I'm Still In: Why the cell you didn't see coming isn't the end of your story

I don't know a single person who sat down at the start of the year and said, "I'd like a diagnosis this fall, please. I'd like the layoff in February. Pencil in the empty seat at the Thanksgiving table.” We don't plan for prison cells. They plan for us.

And somewhere inside the unplanned cell, a quiet question starts to whisper. It gets louder the longer the cell stays locked: Did I hear God right? Was I wrong about him? If he really sees me — why am I still here?

If that's you, there's a man in the Bible I want you to meet.

His name was John the Baptist. He was Jesus' cousin. He was, by Jesus' own words, the greatest man ever born. He spent his life pointing to Jesus, baptizing Jesus, getting everything ready for Jesus. And when he finally opened his mouth to say something that made King Herod uncomfortable, Herod threw him in prison and let him rot there.

This is the greatest man ever born — in a dungeon. No pulpit. No crowd. No next ministry. No plan B. Just stone walls and time.

And from that cell, John sent word to Jesus with a single question: "Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?"

In other words: "Jesus — was I wrong about you?"

I love that John didn't pretend. He didn't post a platitude. He didn't stuff the doubt down and put on a brave face for his disciples. He didn't take it to Reddit at midnight. He sent his doubt to the only Person who could actually answer it. He brought it to Jesus.

Somewhere along the way, a lot of us picked up a bad idea — that doubt is disrespectful. That real Christians don't wobble. That if we admit we're not sure, the floor underneath our whole faith will give out. So we carry our doubt like contraband. We hide it. We feel ashamed of it. We pray the same rote prayer while a more honest prayer sits behind our teeth.

The Bible doesn't do that. Job didn't. Elijah didn't. Jeremiah didn't. David didn't. Jesus himself, from the cross, cried, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" The people who loved God the most in this book were the people who brought him the hardest questions they had. Your doubt, handed honestly to the Father, is not a betrayal. It is one of the most faithful things you will ever do.

There is one more thing about John's cell that I cannot get out of my head this week. When Jesus read the scroll of Isaiah at the very beginning of his ministry, he read almost all of Isaiah 61. He read about good news to the poor. He read about sight for the blind. But he left out a line. He left out "freedom for the captives."

He left it out because at that moment, his own cousin was in a prison cell. And Jesus — who had the power to empty every cell in the Roman Empire — was not unlocking that one.

Some of you have been praying for years for a cell to open. The marriage. The job. The diagnosis. The prodigal. The baby. And nothing has changed.

Hear me. God meets us in our doubts. But he does not always promise to change our circumstances. He is still God in the cell. He is still the Messiah in the cell. The faith of the Bible is not a faith that guarantees every cell opens in this life. It is a faith that says, "Even if the cell does not open — God is still God, and I am still in."

That is not grit. That is not muscle. That is not you trying harder. I want you to hear me on that.

The only reason any of us can whisper "I'm still in" is because Jesus already said it for us. He was still in at the table when the disciples he had poured his life into scattered. He was still in in the garden when the cup did not pass. He was still in on the cross when the Father said no.

We love because he first loved us. We stay in — because he stayed in — for us.

Wherever you are this week — whatever prison cell you did not see coming — the Father is at the end of the driveway, and the door is open.

We'd love to have you join us on Sunday!