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In 334 BC, Alexander the Great led a fleet of ships into Asia Minor to invade and conquer the mighty Persian Empire. When they landed on shore, he instructed all of his commanders to burn every ship. The moment they made it to shore, every vessel that brought them there was destroyed. He was leaving his men with no option other than to remain fully committed to winning this battle. That retreat was not an option.
Alexander the Great understood a crucial principle: the greatest danger to our new commitments are our old commitments. Simply put, many of us are struggling to commit to something in our present because we never learned to de-commit from something in our past. Many of us are failing to walk into the new season because we still have a foot left in the old season.
There is a word that needs to enter your vocabulary: de-commit.
De-commitment is the ability to stop doing what you are accustomed to doing in order to start doing what you're supposed to do. This is what we call commitment bias—our tendency to remain committed to our past behaviors even if they don't have desirable outcomes. Commitment bias means we remain committed to stuff that's not working because we're used to it, rather than having the faith to trust something new because it's unfamiliar.
Commitment bias looks like staying in a dead relationship because we're comfortable, instead of being alone for a certain season so God can give us what we need. It's remaining in situations that don't serve us simply because they're familiar.
We will never fully commit to the next thing if we refuse to de-commit from the last thing. For so long, the message has been "courage to commit." But until some of you de-commit from something, you will never fully be committed to anything.
I saw something worth preaching in the world of college football. McClain, the number one DB in the nation, was committed to Miami. Signing day rolled around with all the school's coaching staff, teammates, students, and media present. But he wasn't there. Instead, he was in Colorado taking pictures in a Colorado uniform with Coach Prime.
He released a statement: "I'm no longer committed to Miami. I am now committed to Colorado." What the ESPN announcer said struck me: "Coach Prime has flipped his commitment." Whatever McClain experienced in Colorado was so special that it made him say, "I'm no longer committed to this. I am now committed to that."
So many of you stay stuck because what you have becomes so familiar. But God is saying, "No, no, no. I have something better waiting on you." The problem is you can't have both. You can't live with God when stuff is good and run back to your old life when stuff gets difficult. You can't run to God when stuff is bad and then run back to that when stuff is good.
This is why the devil is orchestrating certain tests. Consider a 21-day fast: you catch less hell during those 21 days because your circle is fasting together. When the whole circle is committed, if one person falls down, the circle picks them up. The devil tells his demons, "Don't bother them on day nine because their whole circle is fasting."
But here's the truth: you don't find out if you're committed when the devil isn't bothering you. You find out you're committed when it's just you and ain't nobody answering the phone, and you can say, "God, I still trust you."
Anybody can shout with their mouth, "Oh, I'm committed." But you have not committed until you're bold enough to de-commit. You have not committed until you can say, "You know what? I'm going to stop this because God wants me to start this."
When you fail to de-commit, you sacrifice your destiny for your history. When you fail to de-commit, it causes you to miss opportunities because you're in love with old ones. When you fail to de-commit, it means you don't fully give yourself to what's in front of you because you're still stuck on what's behind you.
There are certain people who just need to admit, "I am too afraid to trust God on another level." Why? Because that's too comfortable.
Coming to church on Sunday doesn't mean you're committed. I'm saying to live like it Monday through Friday. One Sunday doesn't mean you're committed if Monday through Friday you look like you de-committed.
The proof that I'm de-committed is evident in my actions. There are people who used to have the right to make me cuss them out. What I'm accustomed to doing is crossing people back when they cross me. But now I'm going to de-commit from my old habit and commit to walking away. Your biggest response isn't retaliation—your biggest comeback is you. Taking you from someone will hurt way worse than cussing them out because when you're a committed person, it's different around here.
I am telling God for the rest of this year and going into 2024: I am committed. That does not mean I'm perfect. It means I'm committed. Because being committed doesn't mean I'm not going to fall. Being committed means I'm not going to stay.
How do you know when the Spirit is speaking to you? Something in your spirit resonates and you think, "He hit exactly what I needed to hear. We were just talking about this yesterday." That's because we're both committed to the same source.
I love the modern songs we sing today, but our grandparents had committed music. They didn't have fancy beats or flavor, but they had committed lyrics: "I've been serving the Lord a long time, and I'm not tired."
You don't shout because you're singing that in a Mercedes with money in your pocket. True commitment is singing that song when the devil is still beating on you, when the storms keep raging. That's singing to hell itself, declaring: "Whatever you throw at me, I'm not tired."
Though the storms keep on raging in my life, and sometimes it's hard to tell the night from day, still that hope that lies within is real. Sure as I lift my eyes beyond the distant shore, I know He'll lead me safely to that blessed place He has prepared.
