I did not know I lived inside a box, for its walls were all my eyes had known.
Its ceilings felt like certainty, its borders felt like truth.
I called it safety.
I called it faith.
I called it God’s way.
But the God who formed the heavens was never meant to dwell inside limits created by men.
A box has a base, four walls, and a lid.
The base of the box was tradition, laid carefully over generations, until history and habit were mistaken for truth.
One wall was judgment, measuring other believers by how closely they resembled us, as though Gods Spirit could be contained within one language, one culture, one system.
Another wall was expectation— a quiet pressure to perform, to appear spiritual, to fit the shape required rather than simply abiding in Christ.
Another wall was doctrine twisted by control, taking what was living and free and reducing it into rules men could manage.
Things forbidden God never forbade.
Burden where there should have been life.
And the final wall was a lack of love.
Not always obvious.
Not loud.
Sometimes hidden beneath kindness and routine.
But there was a hollowness— an absence of the deep charity of Christ.
The wounded passed by unnoticed.
The ‘outsider’ remained outside.
The Good Samaritan was preached, yet too often not lived.
The lid of the box was exclusivity— the belief that God moved only here, loved only us fully, revealed Himself only within these walls.
And when a lid is sealed tightly over a people,
truth itself can become difficult to speak.
Damage remains hidden.
Wounds go undeclared.
Secrets are protected for fear of bringing disrepute
to “the perfect way.”
So silence settles where light should have entered.
Inside the box, everything felt certain.
The lines were clear.
The answers were ready.
The world outside seemed dangerous, deceived, lesser.
And so I stayed there, believing the box was safety, believing the box was God.
But God was always larger.
Larger than our history.
Larger than our ministry and meetings.
Larger than our processes, interpretations, and fears.
And slowly, painfully, God began opening my eyes.
At first it felt like loss.
Like the walls were collapsing and everything familiar was shaking.
But it was not destruction.
It was deliverance.
Because Gods fullness cannot live inside a box.
His love is too wide.
His mercy too deep.
His Spirit too alive to be confined by human borders.
And now when I look back, I no longer only see the box— I understand it.
I understand why it felt safe.
Why people remained.
Why I remained.
I understand the comfort of familiarity, the fear of questioning, the certainty that came with belonging.
But I also see the prison it became.
And beyond it, I see Christ.
Not small now, but infinite.
Not confined, but overflowing.
Not exclusive, but drawing people from every place, working in lives I once dismissed.
Now I stand outside the box, not with bitterness, but with grief, compassion, and gratitude.
Grief for what was lost.
Compassion for those still within.
Gratitude that God kept calling me further.
Further into truth.
Further into love.
Further into the fullness of God
By Gentle Eagle
May 26, 2026