What reality are you living from?

Life is difficult. It’s disappointing. It’s messy and confusing. And that’s just as you try to deal with yourself—let alone anyone else.

So we do what humans do.

We build a story to try and make sense of it. We form beliefs based on our experiences, our wounds, our families, and our culture. Over time, that story becomes the lens through which we see everything.

But it’s not reality.

One person put it this way: We don’t see the world as it is—we see it as we are.

And unless Jesus interrupts that story, we’ll keep living from a set of beliefs that might feel safe but quietly lead us away from life.

There’s a tree diagram I keep coming back to—just a simple picture, but I find it really helpful.

At the top of the tree are the visible results of your life—how you’re doing in relationships, work, health, maybe even how close you feel to God. But those outcomes grow from your choices, and your choices come from your values—what you actually prioritise.

Not what you say is important, but what your time and your money reveal about what really matters to you.

And underneath that—what really drives all of it—are your beliefs.

Not your theology. Not the set of ideas you’d defend in a Bible study. But what you actually believe—deep down—about the world, about people, about yourself, and about God.

That’s why what we’ve sometimes called “Christianity” hasn’t helped people. Because it’s just become a set of ideas we agree with, rather than a radical realignment of what we believe and how we live.

And that’s the danger: we can end up with right theology and still a broken tree.

One of the mistakes we’ve made in the church is thinking that if we just get the words about God right, everything else will fall into place.

But theology isn’t the same as knowing God.

Jesus isn’t interested in how impressive your ideas are. He’s interested in whether you trust him enough to let go of the beliefs that are quietly shaping your life.

Because here’s the thing: you will live up—or live down—to your beliefs. Nothing else is possible.

When Paul arrived in Athens, he didn’t launch into a sermon straight away. He went for a walk. And he let himself be affected.

He saw the idols, and it troubled him. He allowed himself to feel it.

One of the biggest spiritual battles I face—and I think a lot of us face—is the temptation to disengage. It’s so much easier to scroll, to tune out, to stay comfortable, to keep things surface-level.

But that’s not how love works. That’s not how transformation happens.

In our phones, we all carry around little disengagement machines in our pockets. And the world we live in makes it really easy to numb ourselves. But disengagement leads us to see people as two-dimensional images. Once that happens, it becomes easier to throw stones—sometimes metaphorically, sometimes not.

We stop letting the reality of people’s lives affect us. We stop seeing the pain around us. We stop seeing our own pain, too.

I remember a story that was shared at the World Congress—about a young leader being mentored by someone older and wiser. They were in the middle of a disagreement, and the young woman just gave up and said, “Whatever.”

And the mentor looked at her and said, “Don’t you ever do that. Don’t you disengage.”

That hit me.

Because that’s the battle. Will I stay open, even when it’s hard? Or will I retreat into my comfortable version of reality?

Paul didn’t retreat. He didn’t stay comfortable.

He engaged with the culture—not to condemn it, but to understand it. He entered into dialogue with people who had named their belief trees.

The Epicureans believed the cosmos was an accident, so life was about seeking pleasure and avoiding pain. Sound familiar?

The Stoics believed everything happened for a reason and that virtue was about putting everything and everyone in their place.

The Academics figured there probably weren’t clear answers to anything, so religion might be useful—but don’t take it too seriously.

At least they had the guts to name what they believed.

Most of us don’t. We just live from our trees without ever examining them.

And this is where it gets uncomfortable. Because unless you name your tree, you might not realise that you’re worshipping other gods.

Paul saw altars everywhere in Athens. Altars to Caesar. Altars to power. Altars to sex.

The gods of money, sex, and power were controlling that city.

They still control ours.

And if we’re honest, they still control parts of us.

I’ve lost count of how many people have said to me, “I’ll do what God wants me to do—once I’ve got enough money.”

But if that’s the case, money’s making the decision. Money’s your god.

Or think about how we’ve commodified sex in our culture. How young men are being shaped by porn. How relationships have become fragile and transactional.

Or how we keep looking for someone with more power to fix our lives for us—just looking for a bigger bully to make things right.

If we don’t let Jesus confront the beliefs underneath all that, we’ll just baptise our dysfunction and call it Christianity.

But here’s what I love about Paul. He doesn’t just throw stones at the culture. He doesn’t dismiss people’s beliefs. He looks for common ground.

He finds that altar to the unknown god and says, “Let me tell you who that is.”

And he even quotes their poets. He doesn’t see them as dangerous. He sees them as a bridge.

There’s this beautiful balance: Paul finds where God is already at work—and then he speaks the truth that doesn’t align.

That’s what we need to do too. Not just see what’s broken in our culture—but see where God’s fingerprints already are. And then, gently and clearly, speak the truth that sets people free.

Eventually Paul says something that cuts through:

God overlooked ignorance in the past, but now he commands everyone, everywhere, to repent.

That word—repent—doesn’t mean beating yourself up. It means changing your mind. Seeing things differently.

And it’s not a one-time thing.

You may have already repented once. But there are still beliefs you carry that need to be brought to the cross. Still ways you see yourself, others, and God that are shaped by wounds and lies.

Repentance is how we keep replanting our tree.

I think one of the great dangers for the church is that we get too comfortable.

We stop expecting to grow. We stop letting ourselves be challenged.

But God comes from outside our little systems and invites us to face reality.

And reality has a name: Jesus.

He was raised from the dead—not to improve your life, but to give you a whole new one.

On our recent trip around Tassie, Leanne and I met three older pastors—men in their 80s and 90s. And in each of them, when they talked about Jesus, their eyes welled up.

There was a softness in them. A depth of love. A sense of being alive.

They hadn’t become cynical. They hadn’t checked out. They hadn’t stopped loving people.

And I thought: That’s who I want to be when I’m 80.

Because by then, your tree has taken shape. You’ve either become really beautiful—or really painful.