I REFUSE TO DRIFT

Why Giving Up Is Not the End of My Story

A day and a half ago, I was travelling from Canada back to Bulgaria. I spent long hours in airports, sitting on airplanes, moving through terminals, crossing borders, changing time zones and watching thousands of people hurry toward different destinations. There is something about a long journey that strips away the noise. The familiar disappears behind you, the destination is still somewhere ahead of you, and for several hours you are suspended between where you have been and where you are going.

Somewhere between Canada and Bulgaria, high above the earth, I found myself reflecting deeply on the Book of Hebrews.

I was not reading it merely as a theologian preparing another message. I was receiving it as a pilgrim. I was listening as a man who has walked with God through victories, disappointments, battles, losses, unanswered questions and seasons when obedience demanded more than I thought I possessed.

As I looked through the window into the vastness beyond the aircraft, I sensed the Holy Spirit pressing a truth into my heart:

The greatest danger to many believers is not that they will suddenly deny Christ.

The greatest danger is that they will quietly drift from Him.

That thought followed me across continents.

It stayed with me through the waiting, the boarding, the flying and the arrival. By the time I returned to Bulgaria, I knew I needed to put these thoughts into a message—not simply as an explanation of Hebrews, but as a prophetic cry to every believer who is still standing outwardly while inwardly wondering how much longer they can continue.

Giving up does not always look dramatic.

I have learned that a person can still attend church while giving up inside. I can still carry a Bible while my grip on hope is weakening. I can still pray familiar words while no longer expecting anything to change. I can smile, encourage others, preach, serve and continue fulfilling responsibilities, while somewhere in the hidden chambers of my heart, exhaustion is quietly negotiating with surrender.

Giving up can look like remaining physically present while becoming spiritually distant.

It can look like doing everything I once did, but no longer doing it with expectation.

It can look like singing the same songs without lifting the same heart.

It can look like remembering what God once spoke while silently wondering whether He still intends to fulfil it.

Hebrews was written into that kind of struggle.

It was not written to people who had never believed. It was written to people who had believed deeply. They had suffered publicly. They had endured ridicule, persecution, imprisonment and the confiscation of their property. They had paid a real price for identifying themselves with Jesus Christ.

In the beginning, they endured with joy. The revelation was fresh. The fire was burning. Christ was worth every loss.

But time tested their convictions differently than crisis had.

A sudden battle can produce courage. A long battle can produce weariness.

The first readers of Hebrews were not necessarily planning to become atheists. They were being tempted to retreat into something familiar, respectable and safer. They were considering returning to the temple, the sacrifices, the priesthood and the religious world they had always known.

They were not tempted to abandon religion.

They were tempted to settle for religion without Jesus.

That is why Hebrews repeatedly declares that Jesus is better.

He is better than the angels.

He is better than Moses.

He is better than the old priesthood.

He is the Mediator of a better covenant, established upon better promises.

He is the better sacrifice.

He is the better hope.

He is the One to whom every shadow, ceremony, priest, altar and covenant had been pointing.

The writer of Hebrews was telling weary believers, “Do not return to the picture now that the Person has come. Do not embrace the shadow when the Substance is standing before you. Do not trade the living Christ for a system that was designed to lead you to Him.”

As I reflected on this during my journey, I began to understand that every believer faces this temptation in some form.

I may never be tempted to return to the temple sacrifices of ancient Israel, but I can still be tempted to return to things that feel safer than trusting Jesus.

I can return to human reasoning.

I can return to self-protection.

I can return to control.

I can return to religious performance.

I can return to the approval of people.

I can return to the familiar bondage from which God once delivered me simply because the wilderness between deliverance and promise has become uncomfortable.

That is why Hebrews brings me face-to-face with the wilderness generation.

Israel had been delivered from Egypt, but Egypt had not yet been delivered from Israel.

Their bodies had crossed the Red Sea, but their hearts kept travelling backward.

