We have the Word. We know the words. We say what we say, and we know what we shouldsay. We repeat them often enough. We try to stir up enough faith to believe. We convince ourselves that we are holy, that we are doing what the Lord wants—but to what end?
How do we reach the end of ourselves, the end of all this stuff, to see God’s power manifest, present, and carried with us again?
Beloved, hear the call of the Spirit: return to the fire of His presence.
Not to the words only. Not to the form. Not to the motion. But to the living presence of the Lord.
We say the right things. We know the Scriptures. We quote the prophets. We recite the creeds. We cry, “Lord, Lord,” and we work in His name. But the aching question remains: Where is the power? Where is the trembling of the ground under His footsteps? Where is the weight of glory that makes men weep and fall on their faces?
O generation—you have built much, but have you touched the hem of His robe? You have filled the air with worship, but have you heard His voice in the secret place? You’ve followed strategies and ministries and models, but have you fallen in love with the Lord Himself? You are not alone—I, too, have walked this path. You are just like me. But we cannot stay here.
The time has come for holy desperation. The time has come to say with tears and trembling:
“Lord, we have nothing left but You.”
What does that mean? It means the idols must fall. It means we throw down the golden calves of comfort, ego, platform, and applause. It means we stop clinging to religion that denies the power of God—and we press in until the fire falls again. It means the pursuit of His presence becomes everything. Not a side note. Not a sermon point. Everything.
O brother. O sister. O weary heart—have you reached the end of yourself yet?
When your strength fails, He becomes your strength. When your words fall flat, His Spirit groans with power. When your plans are spent and your hands are empty—then, finally, you are ready. You are not disqualified because you’re weak. You are disqualified only if you still trust in your own strength.
Believers gathered in deep intercessory prayer, lifting silent groanings before God, surrounded by symbols of His covenant promises.
God waits—for those who will weep between the porch and the altar, for those who will rend their hearts and not just their garments.
“Return to Me with all your heart,” says the Lord, “and I will return to you” Joel 2:12–13, NASB).
A holy cry rises at sunset—the shofar sounds, declaring to heaven and earth: this world belongs to the Lord.
Let the shofar blast awaken you. Shake yourself from the dust! The King is at the door!
Will He find faith? Will He find fire?
Or will He find us asleep in the comfort of our programs, while His presence waits outside?
Return to the fire of His presence.
Return with fasting. Return with weeping. Return with longing. He is not far. He waits for the brokenhearted. He dwells with the contrite and lowly of spirit. Let the cry rise again from the depths of your soul:
“We have nothing left but You.”
And beloved—He is enough.
A Prayer for the Returning Heart
Father, we have wandered in our own ways. We’ve sung Your songs but not sought Your face. We’ve built our altars, but we left off the fire. Have mercy on us, O God. Strip us of every false thing. Let the fear of the Lord return to our hearts. We cry out—not for blessings, not for breakthrough, not for platforms—but for You.
We want You, Yeshua. We need You, Ruach HaKodesh. Consume us. Burn away everything that hinders love. Let the fire fall again—not around us, but in us. Make us the kind of people who carry Your presence. Let the world see again that You are not an idea.
You are the Living God. In the holy name of Yeshua,
