Ready or Not: The Year Courage Stops Being Optional

We're launching this season in a week when the gap between what Christians claim to believe and what we're willing to rationalize has never felt clearer. This week alone, we've watched violence unfold, lies amplified, and harm defended, often by Christians claiming Jesus' name.

If you've ever wondered what you would have done as authoritarianism took hold, as violence was rationalized, as truth became optional, you're doing it right now.

This episode is for Christians wrestling with what following Jesus actually looks like when faith comes at a cost. We explore Joshua, Esther, and Jesus to understand courage not as fearlessness, but as obedience when neutrality is no longer possible.

In this episode:

• Why staying silent becomes complicity when harm is being done
• What Scripture teaches about courage in moments of crisis
• How spiritual formation happens under pressure
• The cost of discipleship and what it asks of us right now

This is Re-Center: the inner work of faith before we can rebuild or reimagine anything.

Scripture Referenced: Joshua 1:9, Esther 4:13-14, Matthew 4:1-11, John 6:15, Mark 8:34-35, 2 Timothy 1:7, 2 Timothy 2:1, Isaiah 61:11, Isaiah 62:1

Connect with Kristen at kristenannette.com

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Here’s to a faith that tells the truth, refuses silence in the face of harm, and follows Jesus all the way into healing and justice.

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Transcript

Ready or Not: The Year Courage Stops Being Optional

Hello friend. Welcome to Season 3 of Jesus, Justice & Mercy.

We're launching this season in a week when the gap between what Christians claim to believe and what we're willing to rationalize, defend, or ignore has never felt clearer and more urgent.

And honestly? The pace of it is devastating.

We barely have time to process one crisis before the next one arrives. We're grieving violence in one place while lies are being amplified in another. There's no space to catch our breath, no moment to fully reckon with what we're witnessing before something new demands our attention.

And that relentlessness, that's part of what makes this so hard. It wears us down. It makes it harder to see clearly, to respond faithfully, to know what obedience even looks like when everything feels like it's on fire.

And honestly? Every time I sit down to record this, something new has happened that feels like it should be named. By the time you hear this, there will likely be more. That's part of the horror—the pace makes it almost impossible to keep up, let alone process what any of it means. But here's what I can name right now as I record on Tuesday morning, Jan. 13:

In the last week alone, we've watched violence unfold in Venezuela over oil. We've seen Renee Good murdered. We've watched the U.S. government invoke Nazi-era language—literally using phrases like "one people, one homeland, one heritage"—while Christians either stay silent or defend it. And we've watched lie after lie be repeated, defended, and amplified often by Christians who claim the name of Jesus while abandoning what He actually taught.

And there's a common line that keeps running through my head: If you've ever wondered what you would have done as authoritarianism took hold, as violence was rationalized, as truth became optional, you're doing it right now.

This is the moment. Not some hypothetical future. Not a history lesson. Right now.

And if you're sitting with that tension—if you're wondering how faith that claims to follow Jesus can look so little like Him—you're not alone. That's exactly why this season exists.

Because the world doesn't need more Christians who can explain away harm. It needs disciples who are willing to tell the truth, even when it costs us something. Especially when it costs us something.

This season, we're walking through a formation journey together under four movements: Re-Center, Re-Member, Re-Build, and Re-Imagine. There's more detail on my website if you want the full arc.

We're beginning with Re-Center—the inner work of faith. Because before we can rebuild or reimagine anything, we first have to pay attention to what's being shaped in us.

And right now, in this moment, what's being asked of us is this: Will we let our faith be shaped by Jesus—or by the rationalizations, the lies, and the systems that protect power at the expense of people?

And I know—for some of you, naming this clearly feels risky. Maybe you're still in spaces where speaking this truth could cost you relationships, safety, or belonging. I see you. This season is for you, too. You don't have to have it all figured out. You just have to be willing to keep asking what following Jesus actually requires.

By the time this drops, we're midway into January—when some of us are going strong and some have already fallen off the proverbial wagon. But rest assured, this isn't about trying harder or fixing yourself when you're already tired. It's about paying attention to what is being formed in us right now and choosing how we respond.

So many Christians I listen to aren't necessarily struggling with whether they believe in Jesus. What we seem to be wrestling with is what following Him looks like now—in this particular moment, in this place, when the stakes feel higher and the consequences are real and honestly devastating to so many people.

This is the kind of season where truth will come at a cost. Where love can no longer remain comfortable, and justice can no longer remain theoretical.

