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It's Not You, It's Me
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Today we begin a brand-new series about relationships. Over the past few weeks it's been wonderful to have guest speakers come in — almost like they punched a window into a dark room and illuminated things. But our own series are about building the strength of the church, building who we are. So that's what we'll be doing over the next four weeks: looking into relationships.
The title of this series is It's Not You, It's Me. I wonder how many of you have actually used that phrase in a relational breakup. It's not you, it's me — when really what you mean is something else entirely.
We're talking about more than just husband-and-wife or boyfriend-girlfriend relationships. We're talking about all the relationships of life, and the key to making them a success.
There's a moment right at the beginning of the Bible where God says to Adam:
It is not good for you to be alone.
That's an amazing statement, because the fact is Adam wasn't alone — he had God. Sometimes we sing, "God, all I need is You." There's truth to that, but there's also something more. If all we needed was God, then God would simply have made Adam. Eve wouldn't have needed to be there except for multiplication.
But Eve was created for more than that. God recognised that you and I need more than just a vertical relationship. We need each other as well.
I think one of the greatest works of the enemy is this: he interrupts our relationships on a horizontal level, and in doing so tries to interrupt the relationship on a vertical level. For example, if we have a broken relationship with our father on earth, people often carry a broken idea of Father God in heaven. And sometimes we can get so distracted by relational breakdown that, if we're not careful, we not only blame God, but the joy of the whole journey gets interrupted.
Here's a fact: every relationship loses momentum from time to time.
But there is a solution in those moments that sees us through to the other side. And it's important to understand that God has put us deliberately in relationship. The friendships you have right now are God's idea. The church you're in is God's idea. It's God's idea that we build relationships.
I remember reading a story years ago about a young woman who, in pre-digital days, sent an actual photo to her boyfriend Mike in the post. He opened it — a beautiful photo that captured her eyes, her smile, the magnificence of her face.
Then he flipped it over, and on the back it read:
Dear Mike, I love you. I will love you all the days of my life. I love you with every ounce of my being. Looking forward to seeing you on Friday. Lots of love.
PS: If ever we break up, I want the photo back.
How many of you know the PS kind of undoes everything that came before? It's like the Hollywood superstars who sign a prenuptial agreement: "I love you until the end of days — PS, when things get difficult, you can have that part and I'll have this part."
We often go into relationships with a PS, because we know what it's like to have our hearts broken. And you can have your heart broken by more than a love relationship. You can have your heart broken by your best mate, by a boss, by a pastor. You can have your heart broken by so many different things.
I believe the answer to loss of momentum, the answer to fractured relationships, comes down to one very simple thing. It's the C word — commitment.
Now here's the thing about commitment: commitment costs. If you're going to commit to something, it will cost you something. You don't get a degree from a university without paying a cost. It costs you to have a marriage that lasts beyond the honeymoon period and into your later years.
I heard about a checkout attendant scanning food for an elderly couple who were about to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. She said, "I can't imagine being married for 50 years." And the man very quickly replied, "Well, honey, I'd suggest you don't get married until you can imagine yourself being married for 50 years."
Commitment costs. Turn to your neighbour and say, "Commitment costs." Because commitment to anything costs something.
Let me set the scene with a launch-pad passage for this series — that classic moment where a shepherd boy called David takes on Goliath, the champion of the enemy army.
Every day Goliath came out, taunting the army of God, belittling them, intimidating them, making them feel small. He'd say, "Bring out your champion. If I beat him, you become our slaves. If he beats me, we become yours." For 40 days — the number of testing — this happened, and God's people quaked in fear.
And isn't that amazing? God had done incredible things for them. They had stories of His brilliance, stories of breakthrough. Yet in the midst of pressure, in the valley, how quickly we forget the goodness of God.
That's why you've got to get your praise done on a Sunday. Praising reminds you of the story of God:
God, I declare Your goodness, Your greatness. You are wonderful. You're a saving God. You're a God who heals. You're a God who works wonders.
You have to do that, because for six and a half days you've been living in a fallen world — disappointment all around, social media, the news, the soap operas, Netflix, inundated with so much that is negative.
When David arrived, he didn't know the protocol of the moment. He could have said, "Oh, I understand — this is a season of fear, a season to quake and tremble." But David didn't know that protocol. David was a warrior at heart, but a worshipper in fullness. And it was his worship that gave him confidence when he saw Goliath.