My soul's anchored. Anchored means that though the billows may roll and breakers may dash, I am committed. I may be up sometimes, but my soul's anchored. Down sometimes, but my soul's anchored.
I get frustrated with 21st century preaching because it preaches an incomplete gospel, and an incomplete gospel births an inadequate Christian. We become preachers who preach to emotion to get you to shout, then make you think everything you're going through is bigger.
But bigger and better are not synonymous. Remember the first cell phones? They were huge bricks. Now your entire cell phone fits in your pocket. Did the cell phone get bigger, or did it get better? Remember computers that had to connect with AOL, making that noise? Now we connect silently. The device didn't get bigger—it got better.
What if in the next season you don't get more money, but God frees up your current money? More money doesn't mean more blessing. It's not the money I'm after—it's the freedom I'm after.
I have to sacrifice my history for my destiny. Just because I knew you doesn't mean I need to know you going forward. We have to normalize this thought: you helped me get here, but you may not be the one signed to help me get there. That doesn't mean we aren't cool, but in this season, you might have to go from passenger to backseat.
You might need your own car. Because it's toxic to think that just because you carried me last year, I'm going to need you to carry me this year. The season of people carrying me is over. It's my time to carry something.
You can't have uncommitted people in your circle. If you have uncommitted people around you, they will pull you back into your old commitments. When the old temptations show up—when "Keisha" texts—and you're surrounded by people not committed to your growth, you'll be drawn back.
But if you don't even respond to that message, it's because you're committed to something better. Commitment costs. It costs you certain relationships. It costs you certain habits. It costs you certain comfort zones.
The Scripture says, "So Elijah went from there." Where is there? Elijah was depressed. Elijah wanted to die. The prophet who was doing miracles felt like he got nothing from blessing people. Every miracle he did blessed them, but he was struggling.
Elijah went and sat under a juniper tree and prayed, "Lord, kill me." He was saying, "I don't want to live." It's another level when you ask the One who made you to take you out.
But God said, "Nah." God said, "I got more stuff to do with you. I don't know who I'm preaching to, but there are five of you wrestling with depression, suicidal thoughts, and anxiety. God said the reason the car accident didn't take you out and the reason the things you did in secret didn't work is because God said, 'I ain't through with you.'"
There is more work that God desires to get out of your life. You couldn't take yourself out if you wanted to because God said there's purpose left.
God told Elijah, "Nah, bro, you good. I got some more work to do. If I kill you, you won't meet Elisha." Elijah met Elisha, and Elisha went on to do the second-most miracles in the Bible. There's only one person who did more miracles than Elisha: Jesus.
Elijah had to de-commit from his depression, his despair, his desire to die, so he could commit to mentoring Elisha. That de-commitment opened the door to a legacy that would impact generations.
When Elijah encounters Elisha in the field, Elisha is plowing with 24 oxen—12 yoke—which was extraordinary wealth. Most households had only one yoke because they lacked the land for more. This detail matters because it teaches us the cost of commitment.
Before you commit to anything, you must count the cost. When someone asks for your help, your first instinct might be to say yes quickly. But pause. Ask yourself: How much time will this take? Who will be there? These questions matter because every commitment has a price.
When you're around certain people, you reminisce about shared history. But reminiscence is just a highlight of your old commitments. This is why you can't stand your ex—the moment you reminisce, old feelings surface. It's not just emotion; it's the pull on your old commitments.
Old commitments lean on history. New commitments deal with destiny. Old commitments have proof. New commitments require faith. As people, we tend to lean on what we can prove rather than what we must have faith for. This is why it's hard to walk away from a secure paycheck to pursue a better opportunity.
One of the greatest lies the devil has tricked us into believing is that we can only commit to God from a place of poverty. The biggest enemy to your commitment will be your comfort.
Elisha wasn't leaving a life of struggle; he was leaving a life of success. He was choosing to walk away from wealth and security. The question becomes: How many of us who are successful sit in church acting like the word isn't for us because we have money? Just because your bills are paid doesn't mean you're blessed.
Being blessed isn't an amount of money in the bank. Being blessed isn't living on a certain side of town. Being blessed isn't a job. If you chase money as if it were God, you'll get the very thing you're praying for and end up depressed, because money plus Him is what fixes your life—not money alone.
Sometimes the bag is bondage. There was a season in my life when I got so depressed because everyone who told me they loved me, I was paying. The devil started whispering, "They only love you because you're paying them." It almost drove me crazy. If you aren't strong before you get wealth, wealth will break you.