They had watched God humiliate Pharaoh. They had walked through the sea on dry ground. They had eaten bread from heaven and drunk water from a rock. They had seen the visible manifestation of God’s presence in the cloud and the fire.

Yet when the journey became difficult, they began speaking nostalgically about slavery.

They remembered the food of Egypt but forgot the chains.

They remembered the familiarity but forgot the cruelty.

They remembered what they had left but lost sight of where God was taking them.

Hebrews warns me not to harden my heart as they did in the wilderness.

Their greatest problem was not that the giants were too strong.

Their greatest problem was that unbelief convinced them God was not faithful enough.

They saw themselves as grasshoppers because they had stopped seeing God as Almighty.

They stood on the edge of promise and interpreted the presence of opposition as evidence that God had abandoned them.

I have done the same thing.

I have sometimes assumed that resistance means I missed God. I have looked at delay and called it denial. I have looked at difficulty and concluded that the promise must have expired. I have allowed prolonged pressure to distort my perception of God’s faithfulness.

But Hebrews confronts me.

It tells me that I can be delivered from Egypt and still fail to enter rest.

I can be saved and yet spend years striving.

I can be redeemed and yet live as though everything depends upon me.

I can preach grace while internally living under pressure to prove myself.

The rest of God is not passivity. It is not spiritual laziness. It is not the absence of obedience.

The rest of God is the end of striving to accomplish what Christ has already finished.

For years, I thought rest was something I would experience after the battle was over. Hebrews taught me that rest is the place from which I am supposed to fight.

I do not fight for acceptance.

I fight from acceptance.

I do not obey so that God will make me His son.

I obey because, through Jesus Christ, I have already received the Spirit of sonship.

I do not pray to persuade a reluctant Father to become good.

I pray because my Father is already good, and the throne before which I stand is called the throne of grace.

Hebrews tells me that Jesus offered one sacrifice for sins forever and then sat down at the right hand of God.

He sat down.

The priests under the old covenant stood continually because their work was never completed. Every day brought another sacrifice. Every year brought another Day of Atonement. The repetition itself testified that the final answer had not yet come.

Then Jesus entered history.

He did not bring the blood of another creature.

He brought His own blood.

He did not offer Himself repeatedly.

He offered Himself once for all.

And when the sacrifice was completed, He sat down.

That seated Christ has become one of the most powerful revelations of my life.

Jesus is not pacing nervously through heaven, wondering whether His blood will be enough to cover my latest failure.

He is not waiting for me to add religious effort to complete what He left unfinished.

He is not negotiating with the Father over whether I can still be received.

He is seated because the work is finished.

Every accusation has been answered.

Every debt has been paid.

Every legal claim of darkness against my life has been confronted by the blood of Jesus Christ.

The deepest truth about my life is not my exhaustion.

It is not my weakness.

It is not my disappointment.

It is not even my failure.

The deepest truth about my life is that Jesus Christ offered Himself for me, rose from the dead, entered the heavenly sanctuary and sat down in victory.

Yet Hebrews does not present Jesus only as a victorious King.

It presents Him as a compassionate High Priest.

“We do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses.”

Jesus does not study human suffering from a distance.

He entered it.

He knows hunger.

He knows exhaustion.

He knows betrayal.

He knows what it is to be misunderstood by those closest to Him.

He knows the grief of a tomb.

He knows the anguish of Gethsemane.

He knows what it is to pray while sweat falls like blood and the answer of the Father leads through the cross rather than around it.

He was tempted in every way as we are, yet without sin.

Therefore, when I come before Him tired, He does not despise me.

When I come confused, He is not irritated.

When I come trembling, He does not mock my weakness.

When I come after drifting, He does not shut the door and announce that I should have known better.

He calls me to draw near.

Hebrews does not tell the weary believer to run away from God until he becomes strong enough to return.

It says, “Come boldly to the throne of grace, that you may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”

The time of need is not the time to hide.

The time of need is the time to come.

I come when my faith feels powerful.

I come when my faith feels like a whisper.

I come when I understand.

