Losing So the Gospel Wins: The Radical Call to Decrease
In a world obsessed with building platforms, how many of us are actually building altars? While everyone chases followers, who among us is truly following the Lamb? These questions cut to the heart of one of the most counter-cultural truths in Scripture: "He must increase, I must decrease."
These aren't just poetic words to quote on social media. They represent a complete inversion of everything our culture teaches us about success, significance, and self-promotion.
These aren't just poetic words to quote on social media. They represent a complete inversion of everything our culture teaches us about success, significance, and self-promotion.
When Comparison Replaces Calling
The story unfolds in John chapter 3, where an unexpected tension emerges. Two ministries are operating simultaneously—John the Baptist's and Jesus'. Both are baptizing. Both are drawing crowds. But then something shifts. A dispute arises among John's disciples about purification, and they come to their teacher with what sounds like a complaint: "Rabbi, the man you testified about—he's baptizing just like us. But everyone's going to him."
Can you hear the anxiety in their voices? The comparison? The competition?
John's followers had watched their ministry thrive. They'd witnessed the crowds, the baptisms, the movement of God. Perhaps their families were proud. Maybe they felt important being part of something significant. And now? Now everyone was leaving to follow Jesus instead.
This is where the temptation to compete always begins—where comparison replaces calling. When we start measuring our impact against someone else's influence, we've already drifted off mission. When you start counting followers instead of souls, you've lost sight of the kingdom.
The truth is stark: comparison is the enemy of contentment. It turns your brother into a benchmark and your calling into a contest. When your heart is insecure, someone else's success feels like your failure. But in God's kingdom, it's never a race for recognition—it's a relay of redemption.
Can you hear the anxiety in their voices? The comparison? The competition?
John's followers had watched their ministry thrive. They'd witnessed the crowds, the baptisms, the movement of God. Perhaps their families were proud. Maybe they felt important being part of something significant. And now? Now everyone was leaving to follow Jesus instead.
This is where the temptation to compete always begins—where comparison replaces calling. When we start measuring our impact against someone else's influence, we've already drifted off mission. When you start counting followers instead of souls, you've lost sight of the kingdom.
The truth is stark: comparison is the enemy of contentment. It turns your brother into a benchmark and your calling into a contest. When your heart is insecure, someone else's success feels like your failure. But in God's kingdom, it's never a race for recognition—it's a relay of redemption.
The Man Who Knew His Role
John the Baptist's response to his disciples reveals the heart of someone who understood his assignment with crystal clarity. He doesn't panic. He doesn't strategize about how to win back the crowds. Instead, he speaks one of the most profound truths in Scripture:
"A man can receive nothing unless it's been given to him from heaven."
Think about that. John is saying that everything we have—every gift, every opportunity, every open door—comes from God's hand. We don't have anything the Lord hasn't chosen to give us. This divine orchestration means that when we look at what others have been given, we're really seeing God's sovereign distribution of gifts and callings.
John then reminds his disciples of something they seem to have forgotten: "You yourselves are my witnesses that I said, 'I am not the Christ.'"
He's not the main character. He never was. He was sent ahead, yes, but only to prepare the way. And here's where John paints one of the most beautiful pictures in Scripture—the image of a wedding.
"A man can receive nothing unless it's been given to him from heaven."
Think about that. John is saying that everything we have—every gift, every opportunity, every open door—comes from God's hand. We don't have anything the Lord hasn't chosen to give us. This divine orchestration means that when we look at what others have been given, we're really seeing God's sovereign distribution of gifts and callings.
John then reminds his disciples of something they seem to have forgotten: "You yourselves are my witnesses that I said, 'I am not the Christ.'"
He's not the main character. He never was. He was sent ahead, yes, but only to prepare the way. And here's where John paints one of the most beautiful pictures in Scripture—the image of a wedding.
The Friend of the Bridegroom
"He who has the bride is the bridegroom," John explains. "But the friend of the bridegroom, who stands and hears him, rejoices greatly because of the bridegroom's voice."
Picture this scene: Christ is the bridegroom. The church is the bride. And John? He's the best man—the one whose entire job is to make sure the bride gets to the groom. That's it. That's his calling. And he's nailing it.
The best man doesn't try to steal the spotlight at a wedding. He doesn't compete with the groom for attention. He stands next to his friend, listens to his voice, and rejoices when the marriage is celebrated. His joy is found not in being seen, but in seeing his friend honored.
John declares, "This joy of mine is now complete."
Complete. Not lacking. Not diminished because the crowds left. Not insecure because someone else's ministry is growing faster. Complete—because he did exactly what God called him to do.
Then come those famous words: "He must increase, I must decrease."
Picture this scene: Christ is the bridegroom. The church is the bride. And John? He's the best man—the one whose entire job is to make sure the bride gets to the groom. That's it. That's his calling. And he's nailing it.
The best man doesn't try to steal the spotlight at a wedding. He doesn't compete with the groom for attention. He stands next to his friend, listens to his voice, and rejoices when the marriage is celebrated. His joy is found not in being seen, but in seeing his friend honored.
John declares, "This joy of mine is now complete."
Complete. Not lacking. Not diminished because the crowds left. Not insecure because someone else's ministry is growing faster. Complete—because he did exactly what God called him to do.
Then come those famous words: "He must increase, I must decrease."
