An artist sat alone in her studio, wanting to create her next great masterpiece. With excitement, she picked up her brush and stared at a blank canvas. As she looked around at the paints and tools surrounding her, ideas began to form. Yet each time she mentally walked through the process, she realized she didn’t have the exact colors or instruments to achieve the image she was envisioning. Without ever placing the brush on the canvas, she started over.

She began to pace the room, studying the possibilities, becoming aware of just how many tools she had access to, yet unaware of how complete the moment already was. What began as excitement slowly turned into anxiety. She could use anything—but where should she start? The abundance of choice overwhelmed her. Hours passed, and eventually she gave up for the day, deciding she would try again tomorrow.

That night, preparing for bed, she opened her journal to release the thoughts lingering in her mind. As she began to write, a vision of an art piece appeared with clarity. Exhausted and unwilling to return to the studio, she sketched it into the journal so it wouldn’t be forgotten. With each stroke, a calm settled in. When the image was complete, she smiled—not because it was perfect, but because it existed.

Freedom and happiness are often treated as destinations. They are spoken of as things to be obtained, as though once reached, everything else will fall into place. The problem is neither can be properly defined. There is no measurable limit to freedom or happiness. They exist whole and untouched. When a person encounters even a fragment of true freedom, its weight can be unsettling. What sounds desirable quickly becomes disorienting.

Scripture reminds us that freedom, when untethered, is not neutral.

“‘I have the right to do anything,’ you say—but not everything is beneficial. ‘I have the right to do anything’—but not everything is constructive.” (1 Corinthians 10:23)

Infinite possibility removes direction. When everything is possible, nothing is chosen. When life is lived only in potential, action is endlessly postponed. For something to remain perfectly free, it must remain untouched by decision, form, or restraint. But untouched freedom cannot produce life. It cannot create.

This is why Scripture does not frame freedom as limitless expression, but as ordered submission:

“You were called to freedom, brothers and sisters; only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for the flesh.” (Galatians 5:13)

Because we are natural beings, inaction does not leave us unchanged. Time continues regardless of participation. Even if perspective remains fixed, circumstances do not. When we refuse to move in the direction we are being called, we are still carried somewhere else. Drift is not neutral.

Scripture speaks directly to this reality:

“So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.” (James 4:17)

Conflict does not require intention to appear. It finds its way in when attention is left unguarded. Inactivity quietly hands focus to something else. This is why Scripture so often warns against spiritual passivity rather than overt rebellion:

“Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” (1 Peter 5:8)

Structure, then, is not the enemy of freedom. It is the condition that allows freedom to function. When boundaries are set, energy is no longer spent deciding whether to act, but how to act within them. This is where freedom becomes usable. This is where creativity begins.

The order of creation itself testifies to this:

“For God is not a God of confusion but of peace.” (1 Corinthians 14:33)

We are called to actively seek good, but we are also called into rest. Rest does not mean disengagement. When Scripture commands us to keep the Sabbath holy, it is not a call to emptiness. It is a call to seriousness—to weight and intention.

“Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.” (Exodus 20:8)

Holiness does not remove purpose; it concentrates it. A day set apart does not lose meaning—it gains it. Rest is not the absence of action but the removal of self-interest from action.

Even Christ clarified that rest was never meant to be passive abandonment:

“The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.” (Mark 2:27)

Consider silence. Silence is not the absence of sound—it is the space where meaning can be heard. Without silence, words lose their shape. Without rest, work loses its direction. Without restraint, freedom collapses into noise.

This is why Scripture ties peace not to freedom without limits, but to minds kept within order:

“You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you.” (Isaiah 26:3)

As this year begins, intention matters. Boundaries are not barriers; they are form. Within form, creation can occur. Within restraint, expression becomes meaningful. Within obedience, freedom finds its shape.

This is where freedom actually lives.