Let me tell you why many Christians fail when they're up against a challenge: it's because they've forgotten the power of worship. Instead of worshipping at home, instead of coming to church and lifting their hands, we make it about us and go to the medicine cabinet instead of a place of prayer.
But David was a worshipper. As a worshipper, he'd already fought a bear and a lion. He was only on delivery duty — bringing sandwiches to his brothers on the front line — when he saw the giant who had taunted them for 40 days. And because he was a worshipper, he knew God.
When you put the praise of God in your mouth, it changes your mind.
When you declare His goodness, His greatness, His wonder — when you remind Him of what He has done — something happens in your spirit. Everyone else was quaking, but the worshipper said, "Who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he would defy the armies of God? I'll take him on."
Even King Saul said, "No, you can't — you're too small." David wasn't a warrior. He had no armour, no sword. But he was a worshipper. So please, when you come to church, come ready to worship. Get your hands out of your pockets. In the moments to jump, jump; if you want to kneel, kneel — but don't just stand there. The worship made him a warrior.
Here's what's remarkable. Goliath was big at a distance, but the Bible says David ran at Goliath, and Goliath ran at David. If he was big at a distance, imagine how much bigger he got with every step.
The closer you get to some things, the bigger the giant feels up close. But if you are a worshipper, you are a warrior. David slung the stone, took Goliath's own sword, and cut off his head — in front of everyone.
In that moment, King Saul's son Jonathan — think of him as our Prince William, next in line to the throne — saw this unusual thing happen. Because when you're a worshipper, unusual things happen. Unusual conversations open up. When you posture your heart in worship even in a work environment on a Tuesday morning, doors open, conversations begin, because God is up to something.
David had already been anointed to be king by the prophet, but nobody knew. Jonathan saw something different on David. And 1 Samuel 18 says Jonathan made a covenant with David because he loved him as himself. He took off his robe and gave it to David, along with his armour, his sword, his bow and his belt.
Think about that. David had gone from being a shepherd to being a global superstar overnight — like a goalkeeper who had 400,000 followers before a game and 25 million after. But he had none of the provisions of a warrior. So Jonathan invested in him — gave him armour, a sword, a royal tunic, because David had none.
But Jonathan was giving him more than armour. He was surrendering through commitment. He was making a sacrifice that said, "I will not be the next king." He surrendered position, status, authority — his whole future, everything his parents had groomed him for — to invest in relationship.
Friends, commitment will cost you. It costs to get married, and it costs to stay married. It costs to be an active member of the church of God. It requires sacrifice in the workplace. But the key is this: commitment costs.
Let me help you with something. Commitment is about living by priorities, not pressure.
We're coming into summer. People are going on holiday — Yorkshire, Spain, France. And if you're like me, there's excitement about going, but at the back of your mind is the knowledge that your inbox will be overflowing when you get home. Have you ever just wanted to delete everything without reading it?
We live under pressure. The texts, the WhatsApps, the voice notes — "Did you get my text? Did you get my text?" Pressure, pressure, pressure. It's like the DFS sale, where the eager salesman tells you, "This is the last one in stock, someone rang about it five minutes ago," and before you know it, you panic-buy — even though DFS always has a sale.
Commitment in relationships is learning to live by priorities and not by pressure. When David faced the giant, he didn't do it because of pressure; he did it because of priority. His priority was to worship God and put God in His rightful place. Everyone else was responding to pressure. David was responding to priority.
Look at what Jesus says in John chapter 5. He had just healed a lame man on the Sabbath — a miracle, and a breaking of the religious protocols of the day. Now the crowds are chasing Him and the religious leaders are angry. Whenever Jesus is up to something, people gather. And Jesus says:
I don't seek My own will, but the will of the Father who sent Me.
In other words: I'm not going to live my life based on the pressures you put on me. I'm living on the basis of priority — my Father's will.
Last year I was talking with my life coach in Dallas about my roles and the things I do in life. He helped me understand that we all carry four bags through life:
You may have seen the illustration of the professor holding a cup of water. He asks the class how heavy it is. Someone guesses a pound and a half. But he says, "It's not the weight of the cup that matters — it's the length of time you carry it." Hold it a moment and it's light. Hold it for an hour and it becomes heavy, stressful, and you grow anxious. It's not the relative weight; it's the length of time you carry it.
