Devil you can’t stop this

There are things God has decided in Heaven that hell cannot veto on earth. Not with intimidation. Not with delay. Not with distraction. Not with fatigue. When the Lord declares, “Now,” chains don’t negotiate—they break. And that’s why this rises in my spirit like a war cry and a wedding vow at the same time:

“Let My people go!”

Not as a slogan. Not as a cute Christian phrase. But as the ancient thunder of God that still rattles Pharaoh’s throne, still shakes chains off hearts, still exposes every counterfeit authority that has tried to claim ownership over what belongs to the Lord.

And if you need to hear this plainly today, let me say it without softening it:

The Lord is not ashamed by you.

Not ashamed of your process. Not ashamed of your questions. Not ashamed of the parts of your story you’ve tried to hide. Not ashamed of the battles you’ve fought in private. Not ashamed of the places you’ve stumbled. The enemy’s favorite tool is shame—because shame doesn’t just accuse you, it tries to name you. It whispers, “This is who you are.” But God’s love speaks with a higher authority: “This is who I’m making you.”

I’m not standing here confident because my love has been perfect every day of my life. I’m standing here because His love has been perfect every day of His life—and He chose to set that love on me.

I am a believer because of God’s love—nothing else. Not because my discipline is flawless. Not because my emotions are always steady. Not because I never get it wrong. If I’m honest, I’ve had seasons where my hunger was strong and my consistency was weak. Seasons where my prayers were passionate and my mind was noisy. Seasons where I could preach faith but still wrestle in the quiet. And in all of it, the love of God did not back away from me.

That’s why the gospel is not “try harder and God might accept you.” The gospel is: God has come for you in Christ, and His love is powerful enough to transform you. That love doesn’t excuse sin. It breaks slavery. It doesn’t minimize holiness. It produces holiness.

And here’s a truth I keep coming back to, because it protects my heart from getting pulled into religious distortion:

God has called us to be holy. That will always be scriptural. But the process of becoming holy—of being conformed into the image of Christ—was never meant to be powered by my natural, self-imposed, legalistic effort. Holiness by human grit becomes performance. Holiness by the Spirit becomes transformation. The New Covenant doesn’t only forgive you; it changes you. The Holy Spirit doesn’t only comfort you; He crafts you.

So I refuse a Christianity that is heavy, condemning, and loveless—and then calls itself “truth.”

Because the real message has always been love preached, love received, and love lived.

And I can tell you this with conviction: you will know a true move of God is taking place because of love. Not just because people cry. Not just because the room gets loud. Not just because gifts activate. Not just because miracles happen. Those things can be real—yet still become distorted if the motive underneath is wrong. But love is the purest signature of Heaven. Love is what the Spirit produces when He’s actually leading the room, leading the person, leading the Church.

Paul said it in a way that sobers me every time I read it: you can speak with brilliance, you can carry gifts, you can understand mysteries, you can move in sacrificial works—and without love, you gain nothing. (See 1 Corinthians 13:2–3.) That’s not poetry. That’s a measuring line from God.

So when I see zeal without love, I don’t call it revival. I call it danger.

When I see “discernment” that delights in tearing down, I don’t call it maturity. I call it a drift.

When I see people defending “truth” while crushing people made in God’s image, I don’t call it boldness. I call it a counterfeit authority trying to wear God’s name.

Because love doesn’t do harm. Love doesn’t enjoy another person’s fall. Love doesn’t need to humiliate someone to prove a point. Love corrects, yes—but love restores. Love confronts, yes—but love carries a redemptive aim. Love doesn’t compromise the standard; love becomes the vehicle God uses to lift people toward the standard.

And the good news is this: love doesn’t have to be fully perfected in you today for God to be at work in you today. Don’t panic because you still feel rough edges. Don’t despair because you still have moments you wish you could redo. The Holy Spirit is the One who perfects love in us. You are not left alone to manufacture Christ-likeness. You are being formed—if you stay yielded.

That’s why the gospel gets distorted through the many filters we possess: our pain, our upbringing, our fears, our pride, our culture, our disappointments, the way we were “taught,” the way we were wounded, the way we learned to protect ourselves. Filters can turn a Father into a taskmaster. Filters can turn holiness into heaviness. Filters can turn correction into shame. Filters can turn the cross into a ladder we climb to impress God—when the cross was always God climbing down to rescue us.