I'm discovering that before the blessing, I need to establish standards and boundaries. Anything that comes to me now has to flow in line with those standards, or it isn't God. But what if you miss an opportunity by sticking to your standards? Then it wasn't God. If it truly was God, He will make it come back around because He honors commitment.
The real question is: Am I too comfortable to be committed the way God wants me to be? What will it cost? What will you have to sacrifice?
We've overvalued individual success versus the success of the collective. Right now you're winning, and you don't care if we're all winning. But commitment to God's kingdom is commitment to the people around us.
During Dr. King's era, Black people were forced to live in the same neighborhoods. When Dr. King called for a bus boycott, everyone had to walk together. The system crumbled because of collective commitment. But today, we're comfortable. We work in one place, live in another. We say, "I'm not walking that far." We're too comfortable to be committed.
The problem isn't leadership; it's followership. The problem isn't the vision; it's the commitment of the people to that vision.
When Elijah throws his coat on Elisha, Elisha runs after him but then says, "Let me go kiss my mom and dad goodbye." Elijah responds, "Go back. What did I do to you?"—meaning, Get clarity on what you're doing.
Elisha returns and kills all his oxen. He destroys his plow. He takes his wealth—his machine for working—and burns it. Then he cooks the oxen and feeds everyone around him. He didn't even eat it himself. He went to the bank, emptied his account, closed it, and gave the money away.
This is radical because Elijah was ready to leave, but he wasn't ready to end it. He wanted to go kiss his parents goodbye and keep something in the past as a remembrance. But you can't do that.
To exit a season means you're leaving it. To end a season means you're letting it go. These are not the same thing. Many of us don't know how to end things; we only know how to exit them.
This is why some of you can't get over people. You exited the relationship, but you didn't end it. You keep the door cracked so you can get back in if you need to. It's like my five-year-old son Miles: when I put him to bed with all his entertainment, he says, "Dad, leave the door cracked." He's not scared of the dark; he's scared of being alone. Part of him thinks if anything happens, he can get out. He exited the bedroom but didn't end his need to leave.
Commitment requires ending things before things end us. What are you decommitting from? What season are you truly ending, not just exiting?
I'm committed to looking stupid. Somebody checked me on this, saying I was going too hard. But I told them: if your way got you what you have, I'm positive I don't want that. I'll go to a 10,000-seat arena with 8,000 empty seats and let everyone say, "That boy is stupid." Because I believe heaven is watching, saying, "That's different. That's commitment."
I'm so committed to looking stupid. Somebody checked me on this, saying I was going too hard. But I told them: if your way got you what you have, I'm positive I don't want that. I'll go to a 10,000-seat arena with 8,000 empty seats and let everyone say, "That boy is stupid." Because I believe heaven is watching, saying, "That's different. That's commitment."
I'm committed to being stupid. I put billboards over clubs. You know how many men I've met like, "Man, I came to church because I was at the club and I saw you at the club." I'm committed. I'll be up here preaching telling y'all all my business because I'm committed. Whatever it takes for you to change—if it's in God's will, commit it.
I had a member tell me, "We don't have to have all this. I was going to come to your church, but ain't enough tradition. I like a more traditional ministry." And I had to tell her, "Tradition ain't nothing but peer pressure from dead people."
During the Christmas break, the Holy Spirit told me to get committed to the old way. I said, "Yes, sir." I realized devotion had power. Seeing people walk up before the church and pray—that had power. So now, before every service, three or four people come up and pray.
I'm not trying to reinvent the wheel. I'm just trying to put some 20s on it. The method may need to change, but what they did was right. I'm committed to trusting God even if trusting God causes me to step outside my personal preference.
I want to ask you three questions. First: What do I need to stop?
I want to be the youngest old soul you ever met. I want y'all to be like, "He's so cool and old at the same time." As young as we are, I'm going to make sure we sing old songs. We can't throw them out; there was power in them.
What's one of the things we need to stop as a ministry? Having to be forced to worship. Back in the day, grandmama's church—one person would walk to the front and say, "I never die while Jesus lives," and the whole church would join. That's worship. Not once did they say, "I need you to lift your hands." Not once did they say, "You ought to clap your hands." They entered into His courts because they were committed.
In your personal life, this week, what do you need to stop? I had a week where I almost quit music altogether. My son Mike had an anxiety attack during a test. Mason came home—he'd been lying the whole time. His grades were all D's. Xander did something stupid. In my head, my whole house was falling apart. And I'm out here thinking I got it.
I'm going to say this publicly so you can see the level of my commitment: At any point anything I'm doing costs me my babies, it's gone. That's my first assignment. When you ask yourself, "What do I need to stop?" figure out what's costing you what matters most.
