Unarmed
Can we talk about justification for a few minutes?
Growing up in the ’80s and ’90s as a gifted kid, my world was rife with opportunities for creative problem-solving. I went to TAG (Talented and Gifted) programming once a week, where we spent a full hour tapping into creativity and learning creatively. Then, throughout my entire adolescence, I was involved in Odyssey of the Mind—a program for creative kids to find loopholes, build insane projects, and think on their feet as quickly as humanly possible.
I’m not saying these programs were inherently bad. Good things came from them.
But some of the skills that were praised in those spaces aren’t exactly great in everyday adult life.
While thinking of every loophole imaginable was fun back then, it’s not fantastic for adult relationships.
While answering questions before they were even asked was impressive in competition, it’s not great for marriage or parenting.
While twisting and manipulating problems to produce the most creative solution was rewarded as a kid, it’s not exactly a tool for building trust, respect, or intimacy in real life.
And yet…
Everywhere I turn, I see people doing exactly this—and justifying it as they go.
The two go hand in hand, don’t they?
First comes the loophole.
Then comes the justification.
Somewhere along the way, those skills stopped being neutral. They became reflexes. I didn’t just learn how to solve problems creatively—I learned how to stay one step ahead of discomfort. How to explain myself out of responsibility. How to justify my way around hard truths instead of sitting with them.
And the church?
The church rewarded those skills.
Faith with armor on
When I was growing up in the evangelical church, we were professionals at loopholes and justifications. We could cherry-pick scripture, ignore context, and bend passages to fit our narrative with remarkable precision. We were royalty when it came to missing the point entirely—so long as we could justify our conclusions.
It wasn’t until my divorce, therapy, and faith deconstruction that I began to identify the damage of living in this mindset. Slowly, I started to untangle a few things:
I didn’t actually know what I believed—only the version I had been taught.
I had memorized talking points, not cultivated discernment.
I didn’t know how to read scripture without a prescribed lens.
I had made church an idol.
My dedication looked impressive, but it lacked heart.
Looking back, I realize how rarely I was invited into faith without armor.
So when I reached Luke 18—and Jesus started talking about posture, children, and surrender—I couldn’t unsee the connection.
Children, posture, and receiving the kingdom
At the end of Luke 18, Jesus offers two teachings that can seem unrelated at first glance: the blessing of infants and the encounter with the rich young ruler (Luke 18:15–30).
In the first story, parents bring their infants to Jesus to be blessed. The disciples—annoyed, protective, perhaps feeling efficient—try to stop them. Jesus rebukes the disciples and says:
“Learn this well: unless you receive the revelation of the kingdom the same way a little child receives it, you will never be able to enter in.” (Luke 18:17, TPT)
Often, this passage is reduced to a justification for children’s church or kids’ programming. And yes—children matter. Jesus was clear about that.
But stopping there misses the point entirely.
Jesus isn’t praising children for their innocence or simplicity. He’s naming posture.
Children come without leverage.
Without performance.
Without credentials.
Without proof.
Without a curated image.
Without self-sufficiency.
They receive.
To receive the kingdom like a child is to come unarmed—without loopholes or justifications—open to grace, love, and transformation.
For many of us, that posture feels foreign. Vulnerable. Almost unsafe. We were never given permission to pull up a chair unless we had the right answers, the right beliefs, and the right behavior to justify our place at the table.
The rich young ruler and what we cling to
Jesus doesn’t stop there.
Immediately following the blessing of the children, Luke records Jesus’ interaction with the rich young ruler. When the man asks what he must do to inherit eternal life, Jesus first names the commandments—the rules the man already knows. Then he goes further:
“You must go and sell everything you own and give all the proceeds to the poor… Then come and follow me.” (Luke 18:22, TPT)
These stories sit back-to-back for a reason.
One is about what we bring into the kingdom.
The other is about what we refuse to let go of.
In evangelical spaces, this passage often becomes a warning about wealth or a justification for tithing. But focusing solely on money misses the deeper issue.
The problem wasn’t wealth—it was attachment.
The distraction had become an idol.
For the rich young ruler, that idol was his possessions.
For us, it might be something else entirely.
The church.
A political ideology.
A cause.
A relationship.
Certainty itself.
Jesus is naming the things we protect, justify, and cling to—the very things that keep us from following freely.
What the kingdom might look like without justification
When I imagine what it would look like for Christians to approach Jesus like children—without ego, defenses, or loopholes—I see a world I barely recognize today.
One where kindness matters more than being right.
One where authenticity replaces justification.
One where transparency outruns performance.
And when I imagine what it would look like for us to finally place our idols and distractions on the altar, I see bigger tables, deeper empathy, and a more honest love for the least of these—the kind Jesus modeled.
What a wonderful world that would be.
A gentle invitation
Maybe this week, the invitation isn’t to believe something new—but to loosen your grip.
To notice where you’re still armed.
To name what you’re justifying.
And to practice coming to God empty-handed—no loopholes, no explanations, no résumé required.
Just you.
Pulling up a chair.
And letting yourself be loved.
Reflection Questions
If you want to sit with this passage a little longer, consider these questions:
Where do you notice yourself reaching for explanations or justifications instead of sitting with discomfort?
What part of your faith feels most defended right now—and what might that defensiveness be protecting?
When you imagine approaching God without an argument prepared, what emotions surface?
What has functioned as a distraction or idol in your spiritual life—not because it’s bad, but because it keeps you from deeper trust?
What would it look like to receive God’s love today without fixing, proving, or qualifying yourself?
I write in two spaces. A Seat at the Table is where I explore faith, healing, and making room for honesty after it’s been made complicated. Ink & Intention is for writers who want to show up with clarity, discernment, and integrity—especially online.
I’m also the author of Breathing Again and several guided journals, and I work with writers who want thoughtful, grounded support as they find their voice and shape what comes next.
If something here resonated, you’re welcome to explore more at your own pace. You can find everything in one place here.
