Hey friends, welcome back! 

So let me ask you—have you ever tried to make something not your problem? Maybe it was a small mess you hoped someone else would clean up. Or a decision you made that didn’t turn out great, so you started looking for someone else to blame. We’ve all been there.

And sometimes, if we’re honest, we do this in our spiritual lives too. We want to grow, but we don’t want the responsibility that comes with it. We want freedom from sin, but not the discipline of repentance. We want healthy relationships, but we’d rather not own the ways we’ve contributed to the tension.

Here’s the thing: maturity starts where ownership begins. When we take responsibility for what’s ours—our choices, our growth, our spiritual rhythms—that’s when transformation really starts to happen.

Today, we’re talking about that tension. About the line between helping others and carrying our own load. And yes—I’ve got a ridiculous, real-life story that perfectly illustrates how mixed-up our thinking can get when it comes to personal responsibility.

So grab your coffee, settle in, and let’s talk about why owning your mess might just be one of the most freeing things you can do in your walk with Jesus.

Let’s get into it.

Section 1: The Absurdity of Misassigned Responsibility

So here’s the full story.

I was waiting in line at this little coffee hut—one of those tiny roadside spots where the barista knows half the town by name and the whole place smells like roasted espresso beans and slightly burnt pastries. It was a Saturday morning. I had my window cracked, sun peeking through the trees, just waiting my turn in the drive-thru.

Off to the side in the parking lot, a group of motorcyclists were finishing up their snacks. They weren’t causing any trouble—just chatting, laughing, wrapping up whatever sugary treasures they’d bought from the shop. Then I noticed one of the guys start gathering all the trash. Wrappers, napkins, empty cups. He walks over to a trash can sitting next to the coffee hut, and right away I notice something: it’s bungeed shut. Not just sealed, but clearly closed off. There's even a big sign slapped across the lid that says: “For shop use only.”

Now, in most people's minds, that’s a clear enough message. But not this guy.

He walks right up, unhooks the bungie cord like he's on some kind of secret mission, and starts going to toss in the garbage. I rolled my window down and said, “Hey, man—what are you doing?”

He looks over at me and, dead serious, says, “I’m throwing trash away.”

I point to the sign: “You see that? It says ‘for shop use only.’”

He shrugs. “Well yeah, but this is their trash.”

Their trash.

Now listen—I’m not usually the kind of guy to pick a fight in a coffee shop parking lot. But this logic baffled me. He had somehow convinced himself that because he bought something from the shop, the resulting trash was now the barista’s problem. Like coffee shop staff are not only trained to make your latte just right but also moonlight as your personal garbage collectors.

It was such a strange leap in thinking.

Can you imagine if we treated other places like this? Like finishing a box of cereal at home and then driving back to Walmart with the empty box, walking up to customer service like, “Hey, I bought this here, so… just figured you’d want the trash back.”

It sounds ridiculous because it is ridiculous. That’s not how life works. Once it’s in your hands, it’s yours. The shop gave you a drink, not a trash disposal contract. The exchange ends when the transaction ends.

But here’s the part that got me: instead of putting the bungie cord back and moving on, the guy walks up to the front window of the coffee hut—on foot—right between another car and the shop, and hands the trash to the barista.

And after a few seconds of awkward confusion, she takes it.

Now look—I’m not trying to call this guy the worst human in the world. It’s a small thing. But it’s also a telling thing. Because that moment wasn’t really about trash. It was about how easily we can misassign responsibility. How quickly we assume that if someone had a role in something—even a small one—they must be responsible for whatever comes after.

And as funny as that moment was, it kind of sat with me. Because we do the exact same thing in our spiritual lives.

We try to hand off responsibility.

We avoid ownership.

We shift the weight of our choices onto someone else—onto the church, onto our spouse, even onto God.

We buy the coffee, but we expect someone else to take out the trash.

It’s subtle, but it shows up all over the place. We say things like, “Well, that’s just how I was raised,” or “This wouldn’t be a problem if they hadn’t done that,” or “God hasn’t fixed this part of me yet.” And all of that might feel honest on the surface—but underneath, it’s a dodge. A way of saying, “This isn’t really mine to deal with.”

