the Scriptures.” That lesson reached far beyond writing. It shaped how I approached every area of the Christian life.

Whenever difficult theological questions arose, I wanted my first instinct to become, “What has God said?” rather than, “What do I think?” When disagreements surfaced, I wanted to learn to listen before answering. When someone challenged one of my conclusions, I wanted to become less concerned with defending my position and more concerned with discovering whether my position truly reflected the teaching of Scripture.

I did not always succeed. Even now, I continue learning those lessons. But I can say with gratitude that the Lord had begun softening a heart that had once been convinced it already knew enough. Perhaps one of the greatest evidences of His sanctifying grace is not that we become impossible to correct, but that we become increasingly thankful when faithful correction comes. That was certainly true of me.

Years later, I would look back upon those conversations with gratitude rather than embarrassment. What once felt painful became precious. The very moments that had tempted me to quit writing altogether became some of the moments the Lord used most powerfully to shape the writer I was still becoming. The silence did not mean the Lord had stopped working. If anything, He was doing some of His deepest work where no one else could see it.

There were no new articles to publish, no readers to encourage, no discussions to follow. Only an ordinary Christian, his Bible, a faithful local church, and a patient Savior who continued chiseling away at the pride that remained. I have learned that much of the Christian life is lived there. Not on public platforms, nor in moments that others celebrate. But in the quiet places where the Lord patiently conforms His people to the image of His Son. Those seasons often feel unproductive while we are walking through them. Only later do we discover that He was laying foundations we could not yet see. That season would eventually come to an end. The Lord was not finished with my writing. Nor was He finished teaching me why I wrote in the first place.