I’ve spent so much time chasing sunrises.

I’ve planned entire road trips around where the light might hit the horizon just right. Hiked in the dark. Climbed hills. Walked through dewy fields or muddy trails, all for the chance to capture one perfect moment — the sky opening up in pinks and golds and purples, just long enough to take your breath away.

And sometimes, the view is everything I hoped for.

But not always.

Sometimes the clouds don’t break, or the angle is wrong, or I end up in the right place at the wrong time. The journey isn’t always wasted, but I can’t lie — it’s disappointing when I go to great effort for something that turns out… fine. Okay. Not awe-inspiring.

And then, one morning not too long ago, I woke up to find the most spectacular sunrise I’ve seen in years — right in my own backyard.

There was ice on the lake that morning, a sign that winter hadn’t quite let go yet. I almost didn’t go out with my camera — it was cold, and I wasn’t expecting much. But then I saw the color. Deep crimson, soft lavender, golden fire. The sky looked like it had been set ablaze and cooled all at once. It reflected perfectly off the ice, like a mirror catching the breath of God.

It stopped me in my tracks.

All that time I’d spent chasing sunrises across backroads and trailheads… and this was here. Waiting. No reservations. No miles logged. No effort but opening my eyes.

It reminded me of something that’s been on my heart a lot lately: we make things harder than they need to be. Especially when it comes to faith.

There’s a passage in Matthew 23 that hits me square in the chest:

“Then Jesus spoke to the crowds and to His disciples, saying: ‘The scribes and the Pharisees have seated themselves in the chair of Moses; therefore all that they tell you, do and observe, but do not do according to their deeds; for they say things and do not do them. They tie up heavy burdens and lay them on people’s shoulders, but they themselves are unwilling to move them with so much as a finger.’” — Matthew 23:1–4

These were the religious leaders. The ones who were supposed to be helping people understand God better. And instead, they were making it harder. Adding layers of rules and expectations. Turning something relational into something exhausting.

And I think we do that today more than we realize.

We take something as beautiful and life-giving as salvation — the simple, scandalous truth that Jesus did the work — and start building fences around it.

Do this. Don’t do that.

Dress this way.

Talk that way.

Don’t ask those questions.

Prove yourself.

We measure one another by standards that have nothing to do with the cross. And we look down on those who don’t perform to our expectations.

Worse, we do it under the name of “church.”

I believe in the church — I do. But I also believe that sometimes, the church needs to be held accountable. That our call isn’t just to attend, but to engage, to study, to ask, to correct when necessary. Not to tear down, but to call the church back to its purpose: pointing people to Jesus, not pushing them through religious gymnastics.

The Pharisees weren’t wrong to care about obedience. But they forgot the point. They forgot grace.

And when we forget grace, we forget the Gospel.

Here’s the truth I keep coming back to:

It’s not hard.

Believe in Jesus.

Trust in the One who laid everything down to bridge the gap we could never cross ourselves.

And from there, yes — pursue holiness. Love your neighbor. Let your life reflect the One you follow. But don’t confuse the fruit of salvation with the requirement for it.

I think about that a lot when I’m out chasing the light. All the miles I’ve gone trying to find something I didn’t have to earn. Trying to orchestrate what God was willing to give me right at home.

That morning on the lake, the colors exploded across the sky without effort. I didn’t have to go anywhere, hike anything, or fight for a spot to stand. I just had to open the door.

That’s grace.

It’s not about how far you go. It’s about Who meets you where you are.

The longer I walk with God, the more I see how much we complicate what was always meant to be simple.

We turn joy into duty.

We turn worship into performance.

We turn prayer into pressure.

We turn belief into behavior checklists.

And then we wonder why people are walking away.

They’re not walking away from Jesus.

They’re walking away from a version of religion that demands what it doesn’t give.

But here’s the beautiful, humbling part — God hasn’t changed.

He is still offering the sunrise.

Still reflecting His glory in ways we don’t deserve.

Still reminding us, gently and persistently, that He never made this hard. We did.

I think that’s part of what Ecclesiastes 7:29 is getting at:

“This only have I found: God created mankind upright, but they have gone in search of many schemes.”

We were made for simplicity. For connection. For grace.

But we wander. We overthink. We add conditions. We search for complicated when God is standing in the clearing saying, “Come to Me.”

So maybe today is the reminder to stop striving.

To look around.

To see the sunrise on your own lake.

You don’t have to go far. You don’t have to work harder.

You just have to look up.

Because grace is here.

Not because you earned it, but because God delights in giving it.

Not because you went the extra mile, but because Jesus already did.

Not because your theology is flawless, but because His love is.

And that should be enough.