This narrative was created by Claude (Anthropic) based on a sermon titled "When Confidence Disappears" on 1 John 5:13-21.
The stadium lights blazed against the Pittsburgh night sky as Steve Blass took the mound in Game Seven of the 1971 World Series. The roar of the crowd was deafening—50,000 voices united in hope and desperation. This was it. Everything they'd worked for all season came down to this moment.
Steve
felt the baseball in his hand, familiar as his own heartbeat. He'd thrown
thousands of pitches in his life, maybe millions. The motion was instinct now,
muscle memory etched so deep he could do it in his sleep. Wind up, stride,
release. Simple. Natural. Effortless.
He
struck out the side in the first inning.
By
the ninth inning, the Pirates had won. Steve Blass was a hero. They carried him
off the field on their shoulders, cameras flashing, champagne flowing. He was
29 years old and on top of the world. An All-Star. A champion. A household
name.
"This
is what I was born to do," he told a reporter that night, grinning so wide
his face hurt.
He
had no idea that in less than two years, it would all be gone.
TWO
YEARS LATER
The
spring training facility in Bradenton, Florida, was nearly empty. Most of the
team had gone home for the day, but Steve stayed behind, as he had every night
for weeks. The pitching coach stood behind the plate, catching mitt ready, his
face a careful mask of patience.
"Whenever
you're ready, Steve."
Steve
nodded. He went through the motion—the same motion he'd done a million times.
Wind up, stride, release.
The
ball sailed six feet over the catcher's head and slammed into the backstop.
"Okay,"
the coach said, retrieving the ball. "Let's try again. Don't think so
much. Just throw."
Just
throw.
As if it were that simple. As if Steve hadn't been trying to just throw
for months now. As if he hadn't lain awake every night replaying the motion in
his mind, trying to find what had broken.
He
tried again. The ball hit the dirt three feet in front of the plate.
Again.
Wide right.
Again.
Wide left.
Again.
Over the backstop.
The
coach walked to the mound, and Steve saw something in his eyes he'd never seen
before: pity.
"Take
a break, Steve. Come back tomorrow."
But
tomorrow was the same. And the day after that. And the day after that.
Steve
Blass, World Series hero, couldn't throw a strike.
PRESENT
DAY - PARK AVENUE CHURCH
Marcus
Chen sat in the third pew from the back, same seat he'd occupied for three
years, his Bible unopened on his lap. He used to sit in the front. Used to
arrive early to help set up chairs. Used to stay late to pray with people who
needed it.
That
was before.
Before
the divorce. Before he'd failed to save his marriage despite all those prayers.
Before he'd watched his kids choose to live with their mother. Before he'd
realized that maybe God didn't actually hear him after all.
Now
he came late and left early and tried not to make eye contact with anyone who
might ask how he was doing.
The
pastor was telling some story about a baseball player. Marcus only
half-listened until he heard the words: "He simply lost his control. There
was no physical injury. He just... couldn't do it anymore."
Marcus
sat up straighter.
"No
one knows the exact cause," the pastor continued. "But among the
theories, one stands out: a loss of confidence."
The
words hit Marcus like a fastball to the chest. A loss of confidence. That was
it, wasn't it? That was exactly what had happened to his faith. No dramatic
moment. No crisis of theology. Just a slow, creeping certainty that he didn't
know how to do this anymore. That he was throwing wild pitches into the
darkness and calling it prayer.
"It
can happen in our faith walk too," the pastor said, and Marcus felt
suddenly exposed, as if the man was reading his journal. "We doubt our
worth. We doubt God's love and forgiveness, and we retreat. We stop seeking
God's will altogether."
Marcus
looked down at his hands. When had he last actually prayed? Really prayed, not
just recited words out of obligation? When had he last opened his Bible
expecting to hear something?
"If
you've ever experienced this kind of spiritual Steve Blass disease, you know
how debilitating it can be."
Yes.
Yes, he did.
ACROSS
THE SANCTUARY
Elena
Rodriguez heard the same words but felt them differently. She'd been coming to
Park Avenue Church for six months, ever since her sister invited her. She'd
given her life to Christ three months ago, kneeling at the altar during a
Sunday service, tears streaming down her face as she felt—truly felt—the weight
of years of guilt lift away.
For
two months after that, she'd been on fire. Reading her Bible every morning.
Praying throughout the day. Telling everyone she knew about what Jesus had done
for her.
But
then the whispers started.
"She
thinks she's so holy now."
