Talk to a girl child around you about the greatness inside of her!
Tell her she can be all she wants.
Tell her there's no limit to What she can achieve!
Tell her a Man with money should only be an extra pearl on her crown and not her crown!
Talk to a Girl!🙏🏽
#girls#Talk
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Joseph of Arimathea took down a corpse.
Hands still sticky with blood.
Skin already cold.
Touched death. Held it. Wrapped it.
Became ceremonially unclean for Passover.
For a dead man.
Here's what most Christians miss about the burial of Jesus:
Joseph was a wealthy man. A member of the Sanhedrin. A respected Jew.
And Passover was 3 hours away.
The holiest day of the year.
But he climbed Golgotha anyway.
Jewish law was clear:
Touch a dead body = unclean for 7 days.
Can't worship. Can't celebrate. Can't enter the temple.
Joseph knew this.
He'd spent his entire life following these laws.
But Jesus was still hanging on that cross.
Picture it:
The crowds are gone. The soldiers drunk. The women weeping.
Joseph approaches Pilate—the man who just murdered his Lord—and asks permission.
"Can I have the body?"
Pilate grants it.
Now Joseph has to actually DO it.
He walks to Golgotha.
Blood-soaked dirt. The smell of death. Three crosses against the sky.
Jesus in the middle.
Still.
Finally still.
Joseph climbs the ladder.
Grabs the first nail.
Pulls.
Feel the weight of that moment.
God's body in your arms.
The blood isn't dry yet.
It stains his expensive robes.
His hands.
Under his fingernails.
He can taste the iron in the air.
This is what obedience looks like.
Messy. Expensive. Permanent.
Nicodemus shows up.
Another secret disciple. Another Sanhedrin member.
He brings 75 pounds of myrrh and aloes.
That's about $150,000 worth of burial spices in today's money.
Two wealthy men. Two cowards until now.
Finally brave when it's already too late.
They work fast.
Sabbath is coming. They have maybe 3 hours.
Wrap the body. Pour the spices. Seal the tomb.
The sun is setting.
Joseph is now officially unclean.
Can't celebrate Passover tomorrow.
Can't enter the temple for a week.
Think about what he just gave up:
His ceremonial purity.
His Passover celebration.
His reputation (everyone saw him bury a "blasphemer").
His position (the Sanhedrin won't forget this).
His safety (Romans might come for disciples next).
All for a dead man.
But here's what most Christians miss:
Joseph didn't do this expecting resurrection.
He did it expecting NOTHING.
Jesus was dead. Gone. Finished.
This wasn't faith in resurrection.
This was love for a corpse.
That's the part that wrecks me.
Joseph touched death—literally—knowing it meant giving up everything.
Not because Jesus promised him anything.
But because Jesus deserved honor even in death.
Modern Christianity wants clean obedience.
Safe obedience.
Obedience that doesn't cost you Passover.
But Joseph shows us something different:
True discipleship gets your hands dirty.
You want to follow Jesus?
Then stop avoiding the messy parts.
Stop waiting for clean opportunities.
Stop demanding that obedience be convenient.
Joseph climbed Golgotha when everyone else went home.
He wrapped a corpse when he could've stayed clean.
He missed the holiest day of his life to honor a dead "criminal."
He risked everything when there was no visible reward.
That's not religion.
That's worship.
The twist?
Three days later, that tomb was empty.
Joseph gave his grave to Jesus.
Jesus left it empty.
Forever.
Joseph thought he was burying God.
He was actually setting the stage for resurrection.
Your messy obedience?
God's using it too.
Even when you can't see it.
So here's the question:
What are you avoiding because it's too messy?
What obedience are you postponing because it's inconvenient?
What grave are you unwilling to give?
Joseph of Arimathea held death in his arms.
Got blood on his hands.
Missed Passover.
Lost his reputation.
And earned his name in all four Gospels.
Religion says "stay clean."
Discipleship says "get dirty."
Joseph chose discipleship.
What are you choosing?
—TBM
Not everything spiritual is Christ. Some things can work and still be wrong. Pharaoh’s magicians threw down their rods and they became serpents.
The witch of Endor called up a spirit that looked like Samuel. A pagan king sacrificed his son and the tide of battle turned. It worked, but it was not God. They touched the realm of the spirit, but not the heart of the Father.
Paul said, “The law is not of faith, but the man that does them shall live by them” (Galatians 3:12). In other words, spiritual principles can produce results even when faith is absent, but only faith in Christ produces life. The real issue is never “Did it work?” The question is “Did it glorify Christ?”