For some of you in your relationship, it may be: for the next 21 days I'm not complaining. Because at a certain point, he's going to get deaf. She's going to get deaf. They're going to stop listening because all you do is fuss. The greatest commodity you got in your relationship is your sound. If they only hear it in a condemning manner, they're going to stop listening. Pray instead of complaining.
What do I need to start? When it comes to my oldest son, Xander, he's 16. Here's what I'm starting on day 22: tell me what you heard.
That one simple line is what I'm doing now for the rest of the year. See, I can fuss all I want, but kids don't hear it the same way. I told Xander he pulled something in his leg and can't do both football practice in the morning and a track meet that evening on leg day. I explained, "Football is the main thing. We need to protect your legs. Spring training is where you get your position. We need you second on that depth chart starting the year. If you're second in 10th grade, you're on your way, buddy."
Then suddenly he says, "Alright." So I said, "What?" Then my wife tells me Xander said I told him he can't run track ever again. And I'm like, "What? No."
Even this morning, I told him, "Xander, it would be smart for you to take your cleats with you to church, just change in the office. That way Daddy ain't got to take you all the way home, then go to the school, then sit there." You know what he said? "Oh, you got to preach a whole lot, you tired, so you just going to take me to practice from church." Close enough. A win is a win.
With my daughter, I'm doing seven hugs a day. That's what I'm on. I just want her to feel loved.
Here's something I'm doing with my staff: I talk fast when I'm in it. I'll say, "Hey, do me a favor, go get so-and-so." That can come off disrespectful if you ain't careful. So for the last two years I've been doing this: "Hey, go get so-and-so. Thank you." Or, "You don't mind going to get so-and-so? Thank you." Because people don't remember what you did; they remember how they felt.
Fellas, I know you're the boss. I know you're the king. But she ain't nagging—she's just trying to keep up with what's going on. She's scared she's going to lose certain things. Past trauma and how you move triggers her. So what you might need to start is saying, "Hey, when I get off work I'm going to do so-and-so. I'm thinking about doing XYZ." Just put it out there. But don't ask him a thousand questions once he says it. Don't ask, "With who? Where? Who's going to be there? Why you smell like lemon pepper?" Just let him say it.
What do I need to steer? What may need just subtle adjustments? Just a subtle adjustment. For you it may be taking something slightly out of your diet. Just a steer.
Adjusting your tone. Some of you can come off very demeaning in your tone. Your words might be right, but your tone says something else entirely. I just want you better.
Lord, not only are we committed, we decommit. We decommit from bad habits and bad habitats. We decommit from our old ways. God, we decommit from the things that keep us out of your will.
There are certain circles I just can't be a part of. Not because being in that circle is wrong—that circle just keeps me in a bad place. It keeps me on the doorstep of trouble. That phone call, that conversation keeps me possibly stuck.
God, I lift up the Nichols family in Memphis, Tennessee. To see another man have to scream for his mother being beaten senselessly by the people who swore to protect us. I can only think of what would happen if there wasn't a camera on the light pole. If there was no camera, it could have been written that somebody went for a gun, and we would have been left to wonder.
God, I want to publicly thank you for being God in that situation. We can't go change it now. All we can do is pursue justice. But God, I pray that we become a people who are not just committed to marching but committed to voting so we can shift legislation. All the marches in the world won't change laws that are in place.
What we have to do now is make sure we keep good people in office—not just on a national level, but on a local level. Our councilors and our commissioners and our mayors and our state representatives.
God, I pray right now that a deeper level of commitment will come over those who follow me, not just for ministry, but for life. A commitment to cross racial barriers, a commitment to destroy years of oppression, commitment to change the narrative that Birmingham was this.
The same way they did Jesus, they said, "Can any good thing come from Nazareth?" Birmingham is situated between two big cities, Nashville and Atlanta. Often overlooked, often underrated. So many times in the past we've shot ourselves in the foot. But God, there's a new generation rising who's ready to let revival spark from this place.
God, I ask that you raise up some kingdom entrepreneurs. I ask that you raise up some men and women of God who will be pioneers in different fields of endeavor and succeed. God, I pray for a deeper commitment to you.
I hear whispers in the streets that people don't do church anymore. The devil is a liar. I hear whispers that the church is dying. The devil is a liar. I hear whispers that family ain't what it used to be. The devil is a liar. I hear whispers that ain't nobody making it anymore. The devil is a liar.
I speak that you are raising up kingdom examples. Black, white, Latino, Korean—all ethnicities shall walk in unity. God, I pray right now that their personal house is blessed. I pray for every person who's forced to be strong even in seasons when they don't want to be strong. I pray for every man, every woman, every child that they will remain committed to what you have called them to.
