They tore the roof off.
They did not hesitate. They did not calculate the cost. They did not pause to weigh the risks.
Splinters tore into their hands. Sweat stung their eyes. Their backs ached, their arms trembled, their breath came in ragged gasps. But still, they tore the roof off.
They risked the anger of the homeowner, the scorn of the onlookers, the consequences of a system that would not understand. They risked it all—reputation, comfort, safety—because they knew their friend could not make it to Jesus on his own.
His healing was tied to their willingness.
So they climbed. They reached. They tore. And they lowered him, broken and helpless, into the presence of the Healer.
And Jesus saw.
Not just the man on the mat, but the faith of the friends who carried him. The faith written in calloused hands and aching limbs. The faith that was willing to endure hardship, ridicule, and risk for the sake of love.
We tell this story often, marveling at the devotion of these men. We speak of the importance of surrounding ourselves with people who would do the same for us.
But what about you?
Would you tear the roof off?
Would you endure the weight of another’s burden? Would you face the discomfort of interceding for someone who cannot walk on their own? Would you press through fear, opposition, and exhaustion to place them at the feet of Jesus?
Or do you simply long for a village while refusing to be a villager?
Do you ache for belonging yet resist the sacrifice it requires? Do you long to be carried but hesitate when the time comes to carry another?
We say we want community, but do we build it?
We say we want depth, but do we dig for it?
We say we want love, but do we labor for it?
This kind of love—the kind that climbs, the kind that bleeds, the kind that tears through rooftops—is costly.
But if you long to be surrounded by those who would carry you to Jesus, you must first be the one who carries.
So pick up a corner. Shoulder the weight. Tear the roof off.
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