It has to become personal—lived and visible in ways that make our commitments clear. Others will know where we stand. And if that sounds unsettling, that's okay. That's part of why we're here.

Because there comes a point when staying neutral no longer keeps the peace. It simply keeps things as they are. And when our silence begins protecting harm instead of people, it doesn’t remain harmless—it makes us complicit.

In moments like that, staying silent becomes its own kind of choice.

Scripture knows moments like this—times when what we say, or don’t say, begins to shape who we are becoming.

In the OT, nearly 3500 years ago, when God speaks to Joshua, it’s at a moment of profound transition.
Moses, the leader who led his people out of Egypt, is gone.
Those wilderness years have come to an end, but the future still remains uncertain.
Joshua is standing on the edge of something new, carrying responsibility he didn’t ask for, and facing challenges he cannot control. Which may sound eerily familiar for many of us.

In that moment, God doesn’t promise Joshua safety.
God doesn’t offer a detailed map or guaranteed success—the very things we often think we need before we’re willing to move, especially those of us who find security in planning for all possible outcomes. 

Instead, God names the reality of what lies ahead and then says, "Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened or dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go" (Joshua 1:9, NRSV), a verse I have held close to my heart for a very long season.

Joshua is being called into responsibility, not certainty. Into obedience, not comfort. Strength is required not because everything is clear, but because faithfulness is.

We see the same pattern in the story of Esther. The full story is worth reading slowly—there's nuance and depth we miss when we pull single moments.

But what's important for us to notice here is this: Esther's boldness doesn't begin in a moment of public bravery. It begins much earlier, in the realm of hiddenness.

She is a Jewish woman living under an empire that does not share her faith, her story, or her vulnerability. For her own safety, she conceals her Jewish identity. She learns how to survive in a system not designed for her flourishing—how to read power, when to stay quiet, and how to endure what all of that will require of her.

And this is where her story feels painfully familiar to many of us—especially women. Because Scripture isn't romantic here. It tells the truth about what survival often requires.

To reach the position where she can eventually make a difference, Esther has to submit to a process she did not design and does not control. She is shaped by expectations placed on her body, her beauty, and her obedience.

And let's be clear—her rise is not the fairy tale we often make it out to be. It is risky. It is complicated. And it is shaped by structures she didn't choose.

But then—her pivotal moment arrives.

When the threat becomes unavoidable and silence begins to endanger others, Esther is faced with a choice.

It is her uncle Mordecai who names the moment with clarity and integrity, speaking honestly about the risk without demanding heroics or offering false reassurance. Mordecai gives language to what Esther is already living inside—that hiding has limits, and that inaction, however understandable, cannot stop what is coming.

He does not demand action from her. He invites her to see her position not only as personal protection, but as responsibility—and to wrestle with what faithfulness might require from her next.

Mordecai does not begin with reassurance.
He begins with a warning.

In Esther chapter 4, he sends a message that strips away her illusion of safety:
“Don’t think for a moment that because you are in the palace you will escape,” he tells her in verse 13.
Proximity to power will not protect her.
Silence may feel safer, but it will not ultimately save her—or her people.

And then Mordecai does something important.
He does not tell Esther that deliverance depends on her.
He makes it clear that God’s purposes will move forward with or without her.

But her life—her integrity, her participation—will be shaped by what she chooses next.

Only then does he ask the question that turns everything—a question Scripture seems to keep asking across generations: “Who knows if perhaps you were made queen for such a time as this?” (Esther 4:14).

It is not safety he offers her.
It is responsibility.
An invitation to see her position not as protection, but as purpose.

For Esther, this does not mean assurance or control.
It means risking what little safety she has for the sake of others.
It means choosing truth over protection when inaction has begun to wound her people

When we hold these stories together—Joshua and Esther—I want us to notice something important.
Neither of them moves forward because they feel ready.
They move because the call of God begins to press in—a pressure that can no longer be ignored.

Joshua stands at the edge of transition, carrying responsibility he did not seek, without clarity about how it will unfold.
Esther stands inside a system she has learned to survive, realizing that staying hidden will no longer protect those she loves.

What marks both stories is not bravado or certainty.
It is the moment when neutrality is no longer possible—
when restraint begins to do harm, and something more is asked

And that raises a question for us—not as an accusation, but as an invitation:
Where might God be asking us to move from survival into deeper obedience?
Are we, too, positioned for such a time as this?

And in full confession, this is a place I recognize well—one I return to more often than I’d like.