In 334 BC, Alexander the Great led a fleet of ships into Asia Minor to invade and conquer the mighty Persian Empire. When they landed on shore, he instructed all of his commanders to burn every ship. The moment they made it to shore, every vessel that brought them there was destroyed. He was leaving his men with no option other than to remain fully committed to winning this battle. That retreat was not an option.
Alexander the Great understood a crucial principle: the greatest danger to our new commitments are our old commitments. Simply put, many of us are struggling to commit to something in our present because we never learned to de-commit from something in our past. Many of us are failing to walk into the new season because we still have a foot left in the old season.
There is a word that needs to enter your vocabulary: de-commit.
De-commitment is the ability to stop doing what you are accustomed to doing in order to start doing what you're supposed to do. This is what we call commitment bias—our tendency to remain committed to our past behaviors even if they don't have desirable outcomes. Commitment bias means we remain committed to stuff that's not working because we're used to it, rather than having the faith to trust something new because it's unfamiliar.
Commitment bias looks like staying in a dead relationship because we're comfortable, instead of being alone for a certain season so God can give us what we need. It's remaining in situations that don't serve us simply because they're familiar.
We will never fully commit to the next thing if we refuse to de-commit from the last thing. For so long, the message has been "courage to commit." But until some of you de-commit from something, you will never fully be committed to anything.
I saw something worth preaching in the world of college football. McClain, the number one DB in the nation, was committed to Miami. Signing day rolled around with all the school's coaching staff, teammates, students, and media present. But he wasn't there. Instead, he was in Colorado taking pictures in a Colorado uniform with Coach Prime.
He released a statement: "I'm no longer committed to Miami. I am now committed to Colorado." What the ESPN announcer said struck me: "Coach Prime has flipped his commitment." Whatever McClain experienced in Colorado was so special that it made him say, "I'm no longer committed to this. I am now committed to that."
So many of you stay stuck because what you have becomes so familiar. But God is saying, "No, no, no. I have something better waiting on you." The problem is you can't have both. You can't live with God when stuff is good and run back to your old life when stuff gets difficult. You can't run to God when stuff is bad and then run back to that when stuff is good.
This is why the devil is orchestrating certain tests. Consider a 21-day fast: you catch less hell during those 21 days because your circle is fasting together. When the whole circle is committed, if one person falls down, the circle picks them up. The devil tells his demons, "Don't bother them on day nine because their whole circle is fasting."
But here's the truth: you don't find out if you're committed when the devil isn't bothering you. You find out you're committed when it's just you and ain't nobody answering the phone, and you can say, "God, I still trust you."
Anybody can shout with their mouth, "Oh, I'm committed." But you have not committed until you're bold enough to de-commit. You have not committed until you can say, "You know what? I'm going to stop this because God wants me to start this."
When you fail to de-commit, you sacrifice your destiny for your history. When you fail to de-commit, it causes you to miss opportunities because you're in love with old ones. When you fail to de-commit, it means you don't fully give yourself to what's in front of you because you're still stuck on what's behind you.
There are certain people who just need to admit, "I am too afraid to trust God on another level." Why? Because that's too comfortable.
Coming to church on Sunday doesn't mean you're committed. I'm saying to live like it Monday through Friday. One Sunday doesn't mean you're committed if Monday through Friday you look like you de-committed.
The proof that I'm de-committed is evident in my actions. There are people who used to have the right to make me cuss them out. What I'm accustomed to doing is crossing people back when they cross me. But now I'm going to de-commit from my old habit and commit to walking away. Your biggest response isn't retaliation—your biggest comeback is you. Taking you from someone will hurt way worse than cussing them out because when you're a committed person, it's different around here.
I am telling God for the rest of this year and going into 2024: I am committed. That does not mean I'm perfect. It means I'm committed. Because being committed doesn't mean I'm not going to fall. Being committed means I'm not going to stay.
How do you know when the Spirit is speaking to you? Something in your spirit resonates and you think, "He hit exactly what I needed to hear. We were just talking about this yesterday." That's because we're both committed to the same source.
I love the modern songs we sing today, but our grandparents had committed music. They didn't have fancy beats or flavor, but they had committed lyrics: "I've been serving the Lord a long time, and I'm not tired."
You don't shout because you're singing that in a Mercedes with money in your pocket. True commitment is singing that song when the devil is still beating on you, when the storms keep raging. That's singing to hell itself, declaring: "Whatever you throw at me, I'm not tired."
Though the storms keep on raging in my life, and sometimes it's hard to tell the night from day, still that hope that lies within is real. Sure as I lift my eyes beyond the distant shore, I know He'll lead me safely to that blessed place He has prepared.
