God Ruined Me

I don’t think we spend enough time talking about the disciples who walked away.

We remember Peter stepping out onto the water. Thomas doubting. Judas betraying Jesus with a kiss. John calling himself “the disciple whom Jesus loved.” Mary Magdalene witnessing the resurrection.

But tucked away in the middle of John’s Gospel is a verse that doesn’t get nearly as much attention:

From this time many of His disciples turned back and no longer followed Him.

John 6:66

Not the crowds.

Not the Pharisees.

His disciples.

People who had followed Him. People who had listened to His teaching, watched His miracles, and decided at some point that He was worth leaving everything behind.

Yet here they are, turning around and walking away.

I’ve often wondered what became of them.

Did they hear about Lazarus walking out of a tomb months later and wonder if they’d made a mistake? Did news of the crucifixion reach them? What about the resurrection? When stories began spreading that Jesus was alive, did they ever think back to the day they left?

It’s tempting to stand at a distance and critique people who walked away from Jesus after seeing so much. How do you witness miracles, hear the greatest Teacher who ever lived, and still decide He’s no longer worth following?

But I don’t think John records this moment so we’ll spend our time wondering about people who lived two thousand years ago.

I think he records it because every believer will eventually stand at a similar crossroads.

Not necessarily one where we physically walk away from Jesus, but one where following Him no longer feels as exciting as it once did. The prayers aren’t answered as quickly as we’d hoped. Obedience becomes costly. Scripture feels more like discipline than discovery. Worship doesn’t stir our emotions the way it used to. The excitement of new faith slowly gives way to the ordinary faithfulness of showing up again today.

Those are the moments that reveal what we’ve actually been following all along.

John 6 begins with one of Jesus’s most well-known miracles. Thousands of hungry people. Five loaves. Two fish. Twelve baskets of leftovers. The kind of miracle that would have instantly gone viral if smartphones had existed.

If you’d been there that day, you probably would’ve done exactly what the crowd did.

You would’ve been amazed.

You would’ve told everybody you knew.

You probably would’ve believed you were watching the beginning of something revolutionary.

And in a sense, you would’ve been right. The people recognized that Jesus wasn’t an ordinary rabbi. They had found someone who could feed them without fields, overthrow Rome without an army, and solve problems no one else could solve. This was exactly the kind of Messiah many of them had been waiting for. Who wouldn’t sign up for that?

The next day, the crowd followed Him across the sea looking for another meal. But then Jesus started talking.

Not about bread.

About Himself.

He spoke in ways that were difficult, confrontational, and impossible to reduce to a catchy slogan.

He told them He wasn’t simply the One who could provide the bread—He is the Bread of Life. He told them that whoever came to Him would never hunger and whoever believed in Him would never thirst. He invited them into something deeper than admiration. Deeper than amazement. Deeper than another crazy story to tell when they got home. He invited them into complete dependence on Himself.

The same mouths that had gladly eaten literal Wonder Bread now complained about His words.

I’ve always found that fascinating.

Nothing about Jesus had changed.

His compassion hadn’t changed.

His power hadn’t changed.

The miracle was no less miraculous than it had been the day before.

The only thing that changed was the direction of the conversation. The crowd wanted a Savior who would satisfy their hunger. Jesus offered them Himself.

And apparently, those weren’t the same thing.

I don’t think we’re as different from that crowd as we’d like to believe. We still come to Jesus carrying empty places in our lives that we want Him to heal or restore. And we should!

But it’s entirely possible to enjoy what Jesus can do without actually wanting Jesus. It’s possible to love answered prayer, Christian community, moving worship services, and the hope of heaven while quietly resisting the deeper invitation to surrender our lives to Christ.

Jesus never came simply to improve our lives. He came to become our life.

That’s a much harder invitation. It’s also a much better one.

When many of the disciples decided they had heard enough, Jesus turned to the Twelve and asked one of the most searching questions in all of Scripture:

“You do not want to leave too, do you?”

John 6:67

That hits me like a gut-punch.

He doesn’t chase after the people who are leaving. He doesn’t soften His teaching to make it more acceptable. He doesn’t take a quick poll to see how He could communicate more effectively.

He simply turns to those who remain and gives them the freedom to leave as well.

Real love can’t be coerced, and real faith can’t be manipulated. So He asks the question, “Do you want to leave, too?”

