Let’s get something straight: if the Messiah is your weapon, you’re swinging it wrong. You’re parading Him around like a sideshow relic, hoping for applause and validation. But me? I don’t need the world’s approval to prove my faith. He’s my sword and shield too—but unlike you, I know how to wield Him with purpose. My faith doesn’t shout; it moves. It acts. And when the time comes to strike, you’ll feel it. Not as some flashy spectacle, but as the kind of blow that echoes through history, leaving no question of who holds true power.

You think I’m harsh? Good. I’ve been called worse, and I wear it like armor. But here’s a question: what do you think the Almighty sees when He looks at you? Someone righteous, or someone grasping for it? You wrap yourself in His name when it’s convenient, tossing it around to justify your ego, your ambitions. You think He’s impressed by the noise you make? By the show? He’s not. He doesn’t reward the loudest voice. He rewards the one with quiet, unwavering conviction—the heart that doesn’t need an audience to act in truth.

Faith isn’t some game you play to win points or prove your worth to the world. It’s not about who can quote scripture the fastest or sing the loudest hymn. Faith is the quiet resolve of those who don’t need to perform righteousness—they live it. My faith doesn’t need a stage or a spotlight, and it sure as hell doesn’t need your validation. I know where I stand—with Him. Not because I’m perfect, but because I’ve seen His power at work in my life in ways that defy explanation.

You might think I’m arrogant. Maybe you think I’m a son of a bitch. Fine. Think what you want. I don’t care. What I care about is the reality I’ve come to know: faith isn’t something you fake. It’s not a crutch. It’s armor. And mine? It’s forged from battles you wouldn’t survive. It’s ironclad.

You, though—you think you can weaponize His name, wield it like a club to beat others down while propping yourself up. But here’s the truth: the Bible is full of stories about people like you. The Pharisees, the false prophets, the ones who cry “Lord, Lord” but wouldn’t know true service if it stared them in the face. Those stories? They’re warnings. Blueprints for survival. And when I look at you, I see someone who’s wearing a crown they haven’t earned.

This isn’t a game, no matter how much you treat it like one. Faith isn’t about theatrics or grandstanding. It’s about action. Purpose. When the Messiah walked among us, He didn’t need to shout His power. He flipped tables, healed the broken, and made His point through action, not performance. That’s the faith I strive for. Not the kind that demands applause, but the kind that gets results.

The difference between you and me is simple: I don’t need Him to be my crutch. My faith isn’t about making excuses or propping up my ego. It’s about recognizing the stakes and acting accordingly. It’s about understanding that there’s a power greater than me, one that demands respect—not noise. You? You think faith is about shouting His name from the rooftops, about being seen. But real faith doesn’t need to scream. It’s steady, deliberate, and when it moves, it leaves no doubt.

When I wield Him as my weapon, it’s not to prove I’m better than you. It’s to remind you what true power looks like. It doesn’t beg for attention. It doesn’t make a scene. It strikes with precision, leaving no room for pretenders. You’re so busy trying to look righteous that you’ve forgotten what it means to actually be righteous. And when the storm comes—and it always does—you’ll find yourself exposed for what you are: all noise, no substance.

Meanwhile, I’ll still be standing. Not because I shouted the loudest or played the part, but because I understood the game wasn’t about appearances. It’s about conviction. It’s about action. It’s about faith that doesn’t need to be seen to be real.

So go ahead. Keep chasing applause. Keep mistaking volume for truth. Keep thinking you’ve figured it all out. But when the reckoning comes—and it will—you’ll realize too late that you’ve been playing the wrong game. And me? I’ll be there, unshaken, unyielding, and untouched. Not because I’m perfect, but because I knew better than to rely on noise when the world demanded action.

Faith isn’t a game. It’s survival. And I don’t just survive—I endure. I thrive. So when the storm hits, don’t come crying to me. By then, it’ll be too late.