It has taken some time to pull this article together, not because I’ve been at my keyboard an inordinate amount of time, but because it took some time for me to get myself in position to write.

I am blessed, and compared to many, I am richly blessed.

Of course, the expected Christian disclaimer is that I add, “…and for all that I possess, thanks be to God.”

Over the years, I’ve made this declaration often—and I’ve said the words with conviction, but I’ve wondered: What if it was gone? What if my earthly blessings, the accoutrements of my life, were gone and my blessings were intangible, beyond my earthly reach, located in heaven? Would I still say, “Thanks be to God?”

Jack Taylor used to say, “You’ll never know Christ is all you need until Christ is all you’ve got.”

To be clear, I’m far from financially or physically destitute. But due to the censorship I’ve suffered for the last four years, my soul’s capital has run dangerously low. Consequently, I’ve looked internal poverty in the eye. I’ve looked over my soul’s precipice into the abyss of destitution, hopelessness, then pulled back into the arms of reflection to ponder what I’ve seen.

Meanwhile, my soul cries out.

As I’ve told you, I’ve studied Bonhoeffer (German pastor who was martyred in 1945), and others who suffered for their faith, and wondered if I have what it takes…should they come for me as they came for them. How can one know?

Here’s what I’ve discovered to date.

Not to be dramatic—pain is relative—but for the fourth time in my life, I’ve suffered substantial loss related to my professional life, substantial enough to conclude: I must start over. C’est la vie.

Yes, I’m in the season of life where I could retire to my porch. But there’s a problem with this outlook: Sitting on the porch is not what God has asked of me. So, I have been busy about His calling.

Then, my ability to accomplish my calling was sunk. The superintendents of the cultural narrative decided my spiritual dissonance should be repressed—and in July of 2021, my voice went quiet on the channel. To manage my spiritual perspective about whether we should rely upon God or government to provide for us, I was banned from participating in society’s discussions.

My ability to do what I do is curtailed. My name is poison to those who mention me electronically. My database, the means by which I distribute my thoughts, has not grown in four years and distribution of my writings is actively impeded in all electronic forums.

As I’ve thought about this predicament, and spent several thousand dollars and many days of effort trying to find a work-around, I’ve gained clarity about these important matters:

First, while it scared me when the powers-that-be sought to pirate my bank account, that threat was averted and our financial exposure is now limited. Unless something extreme occurs, like in Canada, I’m free from this concern.

Second, I don’t have to sell books to make a living. Therefore, I’m free to write whatever I choose to write—within reason, of course.

Third, two years ago I had the opportunity to formalize my coaching work and became a certified professional business coach. At the time, certification was a plus. But now, I’ve adjusted the balance between my writing and coaching to demonstrate profitability to the IRS. Another worry swept aside, although I resent the government ruining my work as a writer and then penalizing me for not being profitable. Arbitrary punitiveness is not exactly rational. (Let me know if you need my coaching services. Smile).

I could go on, but let me go to the bottom line: While my professional life as a writer is ruined, my wellbeing is not. This means I can clear away life’s concerns and take an unvarnished assessment of my soul’s trappings, beliefs, and condition, i.e., I’m free to think, to live, to write, and to weigh my soul’s significance without the customary check-boxes.

My ponderings have gone like this: I’m not physically exiled to Siberia, so that I have to survive the cold, but I am exiled in a digital Siberia. I’m not incarcerated as Bonhoeffer or Nee were, but I am locked in a digital gulag. I’ve not been physically tortured as Wurmbrand was, but I do know something about digital solitary. In their cases, and mine, those in power use their position to deliver the message: I no longer matter.

Given enough time, I can think this through, but meanwhile, my soul cries out. Is this true? Am I no longer viable?

Philosophers call this an existential question: Does my existence matter? When I am gone, am I missed? Is anyone looking for me?

And, yes. Let me put your mind at ease for a moment: Of course I matter! I matter to Dianne. I matter to the Martin family and my friend Randy. I matter to my mortgage company and to the Mexican restaurant I frequent. These perspectives are true, and they have helped me.

But I’ve gotten close enough to the existential question—do I matter—to peer into the abyss of that question. It’s been unnerving to feel hopeless about this life, but the darkness has clarified my theology.

Do I have what it takes to be resolute when tested for my faith? Is God truly good [to me] even though I wrestle with Him? If I lost everything, would I be resolute in my conviction, “Christ alone!”

My trial by censorship began in July 2021. It took me a while to explore my options, and since I’m a resourceful man—meaning, I wrestle with God—it wasn’t until perhaps six or eight months ago that I concluded: I have Christ and He is plenty.

Over the years, in my persistence, I’ve taken apart the Gospel and our identification with Jesus Christ in order to test its veracity. Historically, theologically, linguistically, philosophically, humanistically, psychologically, sociologically: From each of these perspectives, I’ve looked for a fatal flaw and found nothing lacking in God’s overture toward us.

“I’ve got you, son.”

Now, for the next time in my life, thanks to the limitations on my proficiencies, I’ve explored whether or not Christ is all my soul requires to truly matter. My conclusion?

He is!

Thanksgiving is upon us. I awakened this morning about 4:45, and as I lay in bed, I realized how grateful I am.

I’m grateful for God’s mercies, which are fresh every morning to me.

I’m grateful that my soul is not governed by those who govern. In their rabid dedication to silence me, the governing authorities set me free to write without impediment. I’m free!

I’m grateful that I’m not alone. “I am with you,” Scripture declares of God. In my soul, I’ve heard enough times that it is now a conviction: “I’ve got you, son.”

I’m grateful for the candor of the Psalms.

For as long as I can recall, I’ve been ashamed for my questioning. I’ve been disdainful of Jacob—the Usurper, he’s called—for wrestling with God. Like the preacher implies: Serves him right that he must navigate life limping. Yet, I wrestle with God.

Why don’t I possess a simple trust?

But lately, once the trappings of my proficiencies were ruined, I’ve come to realize the Psalms are the prayers of God’s people, especially King David, as they contended with life’s hard times and glorious times. Whether in caves or palaces, the Psalms are the prayers of people like me who wrestle with God in order to make sense of their lives and Him as their all-in-all.

Generally speaking, most of my wrestling is to understand. Not to control, per se, just to understand: What are you doing? Where are you going? How are you thinking about this? May I participate? Am I alone? Where are you? I am in trouble. Am I okay? Do I matter to you? *

I gather my wrestling is a family trait. My Older Brother quoted from the Psalms more than any other book in the Old Testament. With the blessing of having less professionally to confuse me, I think I see why He quoted the poetry of the Psalms.

In this season of gratitude, I’m thankful for the censorship, the cancellation, the loss of marketability, the poisoning of my name, and the banishment from society’s exchange of ideas. I’m grateful for my soul’s season of discontent because if it were not for these sunk costs, I would not know as deeply as I am now convicted: Christ alone is plenty to secure my significance.

Each morning, when I step to my patio to pray, I’m filled with gratitude I’ve only recently discovered. Do I have what it takes to be resolute given what has transpired? I do. I have Christ.

And here’s the point of this article: So do you.

* I have found special consolation in Psalm 27

Gratitude

Meanwhile, my soul cries out.

“I’ve got you, son.”