Peter answers with words that have only become more precious to me the longer I’ve walked with Christ.

“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

John 6:68

Note what Peter doesn’t say.

He doesn’t say, “No, Lord. Everything You’re saying makes perfect sense.”

Because it didn’t. The disciples were just as confused about the whole “eating His flesh and drinking His blood” thing as everyone else. Peter wasn’t pretending to understand everything.

He also doesn’t say, “No, because following You has been so easy!”

Because it hadn’t. Leaving their fishing boats had cost them something. Following Jesus meant uncertainty, criticism, and constantly having their expectations challenged.

He doesn’t even say, “No, because I’m still riding the emotional high from watching You feed five thousand people.”

The miracle certainly strengthened his faith, but it wasn’t the foundation of it.

Instead, Peter says something much deeper.

“Where else would we go?”

It’s almost as though Peter’s saying, “I don’t understand everything You’re saying. I can’t explain all of it. But I’ve come to know You. And knowing You has made every other option seem…small.”

I think that’s one of the most beautiful confessions.

Peter isn’t declaring perfect understanding. He’s expressing settled affection. He’s saying, “I know enough about You that leaving You no longer makes sense.”

There’s an important difference.

Peter’s faith wasn’t built on having all the answers.

It was built on knowing the Person.

Sometimes I think we assume maturity in faith means accumulating enough theological knowledge that we’ll never wrestle with doubt again.

But that’s not what Peter shows here. His faith still had rough edges. Within a year, he would deny Jesus three times. He would make impulsive decisions and misunderstand Jesus repeatedly. And yet, even with all of that, something fundamental had changed.

He had crossed an invisible line.

He moved from asking if God had satisfied his curiosity to asking whether anyone else could satisfy his soul.

The longer I’ve followed Jesus, the more I’ve understood what Peter meant.

There are things I once believed would satisfy me.

Success.

Approval.

Having everything go according to my carefully constructed plans.

Being comfortable.

Being right.

Being in control.

Some of those things aren’t bad in themselves. A few of them are even gifts from God.

They just make terrible saviors.

Success is intoxicating—for about five minutes.

Approval lasts only until someone disapproves.

Control is comforting until life reminds you that you’re not actually in control.

Comfort is wonderful until it quietly becomes the highest good.

Idols usually disguise themselves as perfectly reasonable desires that slowly become ultimate things.

Following Jesus hasn’t removed the temptation to chase those things (seriously—that’s one of the reasons why I still need therapy). It has simply exposed how incapable those things are of giving me what I keep asking them to give.

He’s ruined the illusion.

When my husband and I were dating, I made him my homemade pasta sauce (a recipe straight from my Italian grandma!). It isn’t complicated, but it takes hours of careful stirring and simmering.

Now he won’t eat jarred pasta sauce.

He tells people I’ve “ruined” him.

Could he eat jarred sauce if he had to? Sure.

Would it still technically be pasta sauce? Sure (in the sense that it’s wet and goes on top of cooked noodles).

But once you’ve tasted the real thing, it’s hard to convince yourself the substitute is just as satisfying. Your palate changes.

I think that’s what happened to Peter.

The world hadn’t stopped offering alternatives. Rome was still there. Fishing was still there. A quieter, safer life with his wife was still there. He could’ve gone back.

But Peter just couldn’t pretend those things compared with the One standing in front of him. That’s what I find so beautiful about his answer.

He doesn’t say, “Lord, there’s nothing else.”

Clearly there was.

He says, “Lord, where else would we go?”

The emphasis isn’t on the absence of alternatives. It’s on the incomparable worth of Jesus.

I understand that feeling more and more.

God has ruined me.

Not because He’s taken all temptation away. Not because I never find myself looking over the fence, wondering if life would somehow be easier somewhere else.

He’s ruined me because I’ve tasted something better.

He’s ruined my appetite for lesser things.

He’s ruined my ability to believe that success can finally satisfy me.

He’s ruined the illusion that other people’s approval can make me feel secure.

He’s ruined my confidence in comfort, control, and self-sufficiency.

He’s ruined the lie that anything created could ever satisfy me more than the Creator.

Once you’ve tasted Living Water, ordinary water doesn’t quench your thirst the same way.

Once you’ve eaten the Bread of Life, the world’s empty calories stop looking like a feast.