I come when I have no explanation.

I come when I have obeyed well.

I come when conviction has exposed the places where I have wandered.

I come because the throne is not called the throne of my performance.

It is called the throne of grace.

During my flight, I thought about anchors.

Hebrews says that hope is an anchor for the soul, both sure and steadfast, entering into that which is within the veil, where Jesus has entered as our Forerunner.

An earthly anchor reaches downward.

The anchor of heaven reaches upward.

My hope is not secured in the shifting conditions beneath me. It is secured in the unchanging Christ above me.

My anchor is not buried in the economy.

It is not attached to a government.

It is not fastened to people’s opinions.

It is not tied to the success of my plans.

It is not secured by whether others understand me, support me, honour me or remain with me.

My anchor has entered behind the veil.

Jesus Himself is holding the other end.

Storms may move me, but they cannot remove me.

Waves may strike me, but they cannot sever me from the One to whom my soul is anchored.

The storm may make me feel as though I am being pulled backward, but the tension of the anchor is proof that I am still connected.

I may feel the strain, but I have not been abandoned.

I may bend, but I will not break.

I may weep, but I will not be washed away.

My hope is anchored in the sanctuary where Jesus ministers forever.

As I moved through airports filled with people rushing toward different gates and destinations, I was reminded that all humanity is travelling somewhere.

Airports are places of transition. No one is supposed to build a permanent home beside the departure gate. The terminal is real, but it is not the destination.

This world is a terminal.

I am passing through.

Hebrews says that Abraham looked for a city whose foundations were designed and built by God. The heroes of faith confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth. They desired a better country—a heavenly one.

They were not homeless.

They were travelling home.

That changed how I saw my journey.

I was not merely returning to Bulgaria. My physical travel was preaching a spiritual message to me.

I belong to a Kingdom that cannot be shaken.

Every earthly city is temporary.

Every human system has an expiration date.

Every empire will fall.

Every throne of man will become dust.

But I am receiving a Kingdom that cannot be moved.

Hebrews takes me from Mount Sinai to Mount Zion.

Sinai speaks of distance, fear, trembling, thunder and judgment. The people stood back because the holiness of God exposed the terror of sin.

But Hebrews says I have not come merely to Sinai.

I have come to Mount Zion.

I have come to the city of the living God.

I have come to innumerable angels in joyful assembly.

I have come to the church of the firstborn.

I have come to God, the Judge of all.

I have come to Jesus, the Mediator of the new covenant.

I have come to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel.

Abel’s blood cried out for justice.

Jesus’ blood announces mercy.

Abel’s blood exposed guilt.

Jesus’ blood removes guilt.

Abel’s blood cried from the ground.

Jesus’ blood speaks from the heavenly sanctuary.

The blood of Jesus speaks a better word over me than my past.

It speaks better than rejection.

It speaks better than betrayal.

It speaks better than accusation.

It speaks better than every demonic verdict.

It speaks better than the voice that tells me my story is over.

The blood says, “Redeemed.”

The blood says, “Forgiven.”

The blood says, “Accepted.”

The blood says, “Mine.”

The blood says, “The final chapter has not yet been written.”

Hebrews then tells me that God is shaking everything that can be shaken so that what cannot be shaken may remain.

I have lived through shaking.

Relationships have shaken.

Ministry has shaken.

Finances have shaken.

Reputation has shaken.

Plans have shaken.

Expectations have shaken.

Parts of my identity that I once thought were permanent have shaken.

At times, I interpreted shaking as destruction.

But perhaps God was not destroying me.

Perhaps He was exposing what could never carry the weight of my destiny.

Perhaps He was removing temporary supports so I would discover the eternal foundation.

Perhaps He was allowing human strength to fail so that the life of Christ within me could finally become visible.

The shaking does not mean God has lost control.

The shaking may be evidence that He is establishing something unshakable.

Hebrews says that our God is a consuming fire.

Fire does not negotiate with what cannot remain.

Fire consumes the counterfeit.

