The War Within

Before I open in prayer, I want to simply say thank you.

Last week I shared something personal about my life—about Kathy and me—and I wasn’t sure how that would be received. But your response—the love, the grace, the care you’ve shown to me and my family—has been such a gift.

I’ve received messages and words of encouragement that I’ll carry with me for a long time.

And it’s reminded me again why I’m so grateful to be part of this church.

You’ve lived out what it means to be the body of Christ—to carry each other’s burdens, to walk with one another in both joy and sorrow.

I just want you to know how deeply I appreciate that.

And with the same spirit of grace and humility, let’s come before God together in prayer.

God, I’m mindful today that whenever we gather in this room, we all come from different situations… at home, at work, at school.

Some of us are carrying gratitude and joy, others are walking through stress, or sorrow, or uncertainty.

For some here, life feels full—relationships are strong, work is meaningful, things are good. And we celebrate that.

For others, life feels painful. Lonely. Maybe uncertain. And we want to acknowledge that too.

God, I know many of us are still carrying the weight of last week—when I shared what Kathy and I are walking through. I know it stirred up grief, or confusion, or questions for many of us.

I just want to say thank you—for being the kind of God who welcomes us as we are. Thank you that we don’t have to hide our grief or our confusion or even our questions.

Thank you that your grace meets us in our most human moments.

God, I ask today that you would give all of us what we need.

For those who need comfort—would you bring peace.
For those who need courage—would you bring strength.
For those who feel numb—would you makes your Spirit alive in us.

And for all of us, no matter what season we’re in, help us to hear from you today. Speak to our hearts through James.

Shape us. Change us. Humble us.

We pray this in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Alright, if you have your Bible or the Blue Oaks app, would you open it to James 4. We’re in week 12 of our Wise Up! series.

Only a couple more weeks to go. I promise.

James opens this chapter with a question:

What causes fights and quarrels among you? (James 4:1)

Which is basically James’s way of saying: Why can’t you people get along?

And I’ll be honest—when I read that line this week, it hit me differently.

Many of you know that I’m walking through a very personal and painful season right now. Last week, I shared with you the difficult news that Kathy and I have decided to divorce.

And to be transparent, this question—“Why can’t you get along?”—cuts pretty deep.

Because that’s part of what led us to this point.

So I just want to name that up front. This isn’t an abstract theological passage for me. This one stings today.

Because I’m not reading it as a teacher today. I’m reading it as someone who’s been in the middle of relational breakdown, who’s felt the ache of tension that doesn’t resolve, who knows what it’s like when the war within spills out into conflict with someone you love.

But I’m also clinging to the hope that James doesn’t just diagnose the problem—he points us toward healing.

He reminds us that even in the middle of the mess, grace is still possible. Humility is still possible. Peace is still possible.

So if this hits close to home for you today—if you’re in a tough season in your marriage, or in your family, or with a friend—just know you’re not alone. We’re in this together.

And James has a word for us.

Let’s dig in.

What causes fights and quarrels among you? Don’t they come from your desires that battle within you? You desire but do not have, so you kill. You covet but you cannot get what you want, so you quarrel and fight. You do not have because you do not ask God. When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures. (James 4:1–3)

James starts here with conflict—fights and quarrels among you.

But rather than just focus on the external tension, James drills down to the source—your desires that battle within you.

There’s a war inside each one of us.

A craving.
A hunger.
A restlessness.

And James says that’s where the relational chaos comes from.

It’s not just the other person. It’s not just bad communication or personality differences. The deeper issue is internal.

And this war doesn’t start in adulthood.

I mean, think about toddlers. Two of them are playing peacefully until one sees the other holding a plastic dinosaur.

Suddenly that dinosaur becomes the most valuable object in the universe.

One second, it’s “Jesus loves the little children,” the next it’s Jurassic Park: Toddler Edition.

We don’t outgrow that inner battle—we just get more sophisticated at hiding it.

