There was a family at my old church that I used to low-key judge.
They were warm, generous, grounded people. The kind you actually liked talking to after the service — if they were there. Which, to be honest, wasn’t often. Maybe once a month. Sometimes less. They weren’t hostile or cynical or deconstructing. They still talked like Christians. They prayed before meals. Their kids were respectful and kind. The mum was often delivering meals to people who were doing it tough. The dad had a gentle way about him that made you feel heard.
But they weren’t involved.
No rosters. No small group. No men’s breakfasts. No commitment to the sacred Sunday grind. And I, being a young ministry leader with more zeal than sense, decided to subtly challenge that.
One day after church, I pulled the dad aside — casually, you know, just a friendly pastoral nudge wrapped in concern. “Hey, you know, we really love having your family here. Have you ever thought about plugging in more? I feel like you’ve got a lot to offer.”
He didn’t get defensive. He didn’t give excuses. He just smiled and said, “Thanks, mate. I appreciate that. But honestly… right now, my family is my ministry.”
I nodded, like I understood. But I didn’t.
Back then, I quietly filed that moment under “compromise.” I thought he was taking the easy road. Prioritizing comfort. Missing the call. Because in my mind, if you weren’t tired, stretched thin, and a little bit miserable for Jesus, were you even following him?
It’s taken me years to realize: That dad wasn’t compromising. He was wise.
He had boundaries.
And for a long time, I confused boundaries with disobedience — because I didn’t know Jesus had them too.
The Myth of the Always-Available Messiah
Somewhere along the line, I picked up a version of Christianity where availability equaled holiness. If you were worn out, it meant you were doing something right. If you had a margin, it meant you weren’t doing enough. And if you ever said no to a need, especially a church need, you probably didn’t love Jesus enough.
So that’s how I imagined him: Jesus, the divine doormat. Always on. Always giving. Always pouring himself out, regardless of cost.
But the real Jesus? He walked away. He said no. He disappointed people. He even let people down on purpose.
That’s in the Bible — we just don’t preach it.
In Mark 1, Jesus is healing people late into the night. The whole town gathers at the door. It’s a massive moment of momentum. But the next morning? Jesus is gone. Off in a solitary place, praying. The disciples find him and say, “Everyone’s looking for you!” As in, Come on — there’s still more work to do! More people to heal! You can’t leave now!
And what does Jesus say?
He doesn’t rush back. He doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t panic about letting people down. He walks away — because his yes to God required a no to the crowd.
That wasn’t an isolated moment, either. In Luke 5, when the news about him is spreading like wildfire, we’re told:
He regularly stepped back. Not because he didn’t care, but because he knew his limits. He wasn’t driven by urgency or people’s expectations. He was driven by discernment. Even when his close friends begged him to act sooner — like when Lazarus was dying — Jesus waited. He didn’t drop everything to meet their timeline. He wasn’t manipulated by the emergency. He moved at the pace of love, not demand.
And that’s the part I missed for so long: Jesus wasn’t always available. He was always faithful. There’s a difference.
Holy Resistance: When Jesus Said No
Jesus wasn’t just elusive when he needed rest. He actively resisted expectations. He said no to people — good people, religious people, even desperate people.
And somehow, we’ve sanitized that part of him. We talk about his compassion (which was real), but we ignore his resistance. His boundaries. His unwillingness to be controlled by anyone’s agenda but his Father’s.
Take his family, for example.
In Matthew 12, Jesus is teaching a crowd when someone interrupts him: “Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you.” In a culture where family obligation was sacred, this was a big deal. But Jesus doesn’t stop what he’s doing. He doesn’t rush out.
Instead, he looks at the people in front of him and says,
In other words: I don’t live under the weight of obligation. I live by divine intention.
That’s not cold. That’s clear.
Or think about Herod in Luke 23. The king was excited to meet Jesus. He wanted to see a miracle. He questioned him at length. Jesus said nothing. Not a word.
He didn’t feel the need to perform, to prove, to justify himself to someone who just wanted spectacle.
That’s a boundary.
Or in John 6, after feeding the 5,000, the people try to crown Jesus as king by force. He refuses. Walks away. Hides in the hills. He was never seduced by the crowd. Never driven by demand. He didn’t heal everyone. He didn’t answer every question. He didn’t even stay where he was apparently needed most.
Because Jesus knew this: You can’t bring the kingdom if you’re too exhausted to see straight. You can’t carry the cross if you’ve been carrying everyone else’s expectations all week.
Saying no wasn’t selfish. It was sacred.
Saying No Is a Spiritual Practice
In a world addicted to urgency, saying no is radical. In a church culture that often celebrates hustle in the name of faith, it’s downright subversive.
But saying no isn’t a sign of weakness or rebellion. It’s a deeply spiritual act — one that lies at the heart of Sabbath, of limits, of being not God.
The theologian Walter Brueggemann puts it like this:
In other words, to rest is to resist. To stop is to protest. To draw a line — even a gentle one — is to say: “I am not a machine. I am not everyone’s savior. I am not Jesus.” And ironically, that’s exactly how we become more like him.
Abraham Heschel, the great Jewish theologian, called Sabbath “a cathedral in time.” A place we enter not with our feet, but with our refusal to let the world define us by what we do, produce, or give.
Boundaries are modern-day sabbaths.
When we say no to another obligation, another expectation, another “just one more thing,” we’re not rejecting people — we’re creating space to care for the seed of eternity in us.
To breathe. To remember. To pray.
To be.
And maybe that’s the real invitation of Jesus — not just to take up our cross. But to lay down everything we were never meant to carry.
Faithfulness Isn’t Always Busy
I think about that church dad more often now. Back then, I saw his boundary as a lack of commitment. Now I see it as spiritual maturity.
He didn’t need to be at every service, every meeting, every church cleanup day to prove he loved Jesus. He was loving his family. He was showing up for the people in his life. He was drawing a line between what looked holy and what actually was. And somewhere in all that quiet, deliberate no — he was walking in the footsteps of Christ.
We don’t talk enough about that Jesus. The Jesus who withdrew, who delayed, who declined, who disappointed people, and didn’t feel guilty about it. The Jesus who said no, so his yes could mean something.
If you’re tired of being everything for everyone… If you’ve confused burnout for faithfulness… If your soul is fraying at the edges in the name of Christian service — let me say it plainly: Jesus had boundaries. You’re allowed to say no, too.
It doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you whole. Because the goal was never to please everyone. The goal was to walk in love — freely, wisely, and fully present.
Just like he did.
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This post was previously published on Backyard Church.
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