gOD, bREAK mY hEART

If you know me, you know a huge part of my testimony is about living the lukewarm lifestyle. The role of one foot in the church and one foot out. Living a life of knowledge that canceled out any real depth, any fruit of a life renewed. A life where the acknowledgement of a risen King was nothing more than a habit or routine. 

This place of spiritual apathy, if not the most dangerous place of being, is a massive area of destruction for us as believers. 

Revelation 3:15-16 “ I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were either cold or hot! So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth.”

The book of Revelation paints a blunt picture of the consequences when we tamper the line of hot and cold. To obtain a life of apathetic approaches to a sacred calling diminishes the power of the holy gospel. 

But spiritual apathy doesn’t just show up overnight. It’s slow. Subtle. It creeps in over time, and often, we don’t even recognize it until we’re standing in a place where the things that once stirred our hearts now feel distant and unimportant.

The root of spiritual apathy often lies in a disconnected heart—a heart that has unknowingly distanced itself from God, whether through distraction, disappointment, sin, or the dull weight of routine. And at its core, spiritual apathy is an issue of worship. Because we are always worshiping something. The question is, what are we worshiping?

For me, I didn’t even realize that I had allowed idolatry to take root in my life. Idolatry isn’t always obvious. Sometimes it looks like an obsession with wealth or status, but other times, it’s more subtle. It’s when we start placing our hope, security, and identity in people, dreams, or even our own abilities. It’s when we unknowingly elevate something—anything—above God. And we do this all the time.

I had unknowingly built my faith around what God could do for me rather than who He is. My prayers sounded like this:

• God, how can You love me? Instead of God, how can I love You?

• God, will You speak to me? But I rarely spoke to Him.

• God, will You provide for my desires? But I ceased to thank Him.

• God, do You even see me? Yet my eyes were fixed on the world.

My prayers were self-focused. I lacked reverence for the King. I rarely beheld Him. And because of that, my worship was tainted—it was no longer about exalting Him, but about what He could give me. My life lacked purity of worship and the conscious belief that He is a holy Father.

Jackie Hill Perry says in Holier Than Thou, “Idol worship surely leads to futility of thought and the darkening of the mind’s ability to understand.”

We don’t like to think of ourselves as idolaters, but idolatry is always an exchange. We trade God’s glory for something else. We strip Him of His holiness to make Him more manageable—more convenient for our lives. Charles Spurgeon put it this way:

“It is too common for men to fancy God not as He is, but as they would have Him—stripping Him of His excellence for their own security.”

So much of our showing up in the church is measured by what we want it to give us- or even more dangerously how it will validate us. Sitting pretty and a posture crafted by a consumeristic ideology- and the moment we are offended, we excuse ourselves out, blaming it on the volume of the worship or size of the church. 

We’ve positioned ourselves at the center, looking around for the next good hand, praying inward prayers exclusively. I had either lost, or never acknowledged God has holy, holy, holy. 

The antidote for the apathetic believer has to be met with purifying refinement, which very rarely roots with mere annoyances or inconveniences. The times we are strengthened, built up, and transformed come from knee-bent grief and suffering. 

Unfortunately, many of us don’t make it to step one- the confession of a hardened heart. We don’t make it to the stage of acknowledgment because we are so buried in pride, we don’t bat an eye to teachability. 

I remember being in highschool, sitting on the edge of my mom’s bed. She looked at me and said, “Emma, what is going on? You clearly are carrying something, and you aren’t hiding it well. It’s written all over your face.” 

After going in circles, I expressed to her that I read my Bible without caring and that scriptures held no weight. Worship was boring, and I didn’t care anymore. 

From there, I had expected a comforting mother to tell me that was normal and just a phase, but she chose the loving answer, which was the brutal answer. 

Her response, “ Emma, you have a hard heart.”

I exposed the symptoms of her statement in my immediate defensiveness. Riding off every word she said revealed what is true- my heart was hard, and the route to softening it would come by breaking. It went as far as praying it, and being willing to pray it. 

To be in such desperation of so much more, to feel something again, and for childlike faith to be renewed- it pushes you to pray dangerous things, “ God, break my heart. Break my heart for what breaks yours.” 

And He will do it. Not by anger or wrath, but purely in love.

 To allow us to walk in the pruning we need to grow, shepherding us back to the road less traveled. 

He did it that year, He removed the thing I had placed in His position. Even the good things sent by Him, perhaps things I eventually took rather than received. They had to be removed for a season. All had to be stripped till all that was left was Him.

Psalm 51:17 says, “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, You will not despise.”

When we ask God to break our hearts, He often does it by exposing the things we’ve held too tightly—the things that have taken His rightful place. And when He reveals those things, we are left with nothing to do but surrender.

A pattern I have grown to recognize in my own life is my tendency to idolize. People and passions take the crown, leaving Christ for leftovers in the day. Yet again, these idols must be broken down.

For me, it took heartbreak to recognize the depth of my own idolatry. There was a season when I thought I was moving to Nashville, pursuing a serious relationship with someone I truly thought I would marry, and stepping into what I believed was my calling. I had dreams, expectations, and plans that I had fully committed myself to. And then, in an instant, those things were removed.

I was devastated. I felt like I was in crisis, and in that place, I had to face a painful truth: I had placed my identity, my purpose, and my hope in things other than God. Even though these things weren’t inherently bad, I had unknowingly positioned them above Him. I had been in communion with the world more than I had been in communion with the Father.

And then, when those things were stripped away, I was left standing in the raw reality of my faith.

Job 9:4 says, “He is wise in heart and mighty in strength—who has hardened himself against Him and succeeded?” The answer? No one.

But here’s what I didn’t understand then—it is in the place of suffering and lament where distraction, sin, and compromise are exposed.When we are comfortable, we don’t confront the things that are keeping us from God.When we are distracted, we don’t notice how far we’ve drifted.When everything in life is easy, we don’t recognize our desperate need for Him.

But when God breaks our hearts?That’s when the layers start to peel back. That’s when the walls come down. That’s when we see what we’ve been blind to for so long.

The breaking isn’t punishment. It’s mercy. It’s God pulling us out of our numbness and bringing us back to life.

And yet, despite that—despite my inconsistency, my wandering, my forgetfulness—He still pursued me.

Not because I deserved it. Not because I had anything to offer.

But because He is love.

And that love doesn’t waver when my passion does.That love doesn’t withdraw when my heart grows cold.That love doesn’t lessen when I fail. It stays.It remains. And it calls me back. Not with shame. Not with anger. But with grace.

In this place, I felt the Lord whisper: the place of heartbreak is the place of holy ground. In the pit of deepest grief, He is close, He is near.

He comes down low, meets us where we are, and lifts us up. He weeps with us, moves with perfect empathy, and begins the process of restoration. And what He takes, He fills. And He fills it in fullness, looking eye to eye, singing songs of deliverance over us. 

So if you find yourself in a season of spiritual apathy, feeling distant from God, struggling to care, or questioning where He is—start with an honest prayer. Even if all you can say is, Lord, break my heart for what breaks yours. 

Because revival doesn’t start with striving. It starts with surrender. It starts when we finally say, God, You are worthy. You are holy. I don’t want a faith that revolves around me—I want a faith that exalts You. Where I seek the Giver and not the gift, the Helper and not the help, the holy and blameless Savior.

Everything I have I lay at your feet, and everything I do is unto your Name.