There are certain things in God's bag that you were never designed to carry. When I look into God's bag, I see that tomorrow is in there. It's not yours to carry. Jesus says in Matthew:
Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow has enough trouble of its own.
Yet how many of us are anxious about Monday, next month, next year, retirement? We're carrying justice, other people's hearts, unanswered questions. Everything beyond our control is in God's bag. At first it doesn't feel heavy, but the longer we carry it, the heavier it gets.
Then there's the bag that belongs to someone else, where other people's pressures become our priorities. We start carrying their choices, their actions, their reactions, their consequences, their expectations. If we're not careful, we end up carrying for other people what God asked them to carry.
Because you're faith-filled, good stewards, good people, I wonder how many times you've picked something up simply because it needed picking up — "If I don't carry it, who will?" In nobody's bag are imagined expectations, problems that aren't yours, offences that belong to other people, and burdens God never asked you to carry.
No wonder we're exhausted by the time we get to our bag. And this is the reason God put us on the earth. Work is not just about paying the bills — it's your vocation, your ministry, your calling. The Bible says God put Adam in the garden to work it. Work is part of our worship to the Lord.
It's getting out of bed on Monday morning, not with dread, but with a sense of joy: I'm going to work. My life counts. I'm the answer to a question. I'm fulfilling a role for the purposes of God.
But by the time we get to what we're actually called to do, we're so busy carrying God's bag, someone else's bag, and nobody's bag that Monday looks impossible. No wonder we're not overcoming. No wonder we're not breaking through. No wonder there's a mental health crisis, no wonder we're not sleeping.
But Jesus says:
Come to Me, all you who are weary and heavy burdened, and I will give you rest.
He helps us to see: This is God's — I was never meant to carry that. This is yours, John — you carry it; I'll walk with you, but it's your bag. And nobody's bag? I'm not picking that up. I'm going to carry the bag God called me to carry.
It will cost you to lay these bags down, because often our identity is tied up in our control — but God has control. Sometimes our identity is tied up in other people's opinions, in being seen as the noble one who does everything. But those aren't your job.
Here's my question: What are you called to carry?
When you know what God has called you to carry, He puts people in your life called to carry the same things with you. The Bible asks, "Can two walk together unless they agree?" and warns, "Do not be yoked with unbelievers." It's saying: don't be tied to people to carry responsibilities that were never given to you.
Maybe the greatest takeaway today, beyond commitment, is simply this: I need to put down some bags. That's why I'm so exhausted. Because there's joy in carrying the God-ordained bag and the purpose He has for you. That's why David won the war — he wouldn't carry what wasn't his, but he could carry the presence of God as a worshipper, and he knew he could do the impossible.
When we started this church 18 years ago, a pastor friend spoke into our lives and said there are three types of relationships you'll have:
Neither comrades nor constituents are bad; we need both for healthy relational building. But confidants are different. They're not enamoured by the praise you get, and they're not disappointed when you fail. They're simply for you. When you're in a palace, they'll celebrate; when you're in a prison cell, they'll still visit — because they're not for what you're for or against what you're against. They're for you.
And he told me: if you can count on one hand how many confidants you have in your lifetime, you are a blessed person.
After 30 years of being a pastor, 30 years of marriage, 30 years of walking this journey, I've seen comrades and constituents come and go for a season. It's always sad to say goodbye. But the times I've been hurt the most are when the confidants let me down — when what I told them became coffee-table conversation.
What do you do when a husband or wife breaks covenant, ending in divorce? What do you do when the pastor you confided in, or your best mate, lets you down? Before long our hearts become like a jar meant to hold liquid — smash it, and even if you pick up the pieces and put them together, the fractures remain, and it may not carry as well as it used to.
When you've had your heart broken by broken relationships, it can be hard to trust again. But I want to encourage you. Luke 9:62 says:
No one who puts a hand to the plough and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.
You cannot navigate forward by looking back. God is the God of hope. He's the God who heals. He's the God who can restore broken hearts. Philippians 3:13 says:
This one thing I do — forgetting what is behind and straining towards what is ahead, I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me.
You cannot write the next chapter of your life while you keep rereading and rewriting the last one.
I think today is a day to stop, to put down this bag, and this bag, and this bag, and to say: Lord, heal my heart, so I can become a person who learns what it is to commit again.
Because relational dysfunction is answered by this — it's not you, it's me.