My soul's anchored. Anchored means that though the billows may roll and breakers may dash, I am committed. I may be up sometimes, but my soul's anchored. Down sometimes, but my soul's anchored.
I get frustrated with 21st century preaching because it preaches an incomplete gospel, and an incomplete gospel births an inadequate Christian. We become preachers who preach to emotion to get you to shout, then make you think everything you're going through is bigger.
But bigger and better are not synonymous. Remember the first cell phones? They were huge bricks. Now your entire cell phone fits in your pocket. Did the cell phone get bigger, or did it get better? Remember computers that had to connect with AOL, making that noise? Now we connect silently. The device didn't get bigger—it got better.
What if in the next season you don't get more money, but God frees up your current money? More money doesn't mean more blessing. It's not the money I'm after—it's the freedom I'm after.
I have to sacrifice my history for my destiny. Just because I knew you doesn't mean I need to know you going forward. We have to normalize this thought: you helped me get here, but you may not be the one signed to help me get there. That doesn't mean we aren't cool, but in this season, you might have to go from passenger to backseat.
You might need your own car. Because it's toxic to think that just because you carried me last year, I'm going to need you to carry me this year. The season of people carrying me is over. It's my time to carry something.
You can't have uncommitted people in your circle. If you have uncommitted people around you, they will pull you back into your old commitments. When the old temptations show up—when "Keisha" texts—and you're surrounded by people not committed to your growth, you'll be drawn back.
But if you don't even respond to that message, it's because you're committed to something better. Commitment costs. It costs you certain relationships. It costs you certain habits. It costs you certain comfort zones.
The Scripture says, "So Elijah went from there." Where is there? Elijah was depressed. Elijah wanted to die. The prophet who was doing miracles felt like he got nothing from blessing people. Every miracle he did blessed them, but he was struggling.
Elijah went and sat under a juniper tree and prayed, "Lord, kill me." He was saying, "I don't want to live." It's another level when you ask the One who made you to take you out.
But God said, "Nah." God said, "I got more stuff to do with you. I don't know who I'm preaching to, but there are five of you wrestling with depression, suicidal thoughts, and anxiety. God said the reason the car accident didn't take you out and the reason the things you did in secret didn't work is because God said, 'I ain't through with you.'"
There is more work that God desires to get out of your life. You couldn't take yourself out if you wanted to because God said there's purpose left.
God told Elijah, "Nah, bro, you good. I got some more work to do. If I kill you, you won't meet Elisha." Elijah met Elisha, and Elisha went on to do the second-most miracles in the Bible. There's only one person who did more miracles than Elisha: Jesus.
Elijah had to de-commit from his depression, his despair, his desire to die, so he could commit to mentoring Elisha. That de-commitment opened the door to a legacy that would impact generations.
When Elijah encounters Elisha in the field, Elisha is plowing with 24 oxen—12 yoke—which was extraordinary wealth. Most households had only one yoke because they lacked the land for more. This detail matters because it teaches us the cost of commitment.
Before you commit to anything, you must count the cost. When someone asks for your help, your first instinct might be to say yes quickly. But pause. Ask yourself: How much time will this take? Who will be there? These questions matter because every commitment has a price.
When you're around certain people, you reminisce about shared history. But reminiscence is just a highlight of your old commitments. This is why you can't stand your ex—the moment you reminisce, old feelings surface. It's not just emotion; it's the pull on your old commitments.
Old commitments lean on history. New commitments deal with destiny. Old commitments have proof. New commitments require faith. As people, we tend to lean on what we can prove rather than what we must have faith for. This is why it's hard to walk away from a secure paycheck to pursue a better opportunity.
One of the greatest lies the devil has tricked us into believing is that we can only commit to God from a place of poverty. The biggest enemy to your commitment will be your comfort.
Elisha wasn't leaving a life of struggle; he was leaving a life of success. He was choosing to walk away from wealth and security. The question becomes: How many of us who are successful sit in church acting like the word isn't for us because we have money? Just because your bills are paid doesn't mean you're blessed.
Being blessed isn't an amount of money in the bank. Being blessed isn't living on a certain side of town. Being blessed isn't a job. If you chase money as if it were God, you'll get the very thing you're praying for and end up depressed, because money plus Him is what fixes your life—not money alone.
Sometimes the bag is bondage. There was a season in my life when I got so depressed because everyone who told me they loved me, I was paying. The devil started whispering, "They only love you because you're paying them." It almost drove me crazy. If you aren't strong before you get wealth, wealth will break you.
