I used to think spiritual maturity would mostly show up in what I became capable of doing. More wisdom. More responsibility. Better leadership. Harder conversations handled well. Greater opportunities entrusted to me.
In other words, I thought growth would look like addition.
But lately, I’ve noticed some of the clearest evidence of growth in my life looks more like subtraction. I don’t feel the need to explain myself as much. I don’t have to respond to everything. I can watch someone do something differently than I would without immediately stepping in I can recognize that I was wrong without spending ten minutes explaining why I was also kind of right. I can celebrate someone else’s moment without wondering when mine is coming.
None of those things would look particularly impressive on a résumé. Nobody gives you a certificate because you kept your mouth shut when you really wanted the last word.
But maybe that’s exactly the point. Some of the deepest work God does in us produces fruit that very few people will ever notice. And perhaps we’ve overlooked some of that growth because we’ve been looking for the impressive kind.
I love learning, I love developing people, creating things, solving problems, and making things better. Give me a problem, and my mind is usually working on three possible solutions before you’ve finished explaining it. For a long time, I probably would’ve considered my ability to do those things evidence of growth.
And in some ways, it is. But I’ve had to recognize that some of the things I consider strengths can become weaknesses when they’re not surrendered to God.
Wisdom can become the need to always have an answer. Leadership can become control.
Discernment can become criticism. Confidence can become the need to be heard.
Compassion can become carrying things God never asked us to carry.
Even strength needs surrender.
That’s why I’m beginning to think maturity isn’t simply about becoming stronger. Sometimes maturity is learning when not to use our strength. It’s having something to say and choosing to listen. It’s knowing you could take over and choosing to let someone else learn. It’s realizing you don’t have to prove what you know. It’s being able to defend yourself and recognizing that sometimes you don’t need to. It’s knowing you could carry more and finally being secure enough to admit that you shouldn’t.
That kind of maturity is quieter. But quiet doesn’t mean insignificant.
Galatians 5:22–23 describes the fruit of the Spirit: Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Goodness. Faithfulness. Gentleness. Self-control.
It’s interesting how little of that list relates to what we accomplish. It doesn’t mention platforms, titles, influence, productivity, or how much responsibility we can carry.
Instead, Scripture points us toward something much deeper.
Patience when someone takes longer than expected. Gentleness when correction is necessary. Self-control when our emotions are running high. Faithfulness when the work becomes repetitive. Peace when something remains unfinished. Kindness when frustration would be easier.
These aren’t necessarily the moments we share in a testimony or celebrate as milestones.
Nobody sees the internal battle of choosing patience when you’re exhausted or applauds when you choose not to send the text you wrote while angry. Nobody knows how badly you wanted to defend yourself but decided you didn’t need to, or celebrates the moment you recognize that someone else’s success doesn’t diminish your own.
But God sees.
And perhaps those ordinary moments reveal something about our spiritual formation that some of our greatest accomplishments cannot.
Because… it’s possible to become more skilled in ministry without becoming more like Christ. It’s possible to grow in knowledge while becoming less teachable. It’s possible to become a stronger leader while becoming a harder person.
And it’s possible to do beautiful things for God while neglecting the quiet work He’s trying to do within us.
The fruit of the Spirit isn’t something we manufacture to appear mature. It’s what grows as we remain connected to Christ and allow the Holy Spirit to transform us.
And fruit takes time.
Maybe one way to recognize growth is to pay attention to what has slowly lost its grip on us. Things that once controlled our reactions don’t have the same power anymore. The criticism still stings, but we don’t have to retaliate. The disappointment is still real, but it doesn’t have to define the whole season.
Being misunderstood is still uncomfortable, but we don’t need everyone to agree with our version of the story.
Someone else gets the opportunity, and somehow we can genuinely celebrate them. Something doesn’t go according to our plan, and we recover a little faster than we used to.
That’s growth. Not perfection. Not arriving. But growth.
Sometimes we expect healing and maturity to mean we never feel the old emotions again. But maybe maturity isn’t the absence of emotion. Maybe it’s becoming less controlled by it. The feeling can be real without becoming the decision-maker. The insecurity can knock without being invited inside. The frustration can speak without getting the microphone. The old version of us might still have something to say.
We just don’t have to obey it anymore.
I’m still learning. I still have days when I speak too quickly, take things personally, overthink a conversation, try to fix too much, or realize halfway through that my ego has quietly entered the room.
God is still tuning me.
But I’m learning to notice different evidence of His work.
Can I celebrate someone else’s success without making it about my progress?
Can I allow someone to do something differently than I would?
Can I receive correction without immediately explaining myself?
Can I listen without preparing my response while the other person is still talking?
Can I recognize my limits without feeling guilty?
Can I remain faithful when nothing extraordinary is happening?
Can I apologize without adding a defense at the end?
Can I be overlooked without assuming I’ve been forgotten?
Those questions have become part of how I’m learning to examine my heart. Not as another checklist to prove I’m growing. Actually, that would defeat the whole point. They’re simply helping me recognize where the Holy Spirit is working and where I still need to surrender.
And perhaps that’s the part I find most beautiful.
God isn’t simply developing us into people who can accomplish more for Him. He’s forming us into people who reflect more of Him.
Maybe you’ve been growing more than you realize. Not because your life has become easier. Not because you’ve finally figured everything out. And not because you’re carrying more responsibility than you used to.
Maybe you’re growing because something that once demanded a reaction from you no longer does.
You’re listening more. Defending yourself less. Recovering faster. Celebrating others more freely. Admitting when you’re wrong. Becoming comfortable with not having every answer. Remaining faithful even when nobody notices.
That’s growth, too.
Spiritual maturity isn’t always found in the things we learn to do. Sometimes it’s revealed in the things we no longer need to do.
We can be confident without needing to prove ourselves. Wise without needing to have every answer. Strong without needing to control everything. Faithful without needing to be noticed. And mature enough to realize that sometimes the greatest evidence of God’s work in us is happening in places nobody else can see.
Perhaps maturity looks quieter than we thought. Because the goal was never to become impressive Christians.
It was to become more like Christ.
Let’s tune in.
