When Life Doesn’t Go as Planned: Finding God at Work in Uncertain Seasons

When the Story Doesn’t Go the Way You Planned

Most of us don’t struggle with trusting God when things are going well. The real test comes when the story takes a turn we didn’t choose. A job falls through. A relationship shifts. A church enters a season of change. Prayers feel unanswered. The future feels blurry. And suddenly faith isn’t theoretical anymore—it’s deeply personal.

This is exactly the place the apostle Paul finds himself in Philippians 1. He’s imprisoned, innocent, and sidelined from the ministry he loves. If anyone had a reason to question what God was doing, it was Paul. And yet, his response is stunning: “What has happened to me has really served to advance the gospel.”

Paul isn’t denying the hardship. Prison is still prison. But he’s interpreting his circumstances through a deeper lens—one shaped by a God-centered life.

Seeing Obstacles Differently

From a human perspective, Paul’s imprisonment looks like a failure. From God’s perspective, it becomes a platform. Paul wanted to preach in Rome. He just didn’t expect the pulpit to be a prison cell or the audience to be Roman guards.

This pattern runs all through Scripture. Barrenness becomes the setting for God’s power. Exile becomes the place where God refines His people. What looks like delay often becomes deliverance in disguise.

The question isn’t whether we face obstacles—we all do. The deeper question is whether we believe those obstacles get the final word. A God-centered life doesn’t ignore reality, but it refuses to believe that circumstances are ultimate.

Letting Go of Comparison

Paul then turns his attention outward. While he’s in chains, other believers begin preaching more boldly. Some do it with pure motives. Others, surprisingly, do it out of envy and rivalry. They see Paul sidelined and try to take his place. And Paul rejoices anyway.

That should stop us in our tracks. In a world shaped by comparison, branding, and competition—even in churches—Paul’s response feels almost impossible. But his joy reveals something important: when Christ is truly at the center, our identity is no longer threatened by someone else’s success.

Paul reminds us that God’s kingdom is bigger than our role in it. Faithfulness, not recognition, is the goal. If Jesus is being proclaimed, Paul says, then that’s reason enough to rejoice. God will sort out motives in His time.

Asking the Hard Heart Question

Then Paul gets deeply personal: “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.”This isn’t poetic exaggeration. It’s a statement of allegiance. Paul’s life—his future, reputation, comfort, and plans—are all wrapped up in Jesus. If he lives, Christ is exalted through his work. If he dies, Christ is his reward. Either way, Jesus is the center.

That raises an uncomfortable but necessary question for us: What is my life actually wrapped around? This doesn’t mean everyone needs to be a pastor or missionary. But it does mean asking whether the gifts, opportunities, and relationships we’ve been given are ultimately aimed at our own security—or at the glory of Christ. Churches have to ask this question too. Are we most committed to comfort and familiarity? Or are we still willing to be shaped, disrupted, and sent for the sake of what God wants to do?

Staying for the Sake of Others

Paul closes this section by admitting he feels torn. He longs to be with Christ—which he knows is far better. And yet, he chooses to remain. Why? “For your progress and joy in the faith.”

Sometimes the most spiritual decision isn’t the easiest one. It’s choosing to stay engaged when it would be simpler to pull back. To keep showing up when things feel uncertain. To place someone else’s spiritual good above our own preferences.

A God-centered life doesn’t just deepen our theology—it makes us useful to others.

And maybe that’s the quiet invitation of Philippians 1: not to escape hardship, but to discover that God is still at work in it. Not to cling to control, but to trust that even here—especially here—Christ can be exalted.

Why Love Is Still the Most Convincing Argument for Christianity

When people imagine what might draw someone back to church, love isn’t always the first thing that comes to mind. We tend to think in terms of better music, clearer preaching, stronger kids’ programs, or sharper theology. All of those things matter. But the New Testament keeps insisting on something far simpler—and far more demanding.

Love.

When the apostle Paul prays for the church in Philippi, he doesn’t ask for safety, success, or influence. Instead, he prays that their “love may abound more and more, with knowledge and all discernment” (Philippians 1:9). In other words, Paul believes that love is not just a feeling or a personality trait. It’s the primary marker of spiritual maturity.

That idea shouldn’t surprise us. Jesus himself said that love—not correctness, not

performance, not religious visibility—would be the defining sign of his followers. “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

The early church took that seriously. In fact, one of the reasons Christianity spread in a hostile Roman world wasn’t because Christians won debates or gained political power.

It was because outsiders kept noticing how they treated one another. They shared resources. They cared for the sick. They crossed social boundaries. Their love didn’t make sense—and that’s exactly what made it compelling.

But Paul adds an important qualifier. This love is meant to “abound more and more in knowledge.” Not knowledge as in trivia or theological scorekeeping, but a deep, lived understanding of who Jesus is and what he has done.

That distinction matters, because it’s possible to know a lot about God and still fail to love people well. History—and many personal stories—make that painfully clear. When theology becomes detached from love, it often turns into a tool for exclusion, pride, or justification. Paul would say something has gone wrong.