And rescue is what this is about.

That’s why the Exodus language matters.

Because Exodus isn’t only history—it’s pattern. It’s Heaven’s signature on deliverance. It’s God announcing that captivity is not permanent when He steps into the story.

“Let My people go” wasn’t Moses trying to sound intense. It was God confronting a system of oppression, a ruler of cruelty, and an entire economy built on human bondage. Pharaoh was not simply stubborn; Pharaoh was threatened—because freedom threatens anything that profits off your chains.

And I’m telling you: there are Pharaoh-systems in the spirit that have fed on the bondage of God’s people for too long. They’ve fed on addiction. They’ve fed on trauma. They’ve fed on insecurity. They’ve fed on secrecy. They’ve fed on the fear of man. They’ve fed on cycles. They’ve fed on generational compromise.

But Heaven is speaking again.

Not with a suggestion—with a command.

Let My people go.

And if you’re wondering how God does this, don’t miss the deeper truth behind the story: the deliverance of God isn’t only about getting you out of Egypt. It’s about getting Egypt out of you. It’s not only a change of location; it’s a change of lordship.

Because the enemy can’t always stop you from leaving Egypt physically, so he tries to keep Egypt alive internally. That’s why some people are free on paper and still bound in the mind. They left the place, but the place didn’t leave them. They stopped the behavior, but the identity didn’t heal. They broke the habit, but didn’t receive sonship.

And that is where love becomes warfare.

Because love does what law cannot do.

Law can expose sin, but love heals shame.

Law can point to the standard, but love empowers transformation.

Law can command, “You shall not,” but love whispers, “You don’t need that anymore—come home.”

This is why the blood of Jesus is not merely a doctrine. It’s a deliverance weapon. When God delivered Israel, He did not just motivate them—He marked them. There was blood on the doorposts. There was a separation. There was a covering. And in the New Covenant, the blood speaks even louder.

The writer of Hebrews makes this crystal clear when he contrasts two mountains: Sinai and Zion. He says we have not come to the mountain of fear and trembling—the thunder, the darkness, the terror that made people shrink back. We have come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, to Jesus the mediator of a New Covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than Abel’s blood. (See Hebrews 12:18–24.)

That last line grips me every time: the blood speaks.

Abel’s blood cried out for justice. But Jesus’ blood speaks a better word: mercy, redemption, reconciliation, restoration, adoption, freedom.

So when the enemy tries to label you with your past, the blood speaks.

When shame tries to crown itself over you, the blood speaks.

When your mind tries to rehearse condemnation, the blood speaks.

When spiritual accusations fly, the blood speaks.

And what does it say?

Not “guilty.” It says, “redeemed.”

Not “cast out.” It says, “come near.”

Not “hopeless.” It says, “purchased.”

Not “you’ll never change.” It says, “new creation.”

This is why the Book of Hebrews mattered so much—because it was written to uproot a way of thinking that kept trying to add something to Christ. People were tempted to drift back into systems and symbols because Jesus felt “too simple.” They wanted more structure, more ritual, more visible proof. But Hebrews pulls you back to the center: Christ is enough.

If you are pondering Christianity, let me speak directly to you: Jesus is not one option among many. He is the fulfillment of everything the human heart has been searching for. And the proof is not merely that He teaches well—the proof is that His blood speaks better things, and His Spirit changes people.

And because the Spirit changes people, love becomes the fruit you watch for.

Not the loudest voice.

Not the most confident personality.

Not the person who can win arguments.

Watch for fruit.

Watch how they treat people when they disagree.

Watch what comes out when they’re tired.

Watch how they respond when corrected.

Watch whether their presence leaves peace or leaves wreckage.

Because one of the clearest principles of the Kingdom is this: leave at peace—do no harm. If love is present, it may confront you, but it won’t destroy you. It may correct you, but it won’t crush you. It may challenge you, but it won’t shame you.

And I hear the Lord saying, in this hour: “I’m not only cleansing My Church of obvious sin. I’m cleansing My Church of lovelessness disguised as strength.”

