The Key to Spiritual Growth: Surrender

I remember a season in my life that felt like a slow-motion collapse. Karen, and I had five small children we were raising. Toys and diapers seemed to be scattered everywhere. My job hadn’t worked out. We were in survival mode, heads down, trying to make it through each day. ​

In the midst of this, I was doggedly giving my all to God. But deep down, I was exhausted, clinging to control, and afraid to let go. I was rendering to him what I thought he wanted.

Render is a word we don’t use much. But we read it in the Bible. When asked if we should pay taxes, Jesus answered, “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.” In other words, “if you owe it, pay it.”​

The Illusion of Control

In those days, I was rendering nonstop, hoping my efforts would sustain us. Rendering is active and transactional. It’s the artist painting, it’s the helper assisting, and it’s the leader strategizing. And that was me. But beneath the surface, I was driven by fear and a desperate need to maintain control.

The Call to Surrender

Then came the breaking point. My strength wasn’t enough. My plans were faltering. I was weary. ​I was doing everything I could. I was rendering—offering prayers, time, money, belief. We had surrendered our comfort. But the truth was, I hadn’t fully surrendered my expectations. I still clung to the belief that if I just rendered enough, if I did my part well enough, God would give us the outcome I wanted.

But God isn’t a transaction. He’s a Father. And sometimes, a good Father says no. Or not yet. Or simply holds us in our ache without explanation.

Rendering: Doing for God

Are you rendering or surrendering? Maybe your caught up in a cycle of rendering and don’t know how to break free. It’s easy to get caught up in rendering—doing, producing, offering. The artist renders beauty. The servant renders help. The disciple renders obedience. For most of my life, I’ve rendered nonstop for the sake of the Kingdom. Missions, leadership, writing, mentoring—I’ve tried so hard.

And it felt noble and sacrificial. But sometimes, if I’m honest, it also felt like control. As if I could serve my way into favor. As if my offering could shape the outcome.

We render because it’s measurable. It’s active. It feels powerful.

But there comes a moment for all of us when rendering runs out of steam. When the need is too deep. When the healing doesn’t come. When our kids are still struggling. When the marriage doesn’t get better. When we realize we can’t fix what’s broken.

Surrender: Letting Go to Be Held

That’s when the deeper invitation comes. Not to do more, but to let go.

Surrender isn’t glamorous. It’s often quiet and hidden. Sometimes it feels like failure. But it’s in that place—on the other side of our limits—that God meets us.

I had to surrender not just the outcome—but my right to understand the outcome.

And in that surrender, something unexpected happened: peace. Not a peace that explained everything, but a peace that held me in the tension. A peace that whispered, “You’re not alone.”

Rendering from Surrender

Don’t get me wrong—rendering is still beautiful. It’s part of how we reflect God’s image, how we love the world around us. But it has to come from a surrendered heart.

Otherwise, it’s just performance.

The artist creates most powerfully not from ego, but from brokenness. The servant offers most freely not from guilt, but from grace. The disciple follows best not by force, but by faith.

When we surrender, rendering becomes a joy—not a burden. It becomes worship—not work.

An Invitation

If you’re tired from trying so hard, maybe it’s time to stop doing and start yielding. Maybe the healing hasn’t come because the real healing needs to start in you. Maybe God isn’t asking you to render anything right now—just to surrender everything.

Not as a last resort, but as your first response.

Lay it down. The outcomes. The expectations. The need to understand. The pride that says you’re the fixer.

Let it fall to the ground.

And in that empty space, you might just find the presence of a Father who’s been waiting—not for your performance, but for your heart.