Persecution looks different for everyone. Sometimes it’s sharp and public—mockery, loss, isolation. Other times, it’s quieter, like being edged out of friendships or feeling the weight of silence when you speak the name of Jesus in a room that no longer welcomes it. It can come through family tension, cultural pressure, or the simple ache of standing for truth in a world that calls it hate. And honestly? That can feel overwhelming. But this story we’re living in—it’s not new. It stretches back through the centuries, woven through the lives of men and women who followed the Lord with a kind of courage we can still learn from.
The early believers didn’t have padded pews or church coffee hours. They had prison cells, lions, and torches. They had betrayals and beatings, exile and death. And yet—they held fast. Some of them sang in chains. Others were dragged to their deaths with joy on their lips. Why? Because they believed with everything in them that the resurrection was real. That Χριστὸς (Christos – Christ) had truly risen, that ζωὴ αἰώνιος (zōē aiōnios – eternal life) wasn’t just an idea, but a promise that outweighed every threat this world could throw at them.
We need to remember that. The Gospel hasn’t changed just because the culture has. And neither has the calling. Whether the stakes today come in the form of losing a job, losing a friend, or just standing alone in a room full of compromise, the call remains: be faithful. Be light. Be honest. Be His.
Jesus never promised us ease. He never said the world would clap for our convictions. In fact, He said the opposite. He said we would be hated for His name. He said a servant is not greater than his master (John 15:18–20). And He was right. They ridiculed Him, called Him demon-possessed, mocked Him, betrayed Him with a kiss, crowned Him with thorns—and crucified Him. And He endured it all without lashing out. Without bitterness. Without turning back. Because of love.
And if He could stand like that—for us—how can we not stand for Him?
The truth is, suffering has a way of sifting us. It strips away the extra and forces us to ask: Do I really believe what I say I believe? The resurrection becomes more than theology at that point. It becomes a lifeline. A perspective shift. It reminds us that what we see isn’t all there is. That there’s something after the pain, after the loss, after the silence. There’s life. There’s hope. There’s Jesus.
Paul wrote that unless a seed dies and is buried, it remains alone. But if it dies, it bears much fruit (John 12:24). There’s something about trials that bury us like that—deep, hidden, broken down. But out of that dying comes growth. צָמַח (tsamach – to sprout, to spring forth). New strength. New compassion. New fire in the bones. What we thought would destroy us ends up deepening our faith, making us more like Him.
And we don’t go through it alone. We were never meant to.
One of the great gifts of the Body of Christ is that when one member suffers, the whole body feels it. We’re meant to bear each other’s burdens, to speak life when someone’s hanging by a thread, to pray, to listen, to remind each other who we are and Whose we are. This is חֶבְרָה (chevrah – fellowship, companionship)—not just potlucks and programs, but real, gritty, Spirit-bound fellowship that weathers storms together. We are one. And that unity is part of our witness.
And then there’s this: how we respond to persecution might be the loudest sermon we ever preach.
We can’t return insult for insult. That’s not our way. It was never His. He said, “Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you” (Matthew 5:44). That’s not weakness. That’s power—divine power. To stand unshaken, to forgive, to respond with kindness and peace when the world expects retaliation—that’s the heart of Jesus on display. That’s χάρις (charis – grace), walking around in skin.
We can’t fake that. It comes from staying rooted in Him.
Prayer isn’t just a ritual; it’s breath. Scripture isn’t just a book; it’s the voice of our Shepherd. We need both, constantly. Not just for comfort, but for clarity. The more time we spend in the Word, the more we remember what’s true when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. The more we pray, the more we align with the Spirit instead of reacting from the flesh. We don’t just pray for ourselves—we pray for those who hurt us. Because that’s what Jesus did. He prayed, “Father, forgive them…” while they drove nails through His hands (Luke 23:34). That’s the kind of love we’ve been called into.
And through all of this, we hold onto hope.
Not wishful thinking—but ἐλπίς (elpis – confident expectation). We know the end of the story. We know death isn’t the last word. We know that the same Spirit who raised Christ from the dead lives in us (Romans 8:11). And because of that, we can face whatever comes—knowing it won’t last forever. Our pain has an expiration date. Our tears are counted. Our endurance is not in vain.
There is purpose in every step. Every time we choose truth over comfort, light over silence, love over bitterness, we are planting something eternal. And God sees it. He sees you. Your quiet stand. Your trembling “yes.” Your decision to keep showing up when it’s hard. Your choice to speak His name when your voice shakes. Every act of courage counts.
So we press on—not with arrogance, but with a holy stubbornness.
We hold our heads high, not because we’re strong, but because He is. And we are His. We are His witnesses. His ambassadors. His people. And in this age of compromise and confusion, the Gospel still shines like a beacon—and we get to carry it.
Let the world know: Jesus is Lord. He died, He rose, and He’s coming again. And until He does, we will live like we believe it—with hearts full of gratitude, hands ready to serve, voices unashamed, and lives poured out for His glory.
Because He is worth it.