Lukewarm

Sometimes I feel the weight of it—the dull ache of a world where lukewarm has become the standard. Where compromise passes for wisdom, where half-hearted faith is dressed up as balance, where passion is dismissed as extremism. And I wonder if I’m the strange one, the outlier, because my heart burns with something deeper.

But then I remember: the Gospel has always been radical. Jesus never called His followers to mediocrity. He said, “deny yourself, take up your cross, and follow Me.” That’s not safe. That’s not middle ground. That’s fire. That’s blood and sweat and tears and a crown of thorns. That’s the kind of love that offends the apathetic and unsettles the complacent.

When the world has normalized lukewarmness, real Christianity—wholehearted, fervent, undivided—will always seem extreme. But isn’t that exactly what He deserves? A life poured out, not a life half-asleep? He is worthy of more than my leftovers, my convenient faith, my tepid prayers. He is worthy of zeal that consumes me, of love that looks foolish, of obedience that costs.

So if I’m called extreme for clinging to Scripture, for weeping over sin, for rejoicing in suffering, for longing for holiness—then let me be extreme. Let me be consumed. Let me burn in a world that only flickers.

For the day is coming when the lukewarm will be spewed out, when only the fire will stand. And I don’t want to be found tepid when He returns—I want to be found burning.