But the truth is: it is yours. And spiritual maturity begins when we recognize that.

[Personal Story Prompt]

I remember a season in parenting where this hit me hard. One of our kids was really struggling with focus, routines, and following through on basic tasks—just everyday stuff like brushing teeth, getting dressed, or finishing schoolwork. And I kept thinking, Why can’t they just get it together? I was frustrated. Tired of repeating myself. Tired of the pushback. I kept telling myself, If they would just try harder… if they were more disciplined… if they cared as much as I do…

But one morning, while venting to God in prayer, I felt this gentle but clear conviction: “You’re putting all the weight on your kid, but there are things you haven’t owned as a parent.”

He was right. I had routines I hadn’t reinforced. Expectations I hadn’t clearly communicated. Moments when I was more reactive than present. I was trying to hand off responsibility that was mine—expecting my child to self-regulate in areas where I hadn’t taught or supported them well.

It wasn’t fun to realize—but it was freeing. Because when you finally own your stuff, especially as a parent, you can actually help instead of just hope things will get better.

So yeah, funny story about trash—but there’s something serious underneath it. If we want to grow—if we want to lead well, love well, and live well—we’ve got to stop handing off what’s ours to carry.

Let’s open up Scripture and talk about what God actually says about this kind of responsibility.

Section 2: The Illusion of Delegated Responsibility

Let’s talk about Galatians 6:5 for a second. Paul writes, “Each one should carry their own load.” Just a few verses earlier, he also says we should “carry each other’s burdens.” So which is it, Paul? Are we supposed to carry our own stuff, or help with someone else’s?

The answer is: yes.

Paul isn’t contradicting himself here—he’s differentiating. There’s a difference between a burden and a load. Think of it like this: a burden is when your friend’s moving and you help them haul a refrigerator up three flights of stairs. A load is when you’re expected to carry your own backpack to school and you call it a “group project.”

One is an emergency, the other is a Tuesday.

In other words, Scripture gives us room for compassion and accountability. We’re called to help others when life crashes down on them—but that doesn’t mean we get to outsource our everyday responsibilities and call it “Christian community.”

And man, we live in a culture that loves to blur those lines. Have you noticed this? There’s an app for everything now. Don’t want to cook? DoorDash. Don’t want to clean your house? There’s a service for that. Don’t want to walk your dog, mow your lawn, or talk to people on the phone? Outsource it. Avoid it. Automate it.

And look, convenience isn’t bad—but it has a shadow side. It trains us to expect that someone else will always carry the weight. And that mindset bleeds into our spiritual lives.

We start thinking:

"I’m not growing, so my church must be doing something wrong."

"I keep falling into the same sin, so clearly God hasn’t ‘delivered’ me yet."

"I’m struggling in my marriage, but my spouse is the one who needs counseling."

We act like spiritual maturity is a package we can subscribe to—as if Amazon Prime delivers holiness in 2 days or less.

But Paul says no. Carry your own load. Not someone else’s. Not just when it’s convenient. Yours.

Let me be real: I’ve been there. There have been seasons when I expected other people to do the heavy lifting for my spiritual growth. If I just listened to the right podcast, read the right book, went to the right conference—then I’d grow. But you know what I realized? You can’t delegate transformation. You can’t subcontract out obedience. You can’t hire someone to read your Bible and expect to absorb it through osmosis.

God has never called us to pass the buck on spiritual maturity. He meets us where we are, but He doesn’t let us stay there. He says, “Pick up your cross.” That’s not something you can Uber. It’s personal. It’s daily. It’s yours.

And here’s the beauty in that: carrying your load isn’t a punishment. It’s a pathway to purpose. When you take ownership of your growth, your habits, your healing—it may be hard, but it’s yours. And God honors it. He shapes you through it. He strengthens you in it.

Let’s be honest, though—this isn’t always easy to spot in real time. Sometimes we think we’re “waiting on God,” when in reality, God’s waiting on us to carry our pack.

So here are two personal story prompts for this section:

I remember early in my ministry journey, I had this incredible mentor—someone who met with me regularly, challenged me, encouraged me, and really modeled what spiritual leadership looked like. He wasn’t just a supervisor; in a lot of ways, he became a kind of spiritual father figure. That season of my life was so formative, and I grew a lot—but looking back, I can see that I also leaned pretty heavily on him to carry the weight of my spiritual momentum.