It has taken years of God whispering to me, and my fear answering back louder.
Years of wanting to listen, but not wanting to lose the fragile peace I had built around myself.
Years of sensing a call toward obedience, while quietly hoping it might pass me by.

What I’ve learned, imperfectly, is this:
God has never asked me to be fearless.
God has asked me to follow.

And that distinction has changed everything.

And it’s not just my story.
It’s a pattern we see again and again in Scripture.

If Joshua and Esther show us what it looks like when obedience becomes unavoidable,
Jesus shows us what it looks like when obedience is lived out completely.

When we talk about this in the context of Christian life, we often imagine bold declarations or dramatic confrontations—or today, maybe carefully curated social media posts. But when we look closely at Jesus, we see something quieter—and far more demanding. We see it not only in what He confronts, but in what He refuses to do.

He refuses to build His ministry on spectacle—first when Satan tempts Him to turn power into proof, and later when crowds demand signs instead of trust
(Matthew 4:1–11; 12:38–39).

He refuses to secure power through dominance, walking away when others try to make Him king on their terms
(John 6:15).

And He refuses to protect Himself at the expense of the truth—choosing obedience to God’s way even when it threatens his safety, reputation, and ultimately His life
(Mark 8:34–35; John 18:37).

He touches people others avoid, knowing it will cost Him credibility.
He tells the truth about systems that harm, knowing it will provoke backlash.
He stays present to suffering instead of distancing Himself from it.

And perhaps most striking of all, Jesus does not bypass vulnerability.

Near the end, we meet Him in the garden on the night before His arrest, after the meal has ended and after He has already named what is coming. This is not a moment of confusion or surprise. Jesus knows what lies ahead.

In Gethsemane, He is not feigning strength for anyone else.
He is praying in the place where suffering and surrender finally meet.
Jesus names His fear honestly.
He does not deny it, minimize it, or spiritualize it away.
Instead, He stays present. He prays. He entrusts Himself to His Father when the outcome is no longer easy and the path ahead will require real loss.

This is not reckless bravery; it’s a profound moment.
It is disciplined, grounded in trust. Not in outcomes or control, but in God. A lesson God has been trying to teach me for decades.

Jesus shows us that fear is not the problem.
What matters is what we choose when fear is real, and obedience is costly.

That choice—to stay, to tell the truth, to love without guarantees—is how we learn to live out our faith in real time.

And I’d love for you to spend a while with the Gospels this way, too.
Not just looking for single dramatic moments, but paying attention to the patterns.
Notice when Jesus speaks and when He stays silent.
When He steps forward and when He refuses to seize power.

His life is marked by a steadiness that is neither impulsive nor reactive.
And seeing that for yourself matters way more than just hearing it from me.

This is why this work matters—not because we’re trying to be heroic, but because becoming like Jesus is not a destination, but a lifelong pursuit.

Just like the biblical figures we’ve been sitting with, we are being shaped by the hard choices we make when it would be easier to stay quiet, stay comfortable, or stay hidden.

The question before us isn’t whether this will be required of us.
It’s who we are becoming as we respond.

And that’s where I want to step back just for a moment.
Because when we talk about this in the context of what we hold to be true, I want to be careful.
These ideas—especially obedience—have often been distorted in Christian spaces, shaped more by rules and reactions than by transformation.
They’re often confused with being loud.
Or sure.
Or fearless.
Or willing to fight.

But Scripture paints a quieter picture—one shaped slowly rather than proven in a moment.
This kind of strength is not a personality trait.
It’s not reserved for the bold, the outspoken, or the naturally confident.
It’s not about having the right words at the right time, or never feeling afraid.

When my own fear or insecurity creeps in, I often return to scripture when I need to remember to what God is doing through my life.

Paul names this tension clearly when he writes to Timothy—a young leader who is anxious, hesitant, and aware of the cost of following Jesus.
In 2 Timothy 1:7, he reminds him, “God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power and love and self-discipline.”

That matters because Paul is not telling Timothy to summon something from within himself.
He’s reminding him of what God has already given.

What grows out of that is not bravado, but obedience.
Choosing faithfulness over approval.
Staying present instead of shutting down when discomfort rises.
Telling the truth with love, even when doing so risks misunderstanding, loss, or pushback.

And just a few lines later, Paul adds, “Be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus” (2 Timothy 2:1).
Not strong in self-assurance.
Not strong in control.
But grounded in grace.