But it’s still there. That pull toward self, toward envy, toward “I want what I want and I want it now.”

You know, the word James uses for “desires that battle within you” is the Greek word hedonai. It’s where we get the word “hedonism”—the pursuit of pleasure above all else.

And in the first-century Greco-Roman world, hedonai was more than a feeling. It was a worldview.

The ancient philosopher Epicurus taught that pleasure was the highest good—though to be fair, his version was more about peace of mind than wild indulgence.

But by the time James is writing, the cultural tide had shifted. The Roman world was drunk on power, and conquest, and sensory reward.

The good life was measured by what you owned, who you controlled, and how others admired you.

So when James talks about our cravings waging war inside us, he’s not just talking about a passing temptation.

He’s naming a cultural infection. This belief that my happiness is supreme. That my comfort matters more than your pain. That if I feel something strongly enough, I should have it—no matter the cost to you.

And I’ll just say… that battle is not theoretical for me. It’s not abstract.

In this season, I’m seeing how much of my own striving—my need to be right, to be in control, to protect myself from pain—how much of that has shaped the choices I’ve made in my relationships.

And I don’t say that to beat myself up. I say that because I want to get honest enough to heal.

There have been times when I’ve prayed about the future—about my marriage, about my role as a dad, about my role as a teaching pastor—and I’ve had to ask, “God, am I asking with the right heart? Or am I just asking for things to be easier… for my own comfort… for my own control?”

That’s what James is getting at when he says: “You don’t have because you don’t ask God.”

“And even when you do ask, you ask with the wrong motives.”

Now let’s be honest—this passage is not saying every unanswered prayer is because of bad motives.

But it is a strong warning: When our desires are self-focused, even our prayers can become manipulative.

We start treating God like a divine vending machine. “God, I put in a quiet time. I tithed. I even served in Kids Ministry, for God’s sake… for your sake. Where’s my blessing?”

But God doesn’t just want behavior. He wants hearts aligned with his purposes.

James uses intense language here—you kill, you covet, you fight.

That might seem like hyperbole, but he’s referencing Cain and Abel, where jealousy and unmet desire literally led to murder.

And while we may not commit physical murder, how many relationships have we killed with envy? Or with resentment? Or with silent judgment?

How many people have we ghosted, or gossiped about, or withheld kindness from—not because they harmed us, but because they had something we wanted?

So here’s the question: Where is the battle within you right now?

What are you desiring so deeply that it’s starting to shape your relationships—or your prayers—or even your faith?

Maybe it’s affirmation.
Maybe it’s success.
Maybe it’s control.
Maybe it’s intimacy.
Maybe it’s peace.

None of those are wrong. But when we demand them on our terms, they start to do damage.

James isn’t shaming us—he’s inviting us to be honest. He’s calling us to stop blaming everyone else and ask: What’s going on inside me?

Because that’s where the healing begins.

Now, I’m sure you feel the tension of this passage for me in light of what I’m going through personally.

James says the reason we fight… the reason we quarrel… the reason relationships break down… is not just about the circumstances around us—it’s about the desires within us. The battle within.

And I just want you to know how real that is for me right now.

This has been a season of intense inward reflection, doing deep work in counseling, and naming some of the desires and wounds and patterns that have lived in me for a long time—some that I never fully understood or took responsibility for.

And I’m realizing how those unresolved parts—those desires that battle within—can do damage.

I’ve seen how they’ve hurt someone I love. And I’ve seen how they’ve hurt me.

But I’m also learning… that’s where healing begins. Not by hiding. Not by pretending. But by bringing it into the light.

By confessing.
By owning it.
By asking God to begin his transforming work in me.

So I hope you know I’m not up here today teaching this like someone who has it all figured out.

I’m someone who’s in it. Someone who knows what it’s like to feel the battle.

And maybe you do too.

And the hope James offers is that healing doesn’t start by fixing everyone around you—it starts by facing what’s going on inside you.