I'm discovering that before the blessing, I need to establish standards and boundaries. Anything that comes to me now has to flow in line with those standards, or it isn't God. But what if you miss an opportunity by sticking to your standards? Then it wasn't God. If it truly was God, He will make it come back around because He honors commitment.
The real question is: Am I too comfortable to be committed the way God wants me to be? What will it cost? What will you have to sacrifice?
We've overvalued individual success versus the success of the collective. Right now you're winning, and you don't care if we're all winning. But commitment to God's kingdom is commitment to the people around us.
During Dr. King's era, Black people were forced to live in the same neighborhoods. When Dr. King called for a bus boycott, everyone had to walk together. The system crumbled because of collective commitment. But today, we're comfortable. We work in one place, live in another. We say, "I'm not walking that far." We're too comfortable to be committed.
The problem isn't leadership; it's followership. The problem isn't the vision; it's the commitment of the people to that vision.
When Elijah throws his coat on Elisha, Elisha runs after him but then says, "Let me go kiss my mom and dad goodbye." Elijah responds, "Go back. What did I do to you?"—meaning, Get clarity on what you're doing.
Elisha returns and kills all his oxen. He destroys his plow. He takes his wealth—his machine for working—and burns it. Then he cooks the oxen and feeds everyone around him. He didn't even eat it himself. He went to the bank, emptied his account, closed it, and gave the money away.
This is radical because Elijah was ready to leave, but he wasn't ready to end it. He wanted to go kiss his parents goodbye and keep something in the past as a remembrance. But you can't do that.
To exit a season means you're leaving it. To end a season means you're letting it go. These are not the same thing. Many of us don't know how to end things; we only know how to exit them.
This is why some of you can't get over people. You exited the relationship, but you didn't end it. You keep the door cracked so you can get back in if you need to. It's like my five-year-old son Miles: when I put him to bed with all his entertainment, he says, "Dad, leave the door cracked." He's not scared of the dark; he's scared of being alone. Part of him thinks if anything happens, he can get out. He exited the bedroom but didn't end his need to leave.
Commitment requires ending things before things end us. What are you decommitting from? What season are you truly ending, not just exiting?
I'm committed to looking stupid. Somebody checked me on this, saying I was going too hard. But I told them: if your way got you what you have, I'm positive I don't want that. I'll go to a 10,000-seat arena with 8,000 empty seats and let everyone say, "That boy is stupid." Because I believe heaven is watching, saying, "That's different. That's commitment."
I'm so committed to looking stupid. Somebody checked me on this, saying I was going too hard. But I told them: if your way got you what you have, I'm positive I don't want that. I'll go to a 10,000-seat arena with 8,000 empty seats and let everyone say, "That boy is stupid." Because I believe heaven is watching, saying, "That's different. That's commitment."
I'm committed to being stupid. I put billboards over clubs. You know how many men I've met like, "Man, I came to church because I was at the club and I saw you at the club." I'm committed. I'll be up here preaching telling y'all all my business because I'm committed. Whatever it takes for you to change—if it's in God's will, commit it.
I had a member tell me, "We don't have to have all this. I was going to come to your church, but ain't enough tradition. I like a more traditional ministry." And I had to tell her, "Tradition ain't nothing but peer pressure from dead people."
During the Christmas break, the Holy Spirit told me to get committed to the old way. I said, "Yes, sir." I realized devotion had power. Seeing people walk up before the church and pray—that had power. So now, before every service, three or four people come up and pray.
I'm not trying to reinvent the wheel. I'm just trying to put some 20s on it. The method may need to change, but what they did was right. I'm committed to trusting God even if trusting God causes me to step outside my personal preference.
I want to ask you three questions. First: What do I need to stop?
I want to be the youngest old soul you ever met. I want y'all to be like, "He's so cool and old at the same time." As young as we are, I'm going to make sure we sing old songs. We can't throw them out; there was power in them.
What's one of the things we need to stop as a ministry? Having to be forced to worship. Back in the day, grandmama's church—one person would walk to the front and say, "I never die while Jesus lives," and the whole church would join. That's worship. Not once did they say, "I need you to lift your hands." Not once did they say, "You ought to clap your hands." They entered into His courts because they were committed.
In your personal life, this week, what do you need to stop? I had a week where I almost quit music altogether. My son Mike had an anxiety attack during a test. Mason came home—he'd been lying the whole time. His grades were all D's. Xander did something stupid. In my head, my whole house was falling apart. And I'm out here thinking I got it.
I'm going to say this publicly so you can see the level of my commitment: At any point anything I'm doing costs me my babies, it's gone. That's my first assignment. When you ask yourself, "What do I need to stop?" figure out what's costing you what matters most.