So when I moved to Anchorage for my next ministry role, I just… expected the same thing. I never said it out loud, never asked for it directly—but I quietly assumed that someone would step into that same kind of role. I thought growth would happen the same way: someone investing in me, guiding me, pulling me forward. But it didn’t. Not because people were cold or unkind—but because I was waiting for something that wasn’t coming. And more importantly, I was waiting for something that wasn’t theirs to carry.

That season was a wake-up call. I had to come to terms with the fact that no one else is responsible for my relationship with God. Mentors are a gift. Community matters. But spiritual maturity isn’t something you can outsource. It’s personal. It’s daily. And it’s mine to pursue. That shift—from expecting someone to lead me, to taking ownership of my growth—was hard, but it was freeing. It reminded me that while God uses people to help us grow, He calls us to pick up our own cross.

This is what Paul’s talking about. Carry your own load. Not because God’s trying to wear you out, but because He’s trying to grow you up.

Let’s move forward with that in mind.

Section 3: Confession ≠ Trash Dumping

Let’s talk about confession for a moment—because this is one of those spiritual practices that’s easy to misunderstand. If you grew up in a more formal church tradition, maybe you think of confession as a booth, a priest, and a whole lot of whispered regrets. If you didn’t grow up with that, you might picture a tearful prayer during a worship night or maybe a half-hearted “my bad” tossed toward the ceiling like a spiritual Hail Mary.

But 1 John 1:9 says, “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” That’s good news. Incredible news. But what kind of confession are we talking about?

Because here’s the thing—confession isn’t just about unloading guilt. It’s about owning brokenness.

We don’t get to treat God like a cosmic garbage can. You can’t just back the truck up, dump all your junk on Him, and drive away like nothing happened. God’s not running a spiritual waste management company. He’s a Father who wants relationship, not just responsibility for your mistakes.

It reminds me of the trash-dumping guy from the coffee hut story. His logic was, “I bought the latte, so the trash is their problem.”

Sometimes we treat confession the same way. We think, “I showed up to church. I read my Bible this week. I’ve been a decent human. So God should take care of my sin now. Just clean it up and let me move on.”

But Psalm 51:17 gives us a different picture: “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.”

Real confession is about brokenness. Contrition. It’s not just, “God, I did something wrong.” It’s, “God, I am wrong in this moment—and I need your grace, not just your garbage service.”

Let’s be honest, though—this mindset doesn’t come naturally. We live in a world that teaches us to dodge blame, avoid consequences, and clean up our image more than our hearts. But God isn’t after image management. He wants transformation.

And transformation starts with honest confession—not dumping, but owning.

Here’s the test: if your confession feels like a way to shift the weight off your conscience without changing anything in your life, it might be more of a spiritual transaction than a surrender.

God doesn’t want your trash. He wants you.

Not the cleaned-up version. Not the rehearsed apology. Just the honest, open-hearted version of you who says, “God, I can’t carry this anymore—but I’m not pretending it’s someone else’s mess. It’s mine. I need your help to walk in freedom.”

And that’s when the real work begins.

Because confession isn’t the end of the process—it’s the beginning. It’s not the finish line of repentance; it’s the starting line of renewal.

God is faithful. He’s not waiting to shame you. He’s not reluctant to forgive. But He invites you to come with a heart that’s surrendered, not entitled.

So yes, confess your sin. Absolutely. But do it like David did in Psalm 51—with humility, brokenness, and the awareness that God isn’t a trash collector. He’s a redeemer.

There was a moment in my life when I hit the end of myself. I had been wrestling with addiction that I couldn’t seem to shake—something I’d tried to manage, hide, and downplay for years. But eventually, the cracks started showing, and the weight of it all caught up with me. I couldn’t pretend anymore. I couldn’t keep patching things up on the outside while staying unraveling on the inside.

So I came to God—completely undone. No more excuses. No more promises to “do better next time.” Just raw, honest confession. I laid it all out before Him, not because I knew how to fix it, but because I finally knew I couldn’t. And in that moment of surrender, I didn’t find rejection—I found grace. Not a cold, clinical forgiveness, but a deeply personal mercy that met me right where I was and started rebuilding me from the inside out.