Trust me, James knows what he’s talking about here.

Alright, lets look at James 4:4-6

You adulterous people, don’t you know that friendship with the world means enmity against God? Therefore, anyone who chooses to be a friend of the world becomes an enemy of God.

Or do you think Scripture says without reason that he jealously longs for the spirit he has caused to dwell in us?

But he gives us more grace. That is why Scripture says: “God opposes the proud but shows favor to the humble.” (James 4:4–6)

James doesn’t pull punches here.

He moves from “Why can’t you get along?” to: “You adulterous people!”

That’s pretty intense.

James is pulling language from the prophets here—especially Hosea—where God often described Israel’s unfaithfulness as spiritual adultery.

It’s what happens when we give our hearts to something else. When we let our desires drive us, when we prioritize success, or image, or comfort, or control—over faithfulness, humility, and surrender to God.

And I’ll tell you, when I read this section, it lands hard.

Because James is not just talking about obvious sins here. He’s talking about affections. Allegiances. Where your heart goes.

Friendship with the world doesn’t mean you have a Spotify playlist full of explicit lyrics… or you binge Netflix one night too many.

It’s about living with the world’s values as your deepest loyalty.

It’s about putting your weight down on the things this world tells you matter most—winning, getting ahead, being right, being in control, being admired.

It’s subtle. And it can feel harmless at first.

But James says when we live that way—when we chase worldly ambition, even “Christianized” versions of it—we’re putting ourselves at odds with the heart of God.

And that hits close to home.

Because for a long time, I didn’t always see it in myself.

But the more I sit with God, the more I sit with people who love me and tell me the truth… the more I realize how easy it is for me to live out of a subtle kind of pride.

Wanting to be seen a certain way.
Wanting things to go my way.
Wanting to be admired for the good I do.

Even while parts of me stay unexamined and untouched by grace.

And James says: God opposes the proud.

That’s a strong statement. And it’s one I feel right now in my life.

But here’s the miracle of grace.

Look at the very next line:

But he gives us more grace. (James 4:6)

I was talking with a friend this week—someone who’s walked through deep personal failure.

He told me there was a season where he had everything: great job, financial security, big house, the works.

And yet he said, “Matt, I never felt more empty. It was like all my striving just left me more disconnected from the people I loved and the God I claimed to follow.”

Eventually, his world started unraveling—marriage, career, even his sense of identity.

But something surprising happened in the ruins: he started to pray again. Not big, polished prayers. Just simple ones. “God, I can’t fix this. Would you help me?”

He told me that for the first time in years, he started to feel human again. Not invincible. Just real. Humbled, but hopeful.

And then he said this line that I’ll never forget: “Grace doesn’t usually show up at the top. It meets you when you’re at the bottom—and helps you start over.”

That’s what James is getting at here—“But he gives us more grace.”

That line isn’t written for people who are crushing it. It’s written for people who’ve been crushed.

It’s written for people like me. Maybe people like you. People who are ready to stop pretending and start healing.

James says:

Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up. (James 4:10)

You see, God opposes the proud… not to destroy them… but to bring them to humility—so he can lift them up.

God’s not trying to shame you. He’s trying to rescue you. He’s trying to free you from a life of striving, and comparison, and pretense, and spiritual exhaustion.

He’s calling you—and me—to humility.

And humility isn’t self-hatred. It’s not groveling.

Humility is honesty before God.

It’s saying, “I’ve been chasing some things that can’t hold me. I’ve placed my trust in stuff that’s falling apart. I’ve hurt people. I’ve gotten it wrong. I’ve been proud. And I need more grace.”

And the promise is—God gives it.

He gives more grace than you need.
More grace than you can ask for.
More grace than you deserve.

Alright, lets look at verses 7-10.

Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.
Come near to God and he will come near to you.