And that is why, in one of the greatest spiritual seminars ever held, Matthew 6, the Lord Himself confronted this. He picked the three most common spiritual practices: giving, praying, and fasting. He said, “When you give… when you pray… when you fast,” and then immediately warned, “Do not do them like the heathen and the hypocrites.” That was not a suggestion; it was a diagnostic. It means there is a heathen way and a hypocritical way to engage what is otherwise holy. The heathen do these things to get results; the hypocrites do them to get recognition. But sons do them to reveal relationship. The Lord was saying, “Don’t just do the act, discern the spirit behind the act.”
Heaven is not impressed by activity; it is moved by alignment. You can pray long and still miss God if the heart behind it is pride. You can give generously and still miss grace if the motive is manipulation. You can fast for forty days and still hunger for applause. The heathen seek to twist spiritual systems; the hypocrite seeks to impress men; but the child of God seeks to please the Father who sees in secret. Jesus dismantled performance spirituality. He taught that true giving flows in secret, true prayer flows in simplicity, and true fasting flows in joy. These acts do not create grace, they celebrate it.
So yes, prayer, fasting, and giving are spiritual, but they are only alive when they begin and end in Christ. We don’t fast to move God; we fast because He already moved toward us. We don’t pray to get His attention; we pray because we already have His audience. We don’t give to buy favour; we give because favour already found us. Every spiritual act outside Christ becomes self-effort, but inside Christ it becomes Spirit-expression.
This is the loud truth: spirituality without Christ is performance with polish. It produces motion without meaning, sacrifice without submission, and results without redemption. Jesus said, “Your Father who sees in secret will reward you openly.” That means the secret place is not about hiding the act; it’s about revealing the heart. What God rewards is not the work of your hands but the worship of your heart.
So examine your motives. When the answer comes, who gets the glory? If it exalts your method, it is religion. If it exalts your Saviour, it is revelation. True spirituality doesn’t boast, it bows. It doesn’t strive, it abides. It doesn’t compete, it communes. It doesn’t manipulate, it magnifies Christ.
Everything that truly begins, continues, and ends in Him will not only work, it will transform, heal, and endure. That’s the kind of spirituality Jesus taught: not the striving of servants but the rest of sons; not the noise of religion but the melody of grace. For in Him, prayer becomes power, fasting becomes fellowship, and giving becomes gratitude, all flowing from the finished work of Christ.
The Grace of Being Forgotten
There are seasons when God leads us into quiet corners of life, not to punish us, but to refine our faith. There is a strange beauty in being unseen, misunderstood, and rejected. When the noise fades, when applause ceases, when people who once stood beside us drift away, we begin to taste the kind of dependence that cannot be learned in comfort.
I know what it means to walk that path. Ministry often feels like a long, narrow road lined with silence. There are days when I preach to hearts that seem far away, and nights when I wrestle with questions that have no quick answers. There are moments when the weight of isolation feels unbearable, when the very people who should have stood by are nowhere to be found. And yet, even in that loneliness, there is a lesson that no crowd can teach. It is in that silence that we discover that Christ is enough.
God has a way of stripping us down until all that remains is Him. When Elijah sat under the broom tree, he was not useless - he was being emptied. When Moses tended sheep in Midian, he was not forgotten - he was being shaped. When Paul sat in chains, he was not sidelined - he was being perfected. Every servant of God must learn the art of hiddenness. It is there that pride dies, and grace grows.
When you have no one left to affirm you, you learn to rest in the smile of heaven. When no one claps for your obedience, you find joy in the unseen approval of God. When no one understands your tears, you remember that Christ Himself was “despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3).
In this world, we measure success by visibility. God measures it by faithfulness. The man who preaches unseen in a village is no less valuable than the one speaking before thousands. The woman praying in secret is no less powerful than the one leading a crowd. The kingdom of God does not operate on recognition; it operates on surrender.
Even now, as I walk this narrow road, often in loneliness, I see His mercy in it. The absence of human help has taught me to rely on divine strength. The silence of friends has forced me to listen more closely to the Shepherd’s voice. And the rejection of men has only made me long more deeply for the acceptance found in Christ alone.
If you find yourself unseen, take heart. You are not forgotten but you are being refined. The hidden places are holy ground. The wilderness is not the end of ministry; it is where real ministry begins. God is not punishing you by isolating you; He is preparing you to depend on nothing and no one but Him.
So let us not despise the lonely road. It is there that faith is purified, motives are tested, and grace becomes more than a word - it becomes breath.
“For when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:10).
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