That was over 4 years ago now. And by God’s grace, I’ve stayed on the path. There’s been a steadiness in my life since then that I know I couldn’t have manufactured on my own. It came from letting go. From real confession. From no longer offering God the sanitized version of my struggle, but instead handing Him the whole mess and trusting Him to redeem it. And He has.

This is the invitation of confession. Not a drive-thru trash drop-off, but a soul-deep surrender. And what you receive in return isn’t just a clean slate. It’s a changed heart.

Section 4: Spiritual Maturity Means Cleaning Up After Yourself

Let’s talk about the grown-up version of discipleship: spiritual maturity. Not the flashy stuff—like knowing Greek or quoting obscure minor prophets—but the ordinary, unglamorous work of owning your stuff. That’s where the real growth happens.

Romans 12:3 says, “Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment.” In other words, be honest with yourself. Take stock of your life. Know what’s yours to carry—and then carry it with humility.

But let’s face it: honest self-assessment is not exactly trending on social media. We love curated images, perfect captions, and humblebrags. But sober judgment? That’s harder to hashtag.

Spiritual maturity means cleaning up after yourself. Not because God won’t love you if you don’t, but because it’s part of becoming whole. It’s part of becoming like Christ. And maturity is rarely loud. It’s usually quiet, slow, consistent. It shows up in moments when no one’s watching, like choosing patience with your spouse, following through on what you said you’d do, or praying when you’d rather scroll.

Here’s what maturity isn’t: constantly cleaning up other people’s messes while ignoring your own.

We see this all the time in churches. There’s always someone who wants to fix everyone else—call out sin, speak truth, “hold people accountable”—but they haven’t done the hard work of soul-searching. That’s not maturity. That’s spiritual outsourcing.

Paul says to think of yourself with sober judgment. That means you.

Spiritual maturity also means understanding boundaries. Not everything that comes into your life is yours to carry. Some of us struggle with the opposite problem—we carry too much. Other people’s expectations, emotional weight, or spiritual progress. But maturity means asking, “What has God actually put in my hands?”

Jesus modeled this perfectly. He didn’t heal everyone. He didn’t rush to every town. He didn’t try to carry the emotional burdens of all 12 disciples every time they were confused or moody. He carried what the Father gave Him—and nothing more.

There’s wisdom in that.

So what does this look like practically?

It looks like taking responsibility for your spiritual rhythms—prayer, Scripture, rest.

It looks like owning your emotions instead of blaming your bad mood on your kids or your boss.

It looks like showing up on time, following through, saying “I’m sorry” without a qualifying explanation.

It looks like knowing the difference between compassion and codependency.

That last one is huge. You can love people well without becoming their savior. You can support without rescuing. And sometimes, the most mature thing you can do is say, “This isn’t mine to carry—but I’m here for you while you carry it.”

A lot of years ago, some close friends of ours were visiting from out of town. They were staying at our place, and we were really looking forward to some quality, unrushed time together. These were people we loved deeply—friends we hadn’t seen in a while and genuinely missed. But one evening, just as we were settling in, we got a message from another couple we knew—young, newly married, and in crisis. They told us they were struggling and asked if we could meet with them that night.

We felt torn. We didn’t want to brush off a cry for help, so we told our visiting friends there was an "emergency" we needed to attend to. They were gracious and understanding, and we left them at our house with dinner already prepped in the fridge. That night, we sat with the young couple for hours, doing our best to listen, encourage, and help them navigate the painful place they were in. We poured ourselves out emotionally and spiritually. But later, we realized something important: we’d taken on their burden as if it was ours to carry—and in doing so, we unintentionally neglected another relationship that also mattered.

That moment stuck with me. Not because it was wrong to care, but because I’d confused compassion with responsibility. I thought stepping into their crisis was the “Christian thing to do,” but I was trying to play savior instead of simply being a support. And that wasn’t healthy—for them, for us, or for the friendships God had already placed in our lives. Since then, I’ve learned that maturity means knowing when to lean in, and when to lovingly say, “This isn’t mine to carry—but I’m here for you while you carry it.” That shift has brought so much more peace, clarity, and freedom in how I love people.