Most of the time, this doesn’t show up in dramatic moments.
It takes shape through our daily, often invisible choices—
in what we refuse to ignore,
what we are willing to unlearn,
and what we risk for the sake of what is right.

This is discipleship under pressure, under fire.
Not that single brave act but moments that shape us deliberately—
as our silence, our speech, our attention, and our actions quietly form who we are becoming.

we can’t ever let the conversation drift away from Jesus Himself.

This is not an ideology or a political posture—it’s a way of following Him.

This same posture shows up again and again in the Gospels—different moments, the same refusal to choose safety over love.

That matters, because if Jesus is our model for discipleship, then the question is no longer what sounds brave, but what love actually requires.

Which leads us to a hard but necessary question—one Scripture itself invites us to ask: If following Jesus never presses against our comfort, what exactly is it shaping us into?

So what might this actually look like in our lives this year? Not as a checklist. Not as performance. But lived out in real relationships, real systems, and real moments of tension.

For some of us, it will look like staying—
staying in hard conversations, or remaining present in relationships, when it would be much easier to withdraw or disappear.

And for others, it will look like leaving—
stepping away from spaces that cause harm,
or from situations where staying has been mistaken for obedience.

It will look like challenging theology that protects power instead of people—
theology that tries to explain suffering instead of alleviating it,
that spiritualizes injustice instead of confronting it,
that prioritizes comfort, infallibility, or control over the dignity and safety of others.

It will look like listening—really listening—
especially when defensiveness would be easier.
Listening to stories that unsettle us.
Listening long enough to be changed.

And it will often look like being misunderstood—choosing integrity over approval,
telling the truth without knowing how it will land or whether it will be received at all.

This is where justice comes into focus.
Because a life shaped by Jesus always bends toward repair rather than denial,
toward dignity rather than dismissal,
toward truth rather than peace,
toward liberation rather than control.

If our lives do not move us closer to loving our neighbor—especially those who bear the weight of harm— then we need to ask what kind of discipleship is shaping us.

This life takes shape in conversations, in decisions, and in what we choose to interrupt or refuse to ignore.
And by practicing again and again, it is how we are molded to look more like Him.

Still—and I hate to break it to you—it would be dishonest to talk about this without naming what it asks of us.

When this is real, something is almost always given up.
Not typically all at once.
Not dramatically.

For many of us, what’s lost won’t be loud or public.
It will be quieter than that—and harder to explain.

It may mean losing approval.
The comfort of being liked.
The ease of staying silently aligned with everyone around us.

It may mean letting go of clarity—
that sense that everything is settled, resolved, and protected.
Moving forward without guarantees, without knowing how things will turn out or how our choices will be received.

For some, this will touch on belonging.
Not all belonging, and not all at once—but particular dynamics, expectations, or roles we play that depend on our silence or conformity.

Sometimes that shows up inside relationships we deeply love. People we grew up with. Family. A church that has felt like home for decades. A marriage or community where the ground is shifting and nothing feels simple anymore.

But here is what this doesn’t mean You don't have to leave. You don't have to make quick or clean decisions. And most times you shouldn’t."

Often, courage looks like slowing down and listening—bringing the questions honestly before God, paying close attention to the Spirit's nudging, and discerning what faithfulness looks like here, right now.

It can mean staying and telling the truth more softly. Setting gentler, wiser boundaries. Learning how to remain present without disappearing—or betraying yourself.

That kind of discernment takes time. It requires prayer, wisdom, and often the help of trusted companions. It's rarely something to rush.

This isn't about choosing isolation. It's about navigating change with integrity, patience, and care—trusting that God is present in the discernment, not just the outcome.

For others, the cost won’t be external at all. It will be internal. Grief. Disorientation. The uncomfortable unraveling of identities we once relied on to feel safe.

When that happens, it can feel very unsettling—like the ground beneath us has shifted, like the predictability we used to stand on is no longer there.

So I want to say this as clearly as I can to you:

Those consequences you are experiencing do not mean God has abandoned you. They do not mean you've misheard the call. And they do not mean you are doing something wrong.

Loss is not proof of failure. It is simply the weight of following Jesus in a broken world.

Scripture does not promise that courage will make things easier.
It promises that God will go with us into what is hard.

God does not promise Joshua safety—God promises to go with him.
Esther is not spared risk—she is given purpose within that risk.
Jesus is not protected from suffering—but He is never alone in it.