Fire purifies gold.

Fire exposes what is eternal and what was only appearance.

I no longer want a faith that can survive only while life is comfortable.

I want a faith that remains when everything else has been shaken.

I do not want to know Jesus only as the One who gives me what I desire.

I want to know Him as the treasure that remains when everything else is removed.

This is where Hebrews becomes intensely personal.

The real battle is not simply whether I will survive hardship.

The real battle is whether hardship will cause me to settle for less than Jesus.

The enemy does not always need me to publicly deny Christ.

He only needs me to stop paying attention.

Drifting requires no deliberate effort.

I do not have to row away from shore.

I simply have to stop watching where I am going.

I become busy.

I become offended.

I become disappointed.

I become tired.

I neglect prayer.

I neglect fellowship.

I stop feeding upon the Word.

I stop expecting the voice of God.

I continue moving, but the current begins determining my direction.

Then one day I look back and discover that the shore is farther away than I realized.

That is why Hebrews tells me to pay careful attention.

It tells me not to forsake gathering with other believers.

It tells me to exhort others daily.

It tells me to strengthen the hands that hang down and the feeble knees.

It tells me to make straight paths for my feet.

It tells me not to throw away my confidence.

My confidence may feel heavy in a season of disappointment, but it carries a great reward.

I will not throw away in exhaustion what God gave me through revelation.

I will not make a permanent decision in a temporary storm.

I will not allow one painful chapter to interpret the entire book of my life.

Hebrews 11 surrounds me with witnesses.

Noah tells me to keep building when obedience looks foolish.

Abraham tells me to keep walking when I cannot see the complete map.

Sarah tells me that God can bring life where human reasoning says it is too late.

Moses tells me that the treasures of Egypt cannot compare with the reward of Christ.

Rahab tells me that my past does not possess the authority to cancel my future.

The prophets tell me that obedience is still worthwhile when the visible outcome is delayed.

The suffering saints tell me that the world’s verdict is not heaven’s verdict.

“The world was not worthy of them.”

They were not spiritual celebrities applauded by their generation.

Some were mocked.

Some were imprisoned.

Some were tortured.

Some wandered in deserts, mountains, caves and holes in the ground.

Some died without seeing the complete fulfilment of what they had believed.

Yet heaven recorded their names among the faithful.

Their suffering did not mean their stories had failed.

Their endurance testified that they had seen something more valuable than comfort.

Then Hebrews speaks directly to me:

“Run with endurance the race that lies before you, fixing your eyes on Jesus.”

My eyes cannot remain fixed upon myself.

If I continually study my own weakness, I will become weaker.

If I continually study my disappointment, disappointment will become my theology.

If I continually study the opposition, the giants will become larger than God.

I must look at Jesus.

He is the Author and the Finisher of my faith.

He does not merely begin the story and leave me to finish it alone.

He writes the first line.

He sustains me through the middle.

He completes the final sentence.

He endured the cross, despised the shame and sat down at the right hand of God.

The cross looked like defeat on Friday.

The tomb looked final on Saturday.

But resurrection was already written into Sunday.

I cannot allow Friday’s pain to make me deny Sunday’s promise.

Giving up may be the sentence my exhaustion is trying to write, but exhaustion does not hold the pen.

Jesus does.

When my aircraft finally landed and I returned to Bulgaria, the physical journey had ended, but my pilgrimage had not.

I am still moving toward the city of God.

I am still following the Forerunner who has entered behind the veil.

I am still running the race marked out for me.

I am still receiving a Kingdom that cannot be shaken.

I am still being transformed from glory to glory.

I may be tired, but I am not finished.

I may be bruised, but I am not abandoned.

I may have questions, but I am still anchored.

I may have walked through fire, but the fire has not consumed what God planted within me.

I have decided that I will not drift.

I will not return to Egypt because the wilderness is uncomfortable.

I will not exchange sonship for slavery.

I will not exchange relationship for religion.

I will not exchange the Substance for the shadow.

