Not Brand New? Part I

The quiet damage of instant transformation theology—and the sacred process of becoming whole.

Jacob Wrestling with the Angel” – Eugène Delacroix

In the words of the prophet, Dave Grohl,
“I’ve got another confession to make.”

If you sat in a church service where I led between 2015 and 2020,
there’s a good chance you heard me say something that wasn’t true.

Well over 700 times (I’ve done the math).

The lights would dim.
The pad would come in soft.
Hands would go up.
And I’d look out at the crowd and say,

“You’re a new creation! The old is gone, the new has come!”

And I meant it.
I believed it.
I thought I was offering hope.

But now?
I’m afraid I was offering confusion wrapped in hope.

Maybe “lie” is too strong a word—
I didn’t know I was misleading anyone.
But I wasn’t telling the whole truth, because I didn’t know the whole truth...

Honestly, I still don’t.

But here’s what I do know:
People said yes to Jesus and woke up the next morning still anxious.
Still angry.
Still addicted.
Still them.

And when transformation didn’t show up on schedule,
they assumed they must be doing it wrong.
Or worse—that grace didn’t take.

I know this because it’s my experience too.

But what if we weren’t failing?
What if the version of “new” we believed in just wasn’t big enough to hold how healing actually works?

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We were told we were brand new.
As if grace were a magic spell that erased all our fear, our shame, our coping mechanisms overnight.

Say the prayer.
Cross the line.
Boom—your own personal Big Bang moment…

A new creation.

But no one warned us about the whiplash.
About waking up the next morning and still feeling anxious.
Still snapping at our kids.
Still replaying the things we did when we were lonely, scared, or just trying to belong.

So we got good at pretending.
At calling ourselves free while still living stuck.
At baptizing old habits in new language.

We smiled more. Swore less. Read the Bible. Joined a small group.
But deep down, we wondered:

If I’m new… why do I still feel like me?

What if being “made new” was never about replacing the old you...
but healing the old you?

What if transformation doesn’t erase your story...
but gives you the courage to tell it?

What if the real Gospel isn’t a makeover...
but a slow, sacred reclaiming?

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Here’s what I wish someone had told me back then...
and what I think more of us are starting to say out loud now:

We didn’t become different people the moment we said yes to God.
We became aware—maybe for the first time—of just how deeply loved we’ve always been.

But instead of resting in that love,
we were taught to measure “newness” by behavior.

How fast we cleaned up.
How well we conformed.
How convincingly we played the part.

So when the old patterns stuck around—
when fear flared up, or anger still crept in—
we didn’t question the message.

We questioned ourselves.

We assumed the transformation didn’t take.
That maybe we weren’t really new after all.
Or worse… maybe we were failing God.

But maybe we weren’t failing.
Maybe we were just discovering:

New creation doesn’t mean new personality.

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New creation ≠ new personality

We misunderstood what “new” meant.

We thought it meant upgraded.
Stronger. Cleaner. More faith-filled.
Less angry. Less anxious. Less… us.

But God never promised a personality transplant.
God promised presence. Restoration. Redemption.

You still bring your story with you.
Your wiring. Your wounds. Your wonderings.
And grace doesn’t erase that. It works with it.

Because you weren’t saved from yourself.
You were invited to walk with yourself,
in the presence of a God who sees it all and calls it very good.

Even when we mess it all up.

New creation isn’t about becoming someone different.
It’s about discovering who you’ve always been beneath the fear, the masks, and the pressure to perform.

And the parts of you you’ve been trying to outrun?
They might just be the exact places perfect love wants to hang out so that healing can come.

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It’s a process not an event

For a lot of us, faith started with a moment.
A prayer. A raised hand. A baptism.
A spiritual high that felt like the beginning of something big.

And it was.

But somewhere along the way, we were unintentionally led to believe
that moment was the transformation.
That salvation was a one-time transaction.
Like divine paperwork had been filed, stamped, and sealed.

So when the old wounds still stung, or the old temptations crept back in,
we didn’t know what to do with that.
We thought we’d already crossed the finish line.

But transformation doesn’t happen all at once.
It happens over time.
Not in a single moment,
but in a thousand tiny ones after it.

Healing isn’t an event.
It’s a rhythm.

And grace isn’t a product of your performance.
It’s a presence that walks with you—
especially when you don’t feel “new” at all.

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The danger of pretending we’re already whole

When you believe you’re supposed to be instantly transformed,
you start performing the part instead of living the process.

You hide the ache.
You memorize the right words.
You learn to “share just enough” to seem authentic—
without actually being known.

We call it testimony, but sometimes it’s just trauma with religious skin—
offered too soon, too clean, too rehearsed.

And here’s the danger:
The more we pretend to be whole, the harder it becomes to heal.
Because healing requires honesty.
And honesty threatens the image we’ve built to feel safe and accepted.

But God doesn’t need your image.
God isn’t drawn to your polish.
God is drawn to your presence.

Not your impressive version.
Your honest one.

The one still limping.
Still learning.
Still here.

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So yes—walk with a limp.

It means you're telling the truth.
It means you're not pretending to be further along than you are.
It means you’ve stopped performing and started participating.

But don’t camp out there.
Because grace doesn’t just help you name the pain—
it helps you heal it.

Honesty is the path.
Healing is the promise.

And over time—if you keep showing up—
you’ll limp a little less.

Because “repurposed” was never the final destination.
It’s the sacred middle.
The space between being wounded..
and being restored.

God didn’t replace you.
God’s not done with you.
You’re not brand new.
But you’re becoming whole.

And today...
that’s enough.

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