So if this work feels costly this year, that doesn’t mean you’ve wandered from your faith, no matter how it’s been framed to you.
It may mean you’re stepping more deeply into it.

The good news here is that naming this is not the end of the story.
It’s not meant to destroy you or harden you.
It’s meant to encourage you so that what comes next can be chosen freely, and not forced.

As disciples, this kind of obedience is never demanded.
It’s always invited.

So here’s the invitation I want to extend as we step into this season together:
This year, we’re not chasing guarantees—something that often feels safer and more comforting to me.
Instead, we're practicing a way of following Jesus that trusts God even when the path isn't clear.

Not perfectly, and not all at once. But honestly and faithfully.

This season may stretch you—not to prove anything, but to deepen your trust.

It will ask for honesty with yourself, with God, and with others. It will require the kind of humility that stays open, curious, and willing to learn. And it will remain grounded in Scripture and history, not trends or reactions—because this work didn't begin with us, and it won't end with us either.

This year, it will look like practice—small, authentic choices made in the places we're tempted to disappear. Lives shaped in community by a God who is patient and present, not by performance or pressure.

My hope for this season is not that you come out with a settled theology. It's that you come out more rooted, more honest, more responsive to God's leading.

And that together, we learn what it means to follow Jesus—
not in grand gestures, but in ordinary, everyday, and often difficult choices.

I want to leave you with a few questions. Not questions you need to answer right now— just questions to live with this week, this season, or as the year unfolds.

Where have I been choosing comfort when integrity is being asked of me? What might God be shaping in me right now? And who am I becoming through the choices I make when it feels risky to live more truthfully?

So as we begin this season, here's what I'll say plainly: This is not a call to be heroic. It's a call to keep responding.

And it's important to say this, too: what that response looks like will not be the same for all of us. It will take different shapes depending on our season, our relationships, our responsibilities, and the places God has actually planted us. What obedience looks like in one life—or one moment—may look very different in another.

That doesn't let us off the hook. But it does remind us that discipleship is always lived in context, not in comparison.

And right now, our context is this:

We are living through a moment when lies are being normalized, violence is being rationalized, and Christians are blessing both in Jesus' name.

The formation we've been talking about—the courage, the truth-telling, the refusal to stay silent when harm is being done—this isn't theoretical anymore.

It's the daily choice in front of us.

When a lie is repeated in your hearing, will you let it stand? When harm is rationalized, will you name it? When your silence begins protecting systems instead of people, will you speak?

These aren't dramatic, once-in-a-lifetime decisions. They're the small, steady choices that form us into the kind of disciples Jesus is calling us to be.

So this isn't about outsourcing the hard parts to someone louder, bolder, or more confident— it's about practicing obedience where we actually live.

Quietly. Imperfectly. Together.

Scripture has a word for people learning to live this way.

In Isaiah, God speaks to a people who are weary and uncertain whether their faithfulness is having any effect at all. And instead of demanding more effort, God speaks about growth—patient, quiet, beneath the surface.

Isaiah 61:11 says, "As the earth brings forth its shoots, so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise to spring up."

Righteousness does not appear all at once. It emerges the way seeds do—because God is at work even when we can't see it yet.

And then God says something striking in Isaiah 62:1: "For Zion's sake I will not keep silent."

This reminds us that we are not carrying this alone. God is not silent while we learn to speak. God is not absent while we learn to stay present. God is already bringing something to life, even when we can't yet see it.

And that quiet work of God won't stay hidden forever.

Before we close, I want to tell you where we’re headed next.

By now, you’ve probably figured this out: what we’ve been talking about doesn’t stay theoretical for long.
At some point, it becomes a decision.
or a risk.
A step that asks something real of us.

In our next episode, we're going to talk about holy risk—what obedience looks like in Scripture and in our lives.

We'll return to some of these stories and add others—not just looking at dramatic moments of courage, but at what came before them. The daily practices. The disciplined choices. The way a life is shaped long before a crisis arrives.

Because this season isn't about collecting inspiring examples. It's about staying with Scripture—and with the lives of those who have forged this path for us—long enough to notice the patterns.

To see how this kind of faith is cultivated gently in us. And then to begin asking what that might look like for us—not in theory, but in practice: the habits, postures, and ways of living that shape Christians who are able to take risks rooted in love, not fear.

So if this episode helped you name what's being asked of you, Episode 2 will help you understand how that way of living is formed—and how it's practiced.

That conversation is coming next week.

Thanks for being here.

Jesus.
Justice.
No apologies.