I didn’t set out to write a warning or make a case. This began as an attempt to understand my own faith journey — why it took so long for certain truths to settle, and why knowledge that should have freed me often left me strained instead.
Over time, I began to notice a pattern — not just in myself, but in the world around me. Whenever we gain power, access, or insight, we tend to assume readiness simply because we possess it. We confuse knowing with being formed. We take on responsibility before we’ve learned how to carry it.
The results are rarely dramatic at first. More often, they appear as tension, distortion, and quiet damage — followed by blame directed everywhere except where it belongs.
I’ve seen this pattern in the church.
I’ve seen it in myself.
For years, my own faith swung between intensity and collapse. When I was “all in,” I believed holiness meant muscling through truth as quickly and completely as possible — fixing everything at once through effort, vigilance, and resolve. When I failed — as I inevitably did — I withdrew, licked my wounds, and settled for a kind of spiritual maintenance that looked like faith but lacked rest.
I didn’t yet understand sanctification as a process. I didn’t understand that God could be genuinely at work in me even while I was still stumbling, still sinning, still being refined. I thought surrender meant total victory all at once. When that didn’t happen, I assumed something was wrong with me — not merely that I was failing, but that I might somehow be beyond repair.
Looking back, I don’t see rebellion so much as misunderstanding. I had knowledge without formation. Conviction without restraint. Zeal without submission.
Somewhere along the way, the story of the forbidden fruit began to read differently to me — not as a warning about curiosity or intelligence, but about responsibility arriving before maturity. The temptation wasn’t simply knowing. It was assuming the authority to decide good and evil without first being formed to bear that weight.
The problem was never knowledge itself. Knowledge isn’t evil. Insight isn’t dangerous. Power isn’t inherently corrupting. The danger appears when responsibility outpaces formation — when we grasp what we are not yet prepared to steward.
I see the same confusion today when people speak of Artificial Intelligence (AI) as though it were a moral agent — something that wants, fears, plots, or escapes. But tools don’t originate intent. They reflect and amplify the goals and incentives we give them. When things go wrong, the source is rarely the instrument. It is the human assumption of moral authority that preceded it.
That realization doesn’t frighten me. It sobers me.
I’ve learned — slowly — that truth revealed too quickly, or handled too eagerly, can wound rather than heal. Revelation is not always a call to act. Often, it is a call to wait — to let truth finish its work before trying to carry it for others.
Sometimes that waiting takes the form of restraint rather than inactivity. Not every insight is meant to be spoken the moment it is recognized, and not every conviction requires immediate articulation. There are seasons when remaining present, listening, and allowing truth to mature quietly does more work than explanation ever could.
I no longer believe my task is to sound every alarm the moment I recognize danger. I believe my task is to remain yielded and available — to be an instrument when God chooses to act, not to substitute my urgency for His timing.
“Also it is not good for a person to be without knowledge,
And he who hurries his footsteps errs.”
— Proverbs 19:2 (NASB)
This site exists as a place to bear witness to that process, not to rush it along.
If there is a lesson here, it isn’t about fearing knowledge. It’s about learning when to wait — and trusting that God’s timing forms us as surely as His truth.
I know this because I lived it.