Wash your hands, you sinners, and purify your hearts, you double-minded.
Grieve, mourn and wail. Change your laughter to mourning and your joy to gloom.
Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up. (James 4:7–10)

These verses are among the most personal and powerful in the letter—especially when read not as a list of commands, but as an invitation.

An invitation to turn around. To come home. To be restored.

James starts with a word that’s hard for us:

Submit yourselves, then, to God.

Now, that word submit often sounds negative in our culture. Like giving up. Like losing control.

But in Scripture, submission is about returning to your rightful place in the world.

It’s remembering who God is—and who I am not.

It’s saying: “You are God. I am not. And I’m done pretending I can do this on my own.”

And James says, “When you do that—when you resist the enemy and draw near to God—he will draw near to you.”

Lets just pause here for a moment.

This is a promise.

You are not chasing after a distant deity who might let you in if you clean yourself up first.

No—when you take one honest step toward God, he runs toward you like the father in the prodigal son story.

Arms open.
Tears on his face.
Saying, “Welcome home.”

That’s the heart of God.

Now James goes further, and it’s jarring at first:

Grieve, mourn, and wail. Change your laughter to mourning and your joy to gloom. (James 4:9)

Why so intense?

Because James knows that real healing requires real honesty. You can’t just slap a smile on top of a broken life. You can’t fake your way to freedom.

This is not about guilt. This is about grief.

There’s a difference.

Guilt keeps you stuck in shame.
Grief moves you toward healing.

When you’re finally ready to grieve the damage done—whether damage to you or damage you’ve caused—that’s the moment when God can begin to work. That’s where freedom starts.

And I want to say: that’s where I am right now.

There’s been a lot of grieving in my life recently.

Grief over a marriage that couldn’t be repaired.
Grief over things I said and did that caused harm.
Grief over years of being too proud to see clearly.

But in the grieving—there’s grace.

It’s strange, isn’t it? You’d think grief would lead to despair.

But what I’ve found is that when I grieve honestly and surrender fully, I feel God drawing close.

Not in a distant theological sense—but in a quiet, tender, real way.

In the voice of a counselor.
In the grace of a friend.
In a moment of worship where I’m overwhelmed with God’s love.
In a moment of silence where I know, somehow, I’m still held.

And James says:

Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up. (James 4:10)

That’s not motivational fluff. That’s a deep soul transforming truth.

The way up is down.

When you finally fall to your knees—not out of punishment, but out of surrender—that’s the very place God meets you… and lifts you.

Not with shame. But with mercy. With gentleness. With grace.

Alright, let’s look at the final section for today.

Brothers and sisters, do not slander one another. Anyone who speaks against a brother or sister or judges them speaks against the law and judges it. When you judge the law, you are not keeping it, but sitting in judgment on it. There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the one who is able to save and destroy. But you—who are you to judge your neighbor? (James 4:11–12)

James brings us back to the tongue—back to our words.

And if you’re keeping track, this is the third time in four chapters he’s called us out for how we speak.

Apparently, people were talking a lot.

And not in helpful, uplifting ways.

They were slandering each other.
Tearing each other down.
Whispering criticisms.
Passing judgment.

Does that sound familiar to anyone?

This is one of the most sobering lines in the letter:

When you judge the law, you are not keeping it, but sitting in judgment on it. (James 4:11)

In other words, when you gossip about someone… when you slander someone… when you judge someone’s motives or write them off with a single comment—you’re not just breaking the law of love. You’re placing yourself above it.

You’re saying, “I get to decide who’s worthy of grace and who’s not.”

And James responds with piercing clarity:

“Who do you think you are?”

There is only one Lawgiver and Judge.

And you are not him. And neither am I.

Now let me say something here that’s very real for me.

This past week, really this past year, I’ve walked through a lot of judgment. Some of it has been kind, gracious, and curious. Some of it has been sharp, shaming, and uninformed.

And believe me—I’ve done my fair share of judging in return.

But here’s the truth I keep coming back to: none of us really knows what someone else is carrying.