"She
used to party harder than anyone. Who does she think she's fooling?"
"Give
it time. She'll be back to her old ways."
And
the worst one, from someone she'd thought was a friend: "God doesn't
forget, Elena. You think one prayer erases everything you've done?"
The
confidence had drained out of her like water through her fingers. Now she came
to church and wondered if they were right. If she really was forgiven or just
fooling herself. If God really loved her or merely tolerated her. If she was
truly a new creation or just the same broken person wearing a religious mask.
"False
teachers had infiltrated the church," the pastor was saying, "telling
them they weren't good enough. That they didn't know enough. That their sins
weren't really forgiven."
Elena's
throat tightened. That was exactly what was happening to her. Not from some
ancient false teacher, but from voices in her head and words from people who
should have known better.
"John
wants them to recover their joy," the pastor said. "Throughout this
letter, he gives them powerful reasons to be joyful: You are forgiven. You are
good enough. You are loved."
Elena
closed her eyes. She wanted to believe it. Desperately wanted to believe it.
IN
THE BACK ROW
James
Patterson had been a deacon at Park Avenue Church for fifteen years. He'd
taught Sunday school, led mission trips, served on every committee there was.
People looked up to him. Respected him. Called him a pillar of the church.
And
he was exhausted.
Not
physically, though there was that too. No, he was soul-exhausted. Weary in a
way that sleep couldn't fix. He'd been going through the motions for so long
he'd forgotten what it felt like to be genuinely moved by worship or stirred by
Scripture.
He
still showed up. Still served. Still smiled and shook hands and said all the
right things. But inside, he felt hollow. He'd lost the joy somewhere along the
way, traded it for duty and obligation.
When
had serving God become such a burden?
The
pastor was reading from 1 John now: "I write these things to you who
believe in the name of the Son of God so that you may know that you have
eternal life."
James
had heard that verse a thousand times. He could probably recite the entire book
of 1 John from memory if you asked him to. But as the pastor emphasized that
one word—"know"—something stirred in James's chest.
Know.
Not hope. Not wish. Not work really hard and maybe earn. Know.
"Sometimes
we think it's the Christian thing to talk about ourselves as 'barely
saved,'" the pastor said. "We think it's the humble thing to carry
around these doubts. But that lack of confidence is an affront to the love of
God."
James
felt something crack inside him. How long had he been running on empty, too
proud to admit he'd lost his way? How long had he been serving out of guilt
rather than joy, obligation rather than love?
"It
turns us into feeble, powerless Christians," the pastor continued.
Feeble.
Powerless. Yes. That's exactly what James had become.
THE
TURNING POINT
The
pastor was in full stride now, his voice rising with passion: "When you
have confidence that God is using you in His plan, you have energy. You have
energy to do things you didn't think you could do. You have energy to do more
than you thought you could do. You have energy to take chances you never
thought you would take."
Marcus
thought about the divorce support group he'd been avoiding for months. The one
where he'd have to be honest about his failures, his doubts, his anger at God.
What if he went? What if he stopped hiding?
Elena
thought about the woman at work who'd been asking questions about faith. The
one Elena had been too scared to talk to, convinced she wasn't
"spiritual" enough or didn't know enough Bible verses. What if she
just told her story? What if her messy, imperfect testimony was exactly what
that woman needed to hear?
James
thought about the conversation he'd been avoiding with the senior pastor. The
one where he'd have to admit he was burned out, that he needed to step back
from some responsibilities, that he'd been serving in his own strength instead
of God's. What if he was honest? What if admitting weakness was actually the
path back to strength?
"God
hears you," the pastor said, his voice softer now, "and He says,
'Let's work together.'"
THE
HARD PART
The
sermon moved into more difficult territory. The pastor was talking about sin
now, about praying for others who fall, about not losing confidence in fellow
believers.
Marcus
shifted uncomfortably. His ex-wife had started attending a different church.
He'd told himself he was done with her, that she'd made her choices and he'd
made his. But the pastor's words cut through his self-righteousness: "We
so often find love and forgiveness from God in our own lives but fail to extend
that same grace to others."
Across
the sanctuary, a thought occurred to Elena that made her stomach clench. She'd
been so hurt by the judgmental comments from other Christians that she'd
started avoiding them entirely. She'd written them off, decided they were
hypocrites, told herself she didn't need their community.
But
the pastor was saying something that challenged that: "When we become
suspicious of everyone, we will soon lose the joy of being part of a Christian
community."
