Are You The One Matt 11: 2-6

John Speaks—from One Elder to Another

Sit with me a moment.
I do not speak to you now as the voice crying in the wilderness, nor as the man who stood waist-deep in the Jordan with crowds pressing in. I speak to you as a man who has lived long enough to watch certainty thin, strength fade, and time slow to a crawl.

I once lived under the open sky.
The wind was my roof. The wilderness was my companion. My body was strong, disciplined, obedient. I walked where I wished, spoke what I must, and feared no man. When I opened my mouth, people listened. When I pointed, they followed.

Now I speak to you from stone and shadow.

My body is weaker than it once was. Hunger visits more often than strength. Cold settles into the bones and does not leave. I cannot walk when I wish. I cannot stand when I want. The body that once obeyed my will now reminds me daily that I am not in control.

That was my first loss.

Then came the long hours. Hours with no crowds. No baptisms. No visible fruit. Only memory. Memory can be a gift—or a torment. I replayed the words I preached. I weighed the Scriptures I loved. I examined every certainty I once carried so easily.

In the wilderness, everything was clear.
In prison, nothing is.

I did not stop believing. But believing became heavier. Slower. More deliberate. Faith, when it is no longer carried by momentum, settles into the bones like old age itself.

I lost my place among people.
Once I stood before kings and confronted them. Now a king ignores me while I sit behind his walls. The world did not reorder itself when the Messiah came—not in the way I expected. Evil did not retreat. Justice did not rush in. And I—who announced the coming Kingdom—was left behind as if my part were finished.

That loss cuts deeper than chains.

You understand this, don’t you?

There comes a season when people stop asking for your voice. When your role quietly disappears. When usefulness gives way to waiting. You are still alive—but no longer central. Still faithful—but no longer needed.

That is when the questions begin to whisper.

I heard reports of Jesus. Healing. Mercy. Patience. Sinners welcomed. And yet, no fire fell on the corrupt. No prison doors opened. No axe struck the root of injustice that held me captive.

And so I asked Him a question—not because I doubted God, but because I needed to know whether my expectations had betrayed me.

“Are You the One… or should we look for another?”

Do you know what that question really means?

It means:
Did I misunderstand how God finishes a faithful life?

I had expected vindication. I received silence.
I had expected resolution. I received waiting.
I had expected to see the Kingdom arrive in power. Instead, I learned that some servants announce what they will never personally enjoy.

Jesus did not scold me. He did not explain timelines. He did not promise rescue. He pointed to what God was doing—and asked me not to stumble over what He was not doing.

That was my final lesson.

And now, before I go, I leave you with questions—not accusations, but honest ones. You must answer them yourself.

If God does not heal you, will you still call Him good?

If your usefulness fades, will you still believe your life mattered?

If your prayers are met with silence, will you keep praying—or only reminiscing?

If the Kingdom advances without you at the center, will you rejoice—or resent it?

If obedience leads you into obscurity rather than honor, will you still obey?

And if your story ends quietly, without explanation, will you trust God with the ending?

Do not fear these questions. They are not enemies of faith. They are the companions of mature faith.

I learned this in chains:
Faith at the end of life does not shout.
It rests.
It does not demand answers.
It entrusts itself to the One who writes endings we may never see.

Blessed are you, my friend, if you do not stumble over Him now.

You are closer to the Kingdom than you think.

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