Once you’ve experienced grace that meets you at your worst, love that doesn’t have to be earned, peace that survives suffering, and hope that death itself can’t destroy, it’s impossible to go back to believing counterfeit things will satisfy.

The irony is that following Jesus hasn’t made me desire those things less overnight. Sometimes, I still want them desperately. My heart still wanders. That’s just the human condition.

But my soul knows better now. There’s a difference between being tempted by something and being convinced by it.

Before Jesus, I believed the world’s promises.

Now I recognize them for what they are.

They still call my name; they just don’t sound as truthful as they used to.

I think that’s one of the strange miracles of sanctification. God doesn’t simply take away our temptations. More often, He keeps revealing Himself until the things that once captivated us begin losing their shine.

It’s a slower miracle.

Less dramatic.

But no less supernatural.

I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord…

Philippians 3:8, emphasis mine

I love that phrase: “the surpassing worth.”

Not because everything else suddenly became worthless, but because Christ became worth more.

We aren’t called to pretend like the world has nothing attractive to offer. It does!

There are real pleasures.

Real achievements.

Real relationships.

Real joys.

The mistake is expecting those good things to carry the weight of ultimate things. Only Jesus can do that.

That’s why Augustine famously prayed, “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in You.”

I’ve discovered that every idol seems to make the same promise.

“This will finally be enough.”

Enough money.

Enough success.

Enough recognition.

Enough security.

Enough certainty.

And every one of them eventually breaks that promise. Not because they’re evil—because they’re finite.

Only an infinite Savior can satisfy an eternal soul.

And once you’ve experienced the goodness of Christ, every substitute eventually reveals itself for what it is—a substitute.

That’s the blessing and the burden of knowing Jesus. You become increasingly incompatible with the life you used to envy. The things that once enamored you lose their glitter. The idols you once protected start looking small. Even when your flesh still wants them, your soul whispers, “This isn’t it.”

You can still wander.

You can still chase things that promise life but can’t actually give it.

You can still buy into the lie for a little while.

But eventually, grace catches up to you.

You’ve chased this before.

You’ve trusted this before.

And it’s never delivered.

You’ve seen too much.

You’ve experienced too much.

You’ve tasted too much.

That old life no longer fits the person Christ is making you into.

He’s changed your appetite.

I think that’s where John 6 leaves us. Not wondering what happened to the disciples who walked away but wondering what kind of disciples we’re becoming.

It’s easy to read this chapter and assume the dividing line is between those who stayed and those who left. But I don’t think that’s the real dividing line. The real question is this:

What am I actually following Jesus for?

Am I following Him because He’s useful?

Because He answers prayers?

Because He makes my life easier?

Would I still cling to Him if all I had left was Him?

That’s an uncomfortable question, but an incredibly freeing one. Because Jesus never invited us to build our lives on His gifts.

He invited us to build our lives on Him.

History is filled with saints who lost their health, money, dreams, reputation, relationships, even life itself, and still refused to let go of Christ.

Why?

Because they discovered what Peter discovered.

Jesus wasn’t simply the means to a better life. He was the better life.

Little by little, He loosens our grip on the things we thought we couldn’t live without and teaches us to hold on more tightly to the One we actually can’t live without. Looking back, I can see that God has been doing that in my own life for years.

Every unanswered prayer that forced me to trust Him.

Every disappointment that exposed an idol I didn’t know I had.

Every season of waiting.

Every reminder that this world—even at its very best—is still not home.

He was never withholding something better from me. He was leading me to Someone better.

Maybe that’s why Peter didn’t ask, “Lord what else is there?”, but “Lord, to whom shall we go?”

Because once you’ve truly encountered Jesus, the question isn’t whether there are other options.

It’s whether any of them are actually worth choosing.

For me, the answer is no.

So yes…God ruined me.

And I pray He never lets me recover.

Lord Jesus, thank You for loving me too much to leave me satisfied with lesser things. Forgive me for the ways I’ve wanted Your gifts more than I’ve wanted You. Search my heart and expose the places where I’ve built my identity on anything that competes for Your throne. Teach me what Peter learned. Ruin my appetite for anything that keeps me from You. And if knowing You means I can never again be completely satisfied by anything this world offers, then let that be true of me. Because having You is better than having anything else. Amen.