Elena
realized with a jolt that she was doing exactly what had been done to
her—judging, dismissing, refusing to extend grace.
James,
meanwhile, was thinking about Brad Simmons, a newer member who'd been vocal
about some disagreements with how the church handled finances. James had
written him off as a troublemaker, avoided him in the hallway, even made a few
dismissive comments about him to other leaders.
"God
works with imperfect people," the pastor said. "If we're not willing
to pray for and offer forgiveness to others, we will become a bitter and
useless church."
The
words stung because they were true.
THE
CLIMAX
The
pastor's voice grew stronger as he moved toward the end of the sermon: "We
know that anyone born of God does not continue to sin; the One who was born of
God keeps them safe, and the evil one cannot harm them."
Marcus
felt something loosening in his chest. Safe. He was safe. Not because of his
performance or his perfect life or his successful marriage. Safe because of
Jesus.
"Even
though the world is under the control of the evil one, you know better—because
you are a child of God."
Child
of God. Elena let the words wash over her. Not a slave trying to earn
acceptance. Not a servant hoping to do enough good works to balance out the
bad. A child. Beloved. Chosen.
"You
were born again for this very purpose," the pastor declared. "I can
have confidence that as a child of God, whatever situation I find myself in, I
can confidently say to myself, 'I've got this.'"
James
straightened in his seat. Not "I've got this" in his own
strength—he'd been trying that for years and it had left him empty. But
"I've got this" because God was with him. Because the One in him was
greater than any challenge he faced.
"I
can do all things through Him who gives me strength," the pastor quoted.
"You can live like a child of God."
THE
WARNING
The
sermon was nearly over. The pastor's tone shifted, became almost urgent:
"John ends this letter in an abrupt and somewhat surprising way. After all
these profound theological truths, after all this talk about confidence and
assurance, he writes just five words: 'Dear children, keep yourselves from
idols.'"
Marcus
thought about the idol he'd been carrying: the perfect life he'd lost, the
marriage he couldn't save. He'd been worshiping at the altar of "what
might have been" for two years, and it had left him bitter and alone.
Elena
thought about her idol: the approval of others. She'd been so desperate to be
seen as "good enough" that she'd let their opinions drown out God's
voice.
James
thought about his idol: reputation. He'd been so concerned with being seen as
the faithful servant, the reliable leader, the spiritual giant that he'd
forgotten what it felt like to simply be loved by God.
"An
idol is a substitute for God," the pastor said. "God—the God who is
Light and Love—wants your heart. All of it."
THE
INVITATION
The
pastor's voice was quieter now, almost intimate, as if he were speaking to each
of them individually: "Years ago, John was fishing on the Sea of Galilee,
doing what he loved but knowing there was more. Then this man Jesus came into
his life. And when he met Him, John dropped his nets—gave up all that he had
known—and said to Jesus, 'I'm all in!'"
Marcus
could picture it. The nets hitting the sand. The look of wild hope on the
fisherman's face. The terrifying, exhilarating moment of complete surrender.
"That's
not easy," the pastor continued. "It's not easy to give someone your
heart. It requires trust. It requires faith. It requires letting go of
control."
No.
It wasn't easy. But Marcus was tired. Tired of half-measures and hedged bets.
Tired of keeping God at arm's length because he was afraid of being
disappointed again.
"But
John would say it's been amazing," the pastor said, and Marcus could hear
the smile in his voice. "'I have found love. I have found purpose. I have
found life. I have found joy. I have found confidence.'"
Elena
felt tears on her cheeks. She wanted that. Wanted all of it.
"'I
gave Him my heart,'" the pastor concluded, "'and He has taken care of
it—and He will for you as well.'"
AFTER
The
service ended. The congregation stood for the final prayer, and Marcus found
himself actually praying instead of just standing there. Not eloquent words or
theological statements. Just: God, I want my confidence back. Help me.
And
somehow, inexplicably, he felt something respond in his chest. Not a voice. Not
a vision. Just a quiet assurance that he'd been heard.
As
people began filing out, Elena stayed seated for a moment, letting the tears
flow freely. She'd spent so long trying to prove herself, trying to be worthy.
But the truth was simpler and more beautiful than she'd imagined: she was
already loved. Already forgiven. Already enough.
She
stood, wiped her eyes, and saw the woman from work—the one she'd been afraid to
talk to—standing in the aisle a few rows ahead. Elena took a deep breath and
walked toward her.