The kind of knowledge Paul has in mind is relational. It’s the growing awareness of the mercy we ourselves have received. When we truly grasp the patience, forgiveness, and self-giving love of Jesus, it reshapes how we see others. We stop relating from superiority or fear and begin relating from gratitude.

Jesus once said that the person who has been forgiven much loves much. That’s not a command—it’s an observation about how the human heart works. Love flows naturally when we remember how deeply we are loved.

This leads to Paul’s final phrase in his prayer: being “filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ.” Righteousness here isn’t just about personal morality or rule-following. In Scripture, righteousness also describes how we treat the people around us—especially the vulnerable, overlooked, and wounded.

The biblical picture of righteousness includes justice, generosity, faithfulness, and compassion. It’s about living rightly with God and rightly with others. And crucially, Paul says this fruit comes through Jesus, not from sheer effort or willpower. That’s where Jesus’ image of the vine and branches becomes so important. Growth doesn’t happen by trying harder to be loving. It happens by staying connected. Love is fruit, not a performance.

For a church like Conway—especially in a season of change and hope—this is a grounding reminder. What will ultimately shape our future isn’t polish or perfection, but whether our life together reflects the love of Christ. When people walk through the doors, they may not remember every word of a sermon or song. But they will remember how they were treated.

And maybe that’s still the most honest question faith asks us today:Not how right are we?But how well do we love?

The Community We Long For and the Cause That Holds Us Together

At the deepest level, most of us are chasing the same two things: belonging and impact.

We want to know that we’re not alone—that we’re seen, known, and connected to others in a meaningful way. And we want to believe that our lives matter, that we’re contributing to something bigger than ourselves. No one dreams of being remembered for binge-watching Netflix or grinding through video games. We want to wake up with a sense of purpose. In fact, studies consistently show that having purpose doesn’t just make life feel meaningful—it actually adds years to it.

We’re wired for both belonging and impact. That wiring can lead to incredible outcomes. Because of community, some of the most beautiful movements in history have taken place. And because of community, some of the most destructive ones have too. The same longing that draws someone into a life-giving cause can also pull them into something harmful. Not all communities are equal, and not all causes are worth giving your life to.

If you’re looking for belonging, it’s better to join a group passionate about recycling than a street gang. If you want to make an impact, curing cancer is probably more worthwhile than perfecting the grilled cheese sandwich. The longing itself isn’t the problem—it’s what we attach that longing to.

That’s why the opening of Paul’s letter to the Philippians is so striking. Paul doesn’t just offer a sense of community. He offers what might be called the best community with the best cause.

Paul begins his letter with an outpouring of affection. He tells the Philippians that every time he thinks of them, joy rises up in him and turns into gratitude and prayer. This is unusual for Paul. In some letters, he barely gets through the greeting before addressing major problems. Galatians feels like, “Hey, I love you…now what is wrong with you people?” Corinthians starts with, “Let’s talk about why getting drunk at communion and sleeping with everyone is not okay.”

But Philippians is different. Paul genuinely enjoys these people. He says he holds them in his heart. He says he yearns for them with deep affection—the kind of desire that comes from the pit of your stomach. The language is intense, almost uncomfortable. Paul is saying, “I feel this connection to you that I can’t explain, and even though I’m in prison, I desperately want to be with you.”

That raises an honest question for us: do we feel anything like that about the church?

Not guilt. Not obligation. Not frustration. But genuine affection. A sense of joy when we think about the people we worship with. For many of us, the answer is probably no—and that’s not a condemnation. It’s just honest. So how does Paul get there? The answer is purpose.

Paul says he loves the Philippians because of their partnership in the gospel. They are united around a shared cause. No one unifies simply for the sake of unity. We’re drawn together when we’re committed to something larger than ourselves. In Paul’s world, “gospel” wasn’t originally a religious word—it was a political one. It referred to the announcement that a new king had taken the throne. Paul takes that language and applies it to Jesus. This isn’t just a gospel. This is the gospel. Not just a new ruler, but the true King of the world. That message changes everything.

A political scientist named Robert Woodberry spent a decade studying the long-term impact of Christian missionaries on societies around the world. The expectation was that missionary influence would correlate with harm. Instead, the findings were shocking. Places where conversion-focused Protestant missionaries had been present showed lower corruption, lower infant mortality, greater access to education (especially for women), fairer wages, and better overall health.

Even more surprising? These outcomes were unintended. The missionaries didn’t set out to reform governments or improve economies. They simply shared the gospel—and everything else followed.

That’s not an accident. When the gospel changes hearts, communities change. Jesus said it plainly: good trees produce good fruit. If you want different fruit, you need a different tree.

The church is meant to be a community formed around the deepest belonging and the greatest cause—the good news that Jesus is King and that He is restoring the world from the inside out. And Paul is confident that this work won’t fail. The God who began it will bring it to completion.

The question for us is simple, but searching: are we this confident in the gospel—and are we letting it shape both our community and our purpose?