Because lovelessness is not strength. It’s insecurity wearing armor.

And it’s time for a wake-up call.

Not for “them.” For us.

For me.

For you.

Because we can become so used to the noise of this world that we forget the sound of the Spirit. We can become so used to outrage that we stop recognizing peace. We can become so used to “hot takes” that we stop practicing holiness. We can become so used to measuring people that we forget we will also be measured.

Jesus said it plainly: with the same measure you use, it will be measured to you. (See Matthew 7:2.) That should put the fear of God in all of us—in a healthy way. Because it forces one question to the surface: what measure am I living with?

Am I living with the measure of mercy I want to receive?

Am I living with the measure of patience I want God to show me?

Am I living with the measure of honor I want God to give to me?

Because if I choose harshness as my measure, harshness will visit me.

If I choose suspicion as my measure, suspicion will follow me.

If I choose offense as my measure, peace will keep slipping out of my hands.

And that’s why love is not optional. It’s not the “soft” part of Christianity. It’s the central evidence that Christ is alive in me. Scripture doesn’t say, “They will know you are My disciples by your arguments.” It says they’ll know by your love. (See John 13:35.)

And in the middle of all of this, I also want to remind you of something the modern Church often forgets:

Angels surround us.

We are not alone. We are not operating in an empty world. There is an unseen realm more active than we realize. There are moments when God allows you to feel it—just enough to strengthen you, not enough to make you weird. Just enough to remind you: Heaven is near. Just enough to remind you: the Lord has resources you haven’t considered. Just enough to remind you: your life is not small when it belongs to God.

And if Heaven is near, then hope should be near.

So I’m asking today—not as a casual idea, but as a spiritual appeal—that the simple message of faith be returned to the center again.

Not faith as a formula.

Faith as relationship.

Faith as surrender.

Faith as “Jesus, I trust You even when I can’t trace You.”

Faith as “Holy Spirit, I yield.”

Faith as “Father, make me like Your Son.”

Because it is not a time to back up or give up. It is not a time to become cynical or hardened. It is not a time to become proud or cold. It is a time to come back to the core: Christ crucified, Christ risen, Christ living in us by the Spirit—and love as the evidence.

And I feel the Lord emphasizing this phrase like a banner in the spirit:

Lover and fighter.

That is who He is.

He loves you with a love that heals, and He fights for you with a power that delivers.

He is gentle with the bruised reed, and terrifying to the oppressor.

He is patient with your process, and violent toward your chains.

He is tender with your heart, and relentless against what has tried to own you.

So if you’ve been afraid that you’re “too messy” for God, let the truth hit you cleanly: God is not scared of your mess. He is committed to your freedom.

And if you’ve been afraid that God is tired of you, let this settle it: God is not ashamed by you.

But He is calling you out.

Out of compromise.

Out of cycles.

Out of dead religion.

Out of performance.

Out of shame.

Out of Egypt.

And He is not calling you out to abandon you—He’s calling you out to meet you, lead you, and remake you.

So I say it again, and I say it over your life with faith:

Let My people go.

Devil, you can’t stop this—because love is moving, and love will finish what love started. Much love.

Declarations

I declare that the Lord is not ashamed of me, and shame will no longer name me.

I declare that the love of God is being perfected in me by the Holy Spirit, and I will not partner with condemnation.

I declare that every Pharaoh assignment over my mind, my emotions, my body, and my future is being confronted by the authority of Jesus Christ.

I declare that the blood of Jesus speaks a better word over my life—mercy, redemption, cleansing, and freedom.

I declare that I am coming to Mount Zion—not the mountain of fear—and I will live as a New Covenant believer.

I declare that I will measure others with mercy, because I desire to be measured with mercy.

I declare that I will watch for fruit in my own life, and I will not excuse lovelessness in the name of “strength.”

I declare that love will do no harm through me—my words will not destroy, my tone will not crush, and my presence will carry peace.

I declare that angels are assigned to the will of God concerning me, and Heaven is actively involved in my deliverance.

I declare that the simple message of faith is returning to the center of my life: Christ is enough, Christ is Lord, and Christ is forming Himself in me.

I declare freedom—Exodus freedom—over every reader: Let God’s people go, in Jesus’ name. Much love.