The Cost of Decrease
Let's be honest—decreasing is hard. Our entire culture is built on the opposite principle: promote yourself, build your brand, expand your influence, climb the ladder. We're taught from childhood to compete, to win, to be the best.
But John spent his entire life in the wilderness, wearing camel skin, eating locusts and wild honey, pointing away from himself to someone else. His gift from God was to decrease. His calling was to be a voice, not a star.
And here's the revolutionary truth: You'll never really lose when your loss makes more room for Jesus.
When we give our time, treasure, and talents to the one thing that will echo for eternity, we're not actually losing anything. When we step aside so Christ can be lifted up, when we point others to Him instead of building our own kingdoms, when we celebrate another's success instead of competing with it—we're winning in the only way that matters.
God will never fill someone with the Holy Spirit who's already full of themselves.
But John spent his entire life in the wilderness, wearing camel skin, eating locusts and wild honey, pointing away from himself to someone else. His gift from God was to decrease. His calling was to be a voice, not a star.
And here's the revolutionary truth: You'll never really lose when your loss makes more room for Jesus.
When we give our time, treasure, and talents to the one thing that will echo for eternity, we're not actually losing anything. When we step aside so Christ can be lifted up, when we point others to Him instead of building our own kingdoms, when we celebrate another's success instead of competing with it—we're winning in the only way that matters.
God will never fill someone with the Holy Spirit who's already full of themselves.
Breaking Before Blessing
There's a reason God often wounds us deeply before He uses us greatly. Pride must die so His presence can live. Our cracks become windows for His glory. A broken servant reflects a whole Savior.
Think of a beautiful clay pot, carefully shaped and polished. We spend our lives making ourselves look shiny and presentable, protecting our image, maintaining our reputation. But what if God wants to break that pot? Not to destroy us, but so His light can shine through the cracks?
We resist the breaking. We want to keep it together, to maintain control, to look like we have it all figured out. But spiritual power isn't given to the proud—it's given to the helpless, the surrendered, the broken.
The bleeding woman who pressed through the crowd. The woman at the well trapped in sexual sin. The tax collector who could only beat his chest and cry, "God, have mercy on me, a sinner." These are the ones Jesus reached, healed, and used—because they knew they were helpless without Him.
Think of a beautiful clay pot, carefully shaped and polished. We spend our lives making ourselves look shiny and presentable, protecting our image, maintaining our reputation. But what if God wants to break that pot? Not to destroy us, but so His light can shine through the cracks?
We resist the breaking. We want to keep it together, to maintain control, to look like we have it all figured out. But spiritual power isn't given to the proud—it's given to the helpless, the surrendered, the broken.
The bleeding woman who pressed through the crowd. The woman at the well trapped in sexual sin. The tax collector who could only beat his chest and cry, "God, have mercy on me, a sinner." These are the ones Jesus reached, healed, and used—because they knew they were helpless without Him.
The Light That Shines Through
John closes his testimony with words that should arrest us: "He who believes in the Son has eternal life, but he who does not obey the Son will not see life; the wrath of God abides on him."
This is why decreasing matters so much. This is why we must let our pride be broken and our competition die. Because people are living under the wrath of God, blinded by lies, trapped in darkness. And they need to see the light of Christ shining through us.
Not our accomplishments. Not our platforms. Not our carefully curated image.
Just Christ.
The goal of the gospel isn't self-promotion—it's Savior proclamation.
This is why decreasing matters so much. This is why we must let our pride be broken and our competition die. Because people are living under the wrath of God, blinded by lies, trapped in darkness. And they need to see the light of Christ shining through us.
Not our accomplishments. Not our platforms. Not our carefully curated image.
Just Christ.
The goal of the gospel isn't self-promotion—it's Savior proclamation.
The Invitation to Decrease
So here's the question for each of us: Where is God calling you to decrease so He can increase?
Maybe it's in your workplace, where you've been competing instead of completing the work God gave you. Maybe it's in ministry, where you've been comparing your impact to someone else's. Maybe it's in your family, where pride has kept you from the brokenness that leads to genuine connection.
Wherever it is, the invitation is the same: Stop competing and start completing. Remember who owns the stage. Choose joy over jealousy. Decrease so Christ can increase.
Because when we lose so the gospel wins, we discover we haven't lost anything at all. We've gained everything that matters—the joy of seeing Christ lifted up, the privilege of pointing others to the Light, and the freedom of knowing our identity isn't found in our platform, but in our position as friends of the Bridegroom.
He must increase. We must decrease.
And somehow, in that divine paradox, we find our joy made complete.
Maybe it's in your workplace, where you've been competing instead of completing the work God gave you. Maybe it's in ministry, where you've been comparing your impact to someone else's. Maybe it's in your family, where pride has kept you from the brokenness that leads to genuine connection.
Wherever it is, the invitation is the same: Stop competing and start completing. Remember who owns the stage. Choose joy over jealousy. Decrease so Christ can increase.
Because when we lose so the gospel wins, we discover we haven't lost anything at all. We've gained everything that matters—the joy of seeing Christ lifted up, the privilege of pointing others to the Light, and the freedom of knowing our identity isn't found in our platform, but in our position as friends of the Bridegroom.
He must increase. We must decrease.
And somehow, in that divine paradox, we find our joy made complete.
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