For some of you in your relationship, it may be: for the next 21 days I'm not complaining. Because at a certain point, he's going to get deaf. She's going to get deaf. They're going to stop listening because all you do is fuss. The greatest commodity you got in your relationship is your sound. If they only hear it in a condemning manner, they're going to stop listening. Pray instead of complaining.
What do I need to start? When it comes to my oldest son, Xander, he's 16. Here's what I'm starting on day 22: tell me what you heard.
That one simple line is what I'm doing now for the rest of the year. See, I can fuss all I want, but kids don't hear it the same way. I told Xander he pulled something in his leg and can't do both football practice in the morning and a track meet that evening on leg day. I explained, "Football is the main thing. We need to protect your legs. Spring training is where you get your position. We need you second on that depth chart starting the year. If you're second in 10th grade, you're on your way, buddy."
Then suddenly he says, "Alright." So I said, "What?" Then my wife tells me Xander said I told him he can't run track ever again. And I'm like, "What? No."
Even this morning, I told him, "Xander, it would be smart for you to take your cleats with you to church, just change in the office. That way Daddy ain't got to take you all the way home, then go to the school, then sit there." You know what he said? "Oh, you got to preach a whole lot, you tired, so you just going to take me to practice from church." Close enough. A win is a win.
With my daughter, I'm doing seven hugs a day. That's what I'm on. I just want her to feel loved.
Here's something I'm doing with my staff: I talk fast when I'm in it. I'll say, "Hey, do me a favor, go get so-and-so." That can come off disrespectful if you ain't careful. So for the last two years I've been doing this: "Hey, go get so-and-so. Thank you." Or, "You don't mind going to get so-and-so? Thank you." Because people don't remember what you did; they remember how they felt.
Fellas, I know you're the boss. I know you're the king. But she ain't nagging—she's just trying to keep up with what's going on. She's scared she's going to lose certain things. Past trauma and how you move triggers her. So what you might need to start is saying, "Hey, when I get off work I'm going to do so-and-so. I'm thinking about doing XYZ." Just put it out there. But don't ask him a thousand questions once he says it. Don't ask, "With who? Where? Who's going to be there? Why you smell like lemon pepper?" Just let him say it.
What do I need to steer? What may need just subtle adjustments? Just a subtle adjustment. For you it may be taking something slightly out of your diet. Just a steer.
Adjusting your tone. Some of you can come off very demeaning in your tone. Your words might be right, but your tone says something else entirely. I just want you better.
Lord, not only are we committed, we decommit. We decommit from bad habits and bad habitats. We decommit from our old ways. God, we decommit from the things that keep us out of your will.
There are certain circles I just can't be a part of. Not because being in that circle is wrong—that circle just keeps me in a bad place. It keeps me on the doorstep of trouble. That phone call, that conversation keeps me possibly stuck.
God, I lift up the Nichols family in Memphis, Tennessee. To see another man have to scream for his mother being beaten senselessly by the people who swore to protect us. I can only think of what would happen if there wasn't a camera on the light pole. If there was no camera, it could have been written that somebody went for a gun, and we would have been left to wonder.
God, I want to publicly thank you for being God in that situation. We can't go change it now. All we can do is pursue justice. But God, I pray that we become a people who are not just committed to marching but committed to voting so we can shift legislation. All the marches in the world won't change laws that are in place.
What we have to do now is make sure we keep good people in office—not just on a national level, but on a local level. Our councilors and our commissioners and our mayors and our state representatives.
God, I pray right now that a deeper level of commitment will come over those who follow me, not just for ministry, but for life. A commitment to cross racial barriers, a commitment to destroy years of oppression, commitment to change the narrative that Birmingham was this.
The same way they did Jesus, they said, "Can any good thing come from Nazareth?" Birmingham is situated between two big cities, Nashville and Atlanta. Often overlooked, often underrated. So many times in the past we've shot ourselves in the foot. But God, there's a new generation rising who's ready to let revival spark from this place.
God, I ask that you raise up some kingdom entrepreneurs. I ask that you raise up some men and women of God who will be pioneers in different fields of endeavor and succeed. God, I pray for a deeper commitment to you.
I hear whispers in the streets that people don't do church anymore. The devil is a liar. I hear whispers that the church is dying. The devil is a liar. I hear whispers that family ain't what it used to be. The devil is a liar. I hear whispers that ain't nobody making it anymore. The devil is a liar.
I speak that you are raising up kingdom examples. Black, white, Latino, Korean—all ethnicities shall walk in unity. God, I pray right now that their personal house is blessed. I pray for every person who's forced to be strong even in seasons when they don't want to be strong. I pray for every man, every woman, every child that they will remain committed to what you have called them to.
