Be still, and know that I am God ~ Psa. 46:10

Chris Cousine

Jul 10, 2025

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Over the past couple of Sundays, I’ve had the distinct pleasure of sitting quietly in the pews of two different congregations—first with the local Anglican parish, and more recently at a PCA (Presbyterian Church in America) service. I wasn’t there to preach, or to teach, or to be “on.” I was simply there to worship. To sit with the saints of God, to hear the Word read and proclaimed, to receive the Supper, and to rest in the rhythms of historic Christian liturgy.

Have you ever had that “panting of the deer” moment? That longing for spiritual refreshment so acute you feel it in your bones? That sense that, more than another podcast or theological book or conversation, what you need is simply to be fed? That was me. I’ve been craving that kind of soul nourishment for a while now—something deeper than analysis or busyness or spiritual multitasking. I needed to sit, and be still, and be reminded.

And God, in His kindness, gave me exactly that.

During one of those services the pastor quoted a line I hadn’t heard or thought about in some time. It was from John Owen:

“Our great problem is not lack of effort, but unacquaintedness with our privileges.”

I nearly wrote it down right there and then.

That line hit me like a freight train. Owen, in his typically dense yet piercing fashion, had named a key reason so many Christians live defeated, discouraged, or distracted lives. It’s not that we aren’t trying. In fact, most Christians I know are trying very hard. We read the Bible. We pray. We serve. We confess. We go to church. We desire to be godly. And yet for many, the Christian life still feels like a grind—like striving uphill in the rain with a sack of guilt slung over your shoulder.

But what if Owen is right? What if the problem isn’t our effort, but our forgetfulness? What if the gap isn’t in our willpower, but in our awareness?

Do You Know Your Privileges?

When was the last time you meditated not just on what God requires of you—but on what He has given you in Christ? On what it means to be called a son or daughter of the Most High? On the reality of your adoption, your union with Christ, your access to the Father, your sealing with the Spirit, your inheritance, your future glory?

There’s a strange irony here. The New Testament is saturated with language about our privileges in Christ. We are heirs. Citizens of heaven. Partakers of divine nature. Ambassadors. A royal priesthood. More than conquerors. We are no longer slaves, but friends. We are seated with Christ in heavenly places. And yet, how easily we forget.

Instead of living as sons, we often live like orphans—trying to prove ourselves, earn our keep, or perform our way into God’s approval. Instead of resting in what Christ has done, we anxiously re-climb the mountain He already conquered. We become spiritual amnesiacs, working to obtain what is already ours.

This is not a new problem. It’s as old as Eden. Adam and Eve were surrounded by blessing, yet the serpent convinced them they were missing out. And ever since, Satan’s lie has been the same: “God is holding out on you. You’re not really secure. You’re not really loved. You’d better do more. Try harder. Be better.”

And we believe it. Not theologically, perhaps—but practically. We forget our privileges. And so we live like paupers while holding the title to the estate.

Would Anything Change If We Remembered?

What if we actually believed the gospel—not just for entry into the Christian life, but for every ordinary day?

Would our demeanor shift if we remembered we are sons and daughters of the King—not slaves, not spiritual employees, not cosmic disappointments-in-progress? Would our sin struggles lose some of their pull if we grasped the riches we already have in Christ?

C.S. Lewis put it this way:

“It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us—like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea.”

We keep going back to the mud. Not because the sea is closed—but because we’ve forgotten it exists.

We’re not talking about “positive thinking” or “name-it-and-claim-it” prosperity nonsense. We’re talking about biblical privilege—the kind that comes from being united to Christ. The kind that changes how we pray, how we suffer, how we view temptation, how we treat others, how we walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

We’ve been blessed with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places (Eph. 1:3). But we live like spiritual beggars.

Instead of Trying Harder, What If We Remembered Better?

Yes, effort matters. Discipline matters. Sanctification is not passive. But Owen reminds us that effort divorced from assurance, obedience divorced from adoption, will always lead to exhaustion.

Perhaps the way forward is not to beat ourselves up with more religious effort—but to begin embracing the reality of what we already are in Christ. Perhaps the answer is not to “do more,” but to remember more.

We don’t become holy by sheer grit. We grow in holiness by walking in step with the Spirit—by daily remembering who we are in Jesus and living accordingly.

So here’s a question worth pondering: What would change today if you truly believed you are already beloved, already accepted, already secure?

And here’s another: What practices—what liturgies of remembering—might help you meditate not just on what you must do, but on what you have?

I’m not sure what this will look like for you. For me, it’s meant slowing down in my devotional reading to actually meditate, not just consume. It’s meant incorporating reminders of my adoption into prayer—starting not with “Lord, I’m sorry,” but with “Father, thank You.” It’s meant learning to respond to spiritual dryness not with guilt-driven striving, but with grace-fueled remembering.

It’s still a work in progress.

But I’m convinced Owen is right. Our problem is not merely our sin. It’s our forgetfulness. Our unacquaintedness with our privileges.

May God grant us grace to remember.

And to live accordingly.