Maturity means owning what’s yours and releasing what isn’t. And that can feel really uncomfortable at first—especially if you’ve spent a lot of time avoiding hard truths or picking up after others.

But once you get into the rhythm of it? It’s freeing. There’s clarity. There’s peace. There’s strength.

So think of yourself with sober judgment—not self-loathing, not inflated ego—just honest awareness. That’s where maturity starts.

Let’s get ready to land this episode with a challenge and some practical next steps.

Section 5: The Invitation to Step Up

Alright, we’ve talked about trash, responsibility, confession, and cleaning up after yourself—and now it’s time to land the plane. Or maybe... put the lid back on the trash can. Whatever metaphor works for you.

This last section is all about the invitation—because every episode of Sunday Ripple isn’t just about information, it’s about transformation. What’s God actually inviting you to do with all this?

Let’s bring back Galatians 6:5 for a moment: “Each one should carry their own load.” That’s not a threat—it’s an invitation. It’s not about proving yourself. It’s about partnering with God in your own growth.

So what does that look like?

First, let’s do some self-examination. Ask yourself:

Where in my life am I trying to return “trash” that I should be handling?

Am I asking others—or even God—to carry something that He’s asked me to pick up?

Am I expecting spiritual growth to just “happen” without intentional effort?

Now let’s move from reflection to action:

1. Start Small. Don’t try to overhaul your entire life by noon tomorrow. That’s a great way to burn out. Start with what’s in front of you.

Take 10 minutes to read your Bible today.

Apologize to the person you were short with.

Put your phone down during dinner.

Simple, faithful steps—that’s where maturity takes root.

2. Own Your Calendar. Spiritual growth doesn’t happen in the cracks of leftover time. If it’s important, it gets scheduled. Don’t just “try to pray more”—decide when and where. Block time for Scripture, solitude, worship, rest.

3. Own Your Emotions. It’s easy to blame your bad attitude on your boss or your kids or the person who cut you off in traffic. But maturity says, “I’m responsible for how I respond.” Feel your feelings—but also own them.

4. Seek Accountability—Not as a Crutch, but as a Catalyst. Invite someone to check in with you—not to carry your weight, but to cheer you on as you carry it. Good accountability reminds you of who you’re becoming.

5. Pray With a Posture of Ownership. When you talk to God, don’t just ask Him to “fix things.” Ask Him to show you what you need to step into. Ask for strength, not shortcuts. Ask for wisdom, not escape routes.

And finally, let’s not forget this crucial piece: You’re not doing this alone.

Yes, God asks you to carry your load—but He never leaves you to carry it in your own strength. Philippians 2:13 reminds us, “For it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purpose.”

God is both your coach and your spotter. He’s calling you to grow, but He’s also right there to help you when you stumble.

So step up—not out of guilt, but out of grace. Because grace doesn’t just clean up your mess; it empowers you to live differently.

[Personal Story Prompt] Share a time when a small, intentional decision to take responsibility made a big difference in your life. Maybe it was committing to a spiritual discipline, repairing a relationship, or simply showing up differently in your everyday life.

Let this be your moment. Own your part. Carry your load. Walk in maturity.

You’ve got this—because God’s got you.

Thanks for hanging out with me today. I know this wasn’t the lightest topic—but it might just be one of the most important ones. Because taking ownership of your spiritual life isn’t just a burden—it’s a breakthrough.

It’s not about perfection. It’s not about trying harder or carrying everything alone. It’s about recognizing what’s yours, taking responsibility for it, and trusting God to meet you there.

Remember: God isn’t looking for people who have it all together. He’s looking for people who are willing to grow. People who stop dropping their trash at someone else’s feet and say, “Okay, Lord—this is mine. Help me carry it with faithfulness.”

So as you head into this week, ask yourself:

Where do I need to stop blaming and start owning?

What’s one small area where I can choose growth over excuses?

And who can I encourage to do the same?

You don’t need to make a grand gesture. Just take a step. And when you do, you’ll be surprised how much lighter the load feels—not because it’s easier, but because it’s finally yours.

And as always, let me leave you with this:

“Small ripples can make a big impact—go make yours.”