I will not exchange Christ for acceptance, comfort, familiarity or human approval.

I choose Jesus again.

I choose Him when the heavens appear open.

I choose Him when silence surrounds me.

I choose Him in victory.

I choose Him in weariness.

I choose Him when I understand the road.

I choose Him when all I can see is the next step.

I choose Him because He is better.

He is better than what I lost.

He is better than what left me.

He is better than what disappointed me.

He is better than the life I imagined.

He is better than every temporary refuge.

Jesus is my better covenant, my better sacrifice, my better hope, my eternal High Priest, my Forerunner, my Anchor and my unshakable Kingdom.

I refuse to drift.

I refuse to throw away my confidence.

I refuse to let weariness prophesy my future.

I refuse to call the middle of the story the end.

The One who called me is faithful.

The One who began the work will complete it.

The One who saved me is still interceding for me.

The One who went before me is waiting at the finish line.

Giving up is not the end of my story.

Jesus Christ is the Author.

And He is still writing.

Peter Nash

PROPHETIC DECLARATIONS

I declare that I will not drift from the presence, purpose or promises of God.

I declare that spiritual weariness will not become the author of my future.

I declare that Jesus Christ is my eternal High Priest, and His finished sacrifice is sufficient for every area of my life.

I declare that I boldly approach the throne of grace and receive mercy and timely help.

I declare that I cease from religious striving and enter the rest secured for me through Jesus Christ.

I declare that I am not a slave attempting to earn acceptance; I am a son who has been received by the Father.

I declare that Egypt has no claim upon my heart, my identity or my future.

I declare that I will not return to the bondage from which the blood of Jesus delivered me.

I declare that unbelief will not rob me of the inheritance God has prepared for me.

I declare that my soul is anchored behind the veil where Jesus Christ lives and intercedes forever.

I declare that every storm pulling against me will only reveal how securely I am anchored to heaven.

I declare that I am not abandoned in the shaking.

I declare that everything God removes is making room for that which cannot be shaken.

I declare that the consuming fire of God is purifying my faith, my motives, my vision and my calling.

I declare that the blood of Jesus speaks a better word over my life than accusation, betrayal, rejection, failure or shame.

I declare that the blood says I am redeemed, forgiven, accepted, restored and claimed by God.

I declare that I will not throw away my confidence because it carries a great reward.

I declare that I will not make permanent decisions in temporary storms.

I declare that I will run with endurance the race marked out for me.

I declare that my eyes are fixed upon Jesus, the Author and Finisher of my faith.

I declare that what God began in me will not die in the wilderness.

I declare that every promise over my life will pass through the fire and emerge purified, strengthened and fulfilled according to the will of God.

I declare that Friday’s pain will not make me deny Sunday’s resurrection.

I declare that the chapter of weariness will not become the conclusion of my story.

I declare that I am receiving a Kingdom that cannot be shaken.

I declare that I am travelling toward the city whose Builder and Maker is God.

I declare that I will not exchange Jesus for comfort, popularity, familiarity or safety.

I declare that I will not exchange sonship for slavery, relationship for religion, or the Substance for the shadow.

I declare that Jesus is better than everything behind me and greater than everything standing before me.

I declare that my hands are being strengthened, my knees are being restored and my path is being made straight.

I declare that my faith will not merely survive this season—it will emerge carrying greater authority, greater purity and greater fire.

I declare that I am tired perhaps, but I am not finished.

I am pressed, but I am not abandoned.

I am shaken, but I am not destroyed.

I am tested, but I am still anchored.

I am walking, I am running, I am enduring and I am overcoming through Jesus Christ.

I refuse to drift.

I refuse to surrender my inheritance.

I refuse to call the middle the end.

Jesus Christ is holding me.

Jesus Christ is leading me.

Jesus Christ is interceding for me.

Jesus Christ is completing what He began in me.

Giving up is not the end of my story.

The Author is still writing.

And the final word over my life will belong to Jesus Christ.

Amen.