You don’t know their trauma.
You don’t know their triggers.
You don’t know the thousand quiet battles that brought them to this moment.

And if you do know—then your calling is compassion, not condemnation.

The church should be the one place in the world where we stop assuming the worst about people—and start assuming that everyone is fighting a battle we don’t fully see.

James is calling us to that kind of grace.

Not a grace that looks the other way on sin.

But a grace that looks each other in the eye and says: “I know you’re human. I know you struggle. So do I. Let’s follow Jesus together.”

Because here’s what James reminds us: there is a Judge—and you and I are not him.

And that Judge—the one who holds all authority to condemn—is also the one who chose to save.

That’s the heart of the gospel.

We follow a God who could have judged us from a distance—but instead, he stepped in.

He bore the weight of our sin.
He extended mercy instead of wrath.

And now He invites us to be people of mercy, too.

James 4 is not an easy passage to hear. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. But it is full of love.

Because James wants us to wake up to what’s actually going on inside of us.

The fights, the quarrels, the resentment, the harsh words, the judgment—it all starts in here.
In the heart.

In the desires that battle within.

And that’s exactly where the healing begins.

This past year, I’ve had to face some things in me I didn’t want to face.

Patterns I didn’t want to name.
Pain I didn’t want to admit I had caused.
Ways I’ve hurt people I love.
Ways I’ve justified myself and ignored the quiet conviction of the Spirit.

And James just doesn’t let me look away. He calls it what it is: pride. Arrogance. Self-deception.

But he also offers a way out:

Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up. (James 4:10)

You know, in the ancient world, humility was not seen as a virtue.

In Roman culture, humility was something for the weak—the conquered, the powerless, the slaves.

The people at the top bragged. They asserted themselves. They didn’t apologize.

If you wanted to be taken seriously in that world: You didn’t bow down—you stood tall and proud.

Then along came this strange, countercultural community—followers of a crucified rabbi—who started saying things like:

“The last will be first.”
“Blessed are the poor in spirit.”
“Humble yourselves, and God will lift you up.”

And it flipped the script.

They gathered not around power, but around grace.
Not around image, but around transformation.
Not around status, but around surrender.

And that humility? It didn’t just shock the world—it changed it.

They didn’t just talk about grace.
They embodied it.
They confessed their sins.
They cared for the sick, and the poor, and the outcast—not to climb some ladder, but because they’d already been lifted by grace.

And I think that’s the kind of church God still longs for.

Not one where we impress each other. But one where we’re honest with each other.
Where we don’t hide behind spiritual performance—but where we actually heal.
Where we don’t pretend we’re whole—but where we come with our wounds open to grace.

Because that kind of humility still turns heads. It still softens hearts. It still opens the door for God to move.

And I think he’s inviting some of us into that—today.

If you’ll stop pretending…
Stop defending…
Stop accusing…
If you’ll fall to your knees and admit what’s real…

You won’t be crushed.
You won’t be condemned.
You’ll be lifted.

Because the one who knows every broken part of you… also longs to restore every broken part of you.

James doesn’t end this by saying, “So try harder. Be better. Stop messing up.”

He ends it with a picture of mercy.

But he gives us more grace. (James 4:6)

So let me ask you—right now:

Where is God inviting you to stop fighting… and start surrendering?

Maybe it’s a relationship that’s stuck in conflict—because you’re still trying to win.
Maybe it’s a private battle—one no one else knows about—but it’s eating you alive.
Maybe it’s the way you talk about people. Or the way you talk to people.
Maybe it’s the quiet realization that your life has been all about you—your plans, your desires, your image—and it’s time to lay that down.

Wherever that battle is… James is inviting you to lay down your weapons and let God lift you up.

Let this be the day you stop pretending to be strong… and ask for grace instead.

Because that’s where real strength begins.

Alright, let me pray for you as the worship team comes to lead us in a closing song.