"Hey,"
she said, her voice only shaking a little. "I don't think we've officially
met. I'm Elena."
The
woman turned, surprised. "Oh! Hi. I'm Sarah. I've been hoping to talk to
you, actually."
Elena
smiled. "Yeah? Well, I've got time. Want to grab coffee?"
Across
the sanctuary, James approached the senior pastor, who was greeting people at
the door. "Pastor Mike, do you have a few minutes this week? I need to
talk to you about some things."
The
pastor's expression shifted from polite greeting to genuine concern. "Of
course, James. Is everything okay?"
"It
will be," James said, and realized he believed it. "I just... I need
to be honest about some things. And I need some help."
"How
about tomorrow morning? Eight o'clock?"
"I'll
be there."
As
James walked out into the parking lot, he noticed Brad Simmons loading
equipment into his truck. James hesitated, then walked over.
"Brad,
hey. Got a second?"
Brad
turned, clearly wary. "Sure, James. What's up?"
"I
owe you an apology," James said. "I haven't been fair to you. Haven't
really listened to your concerns. And I'm sorry."
Brad
blinked, clearly surprised. "Oh. Well. Thank you. That means a lot."
"Maybe
we could grab lunch this week? I'd like to hear your thoughts. Really hear
them."
A
slow smile spread across Brad's face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."
EPILOGUE
Marcus
Chen started attending the divorce support group. It was hard—harder than he
expected—to sit in a circle of broken people and admit his own brokenness. But
it was also healing. And one night, about a month in, he realized he'd prayed
before the meeting. Really prayed. Confidently asked God to use him to
encourage someone else who was hurting.
And
God had.
Elena
Rodriguez did grab coffee with Sarah from work. She told her story—the messy,
imperfect, real story of how God had found her and changed her. And Sarah
listened with tears in her eyes and asked, at the end, "Do you think He
could do that for me too?"
Three
weeks later, Sarah was baptized. Elena stood in the front row and cried tears
of joy.
James
Patterson stepped down from two committees and one teaching position. It was
humbling, admitting he'd taken on too much. But with the space that opened up,
he rediscovered what it felt like to read Scripture out of desire rather than
duty. To pray because he wanted to, not because he had to. To serve out of
overflow rather than obligation.
The
joy came back. Slowly at first, then like a flood.
ONE
YEAR LATER
It
was a Sunday morning, and Marcus sat in the third pew from the back—his spot,
still, though now he arrived early to help set up. His Bible was open on his
lap, marked up with notes and highlights.
Elena
was leading worship, her voice strong and clear. She'd joined the worship team
six months ago, still surprised that she had anything to offer.
James
was greeting people at the door, shaking hands and asking about their weeks.
Not the performative greeting of a man doing his duty, but the genuine interest
of someone who actually cared.
The
pastor took the stage and opened his Bible. "This morning," he said,
"we're going to talk about confidence..."
And
three people in that congregation—a divorced man, a new believer, and an
exhausted deacon—all leaned forward to listen.
Because
they knew something now that they hadn't known before.
They
knew that confidence could be lost.
But
they also knew—truly knew—that it could be found again.
Not
in their own strength. Not in their performance or perfection or past
victories.
But
in the God who is Light and Love. The God who hears. The God who keeps His
children safe. The God who sent His Son not just to save them but to give them
life—abundant, confident, joyful life.
They
knew they had eternal life.
Not
hoped. Not wished. Not wondered.
Knew.
And
that changed everything.
AUTHOR'S
NOTE
Steve
Blass never did figure out what went wrong on the pitcher's mound. He retired
from baseball in 1975 and became a beloved broadcaster for the Pirates. In
interviews years later, he spoke about that difficult time with grace and
humor, always grateful for the career he'd had, even if it ended differently
than he'd hoped.
But
the three people in this story? Their stories didn't end like Steve Blass's.
Because
while physical confidence can be lost mysteriously and permanently, spiritual
confidence rests on something—Someone—who never changes. Never fails. Never
gives up on His children.
The
apostle John wrote his letter two thousand years ago to people struggling with
doubt and fear.
He
could have written it yesterday.
He
could be writing it to you, right now:
"I
write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God so that you
may know that you have eternal life."
Know.
Not
hope. Not wish. Not wonder.
Know.
And
in that knowledge—that confidence—there is life. There is joy. There is energy
to do more than you thought you could do.
There
is everything you've been looking for.
You
just have to drop your nets.
THE
END
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