Is God in your life?
I hope not. And I don’t mean that irreverently. I mean it logically. If God is in your life, then you are at the center. God becomes a supporting character—helpful, inspiring, occasionally summoned when things fall apart, but ultimately subordinate to your plans, your goals, your story. And Christianity, whatever else it is, is not a lifestyle enhancement with good moral advice.
The Christian story is not about God fitting into your life. It’s about you being invited into the life of God. That shift may sound subtle, but it reorients everything. It changes how we understand faith, obedience, suffering, joy, prayer, identity—and yes, how we relate to others. When we miss this, the Christian life quietly collapses into self-management with spiritual language.
One reason this confusion is so common is that we often look at the world, our lives, and even our faith through the wrong lens. And to be fair, this is not entirely your fault. The enemy doesn’t need to replace truth; he only needs to resize it. Hand someone the wrong end of the binoculars, and they can still see real things, but those things are distant, blurry, and strangely insignificant. Meanwhile, whatever is closest—usually the self—fills the entire field of view.
Good things shrink. The ego grows.
Comfort, freedom, technology, and success are not enemies of the Christian life. They are gifts. But quietly redirected and mixed with our pride and desires, they begin to tell a different story—one that feels perfectly reasonable: This is my story, and God is here to help me live it well.
We are already inclined in this direction because we are localized beings. We experience reality from the center of our own consciousness. Add to that a culture that constantly reinforces self-focus, and the result is predictable. Most of us have food, shelter, and a level of comfort that nearly every civilization in history could only imagine. These are tremendous blessings, but they also make it remarkably easy to believe we are kings. Not tyrants—just benevolent rulers of our own carefully managed kingdoms.
Then we place powerful devices in our pockets that amplify the illusion. With a phone in your hand, you can curate your identity, control your environment, access endless choices, and be present everywhere at once—while still feeling strangely alone. It whispers the modern creed: You are autonomous; you are in control; you can be whoever you want. No crown required.
Here’s the irony. We have never felt more powerful, and we have never been more anxious. Depression, anxiety, and suicide are at historic highs. If autonomy were the key to human flourishing, this would be difficult to explain. But the explanation is closer than we think. When you expect to be the center of the universe, reality becomes unbearable the moment it resists you. Limits begin to feel oppressive. Suffering feels unjust. Other people feel like obstacles. Even God starts to feel inconvenient.
Some have gone so far down this road that they believe reality itself must yield—not just circumstances, but even human nature. The world applauds, affirmation is offered, and yet something deeper fractures. The soul cannot survive long as its own god. We were never designed to carry that weight.
The Christian story begins with a necessary corrective. Reality is not about you. God is the author and the main character of the story. That may sound like bad news until you realize something astonishing: God wants you in the story—on purpose. Not as a prop or an extra, but as a beloved participant. Christianity does not erase the self; it places the self where it actually belongs.
So the better question is not, “Is God in my life?” The better question is, “Am I in God’s life?” And when you find your place there—when you step out of the exhausting illusion of kingship and into the reality of sonship—that is where freedom truly begins. Not the freedom to rule reality, but the freedom to live rightly, joyfully, and securely within it.