“The Illusion of Control”

We live in a world that rarely lets us forget how uncertain tomorrow can be.

Every week—sometimes every day—we’re reminded of it. Headlines about markets shifting. Elections that feel volatile. Wars and rumors of wars. Supply chains, interest rates, layoffs, inflation. Even if we don’t follow the news closely, it still finds its way to us—through conversations, through notifications, through the low-grade anxiety that just hums in the background of modern life.

And in a place like Midland, we feel that uncertainty in a particular way.

We’re a people who pay attention—because we’ve had to. We read the market. We watch cycles. We’ve seen seasons of abundance—and we’ve seen seasons when things tighten. We’ve watched neighbors pack up and move. We’ve seen contracts change, commissions dry up, hours get cut, prices jump. We know stability can feel solid one moment and fragile the next.

So we plan.

We prepare.

We try to stay ahead.

And none of that sounds foolish, does it? It sounds wise. Responsible. Even faithful. Planning feels like maturity. Like stewardship. Like doing what adults are supposed to do.

We don’t say, “I want control.” We say, “I just want to be prepared.”

We don’t say, “I’m anxious about the future.” We say, “I’m being realistic.”

We don’t say, “I don’t trust God.” We say, “I just want to make sure my family is okay.”

There was a season when Yvette and I made plans we were absolutely sure—carefully, prayerfully sure—would last the rest of our lives. Plans that felt solid, stable, and responsible. Plans we assumed would carry us forward without interruption.

I’ll come back to that later.

For now, I want us to notice something together: planning itself isn’t the problem. Scripture never criticizes wisdom, foresight, or preparation. The issue isn’t that we plan—it’s how confidently we assume our plans will hold.

Because over time, something subtle can happen. What begins as wisdom can quietly become confidence. And confidence, if we’re not careful, can harden into something heavier—something that assumes tomorrow is already spoken for.

And that’s where James meets us this morning.

James doesn’t write to people who refuse to plan. He writes to people who plan very well.

“Today or tomorrow,” he says, “we will go into such and such a town, spend a year there, do business, and make a profit.”

Notice the tone. The certainty. The specificity. You can almost hear it, can’t you?

Clear timelines. Clear locations. Clear outcomes.

And what’s missing is just as important as what’s present.

There’s no mention of God.

No acknowledgment of dependence. No awareness of fragility. Tomorrow is assumed, not received.

James is not attacking calendars or ambition. He’s exposing assumptions.

So here’s the tension we have to sit with before we go any further:

When does wisdom quietly become presumption?

This sermon is not asking, “Do you plan?” It’s asking, “Who do your plans assume is in charge?”

And once that question is on the table, James won’t let us avoid it.

Godless Planning Is a Heart Posture, Not a Calendar Problem

James does not begin by addressing pagans, outsiders, or reckless people who refuse to think ahead. He speaks to believers—people who work hard, plan carefully, and think strategically about the future.

James 4:13a “Come now, you who say…” James is quoting a familiar voice. A reasonable voice. A voice that sounds like competence and confidence.

James 4:13b “Today or tomorrow we will go into such and such a town and spend a year there and trade and make a profit”

There is nothing immoral in that sentence. Nothing dishonest. Nothing obviously sinful. It sounds like a business plan—clear timelines, defined goals, expected outcomes.

And that’s exactly why James presses on it.

Because the issue here is not activity. It’s orientation. Not calendars. But confidence. Not planning itself—but planning as though God were unnecessary.

James is exposing what we might call functional independence—living as if tomorrow belongs to us, even if we would never say that out loud.

Notice what James does not criticize. He doesn’t say the people are greedy. He doesn’t say they’re unjust. He doesn’t say planning is foolish.

What he exposes is the posture underneath the plan.

There is no mention of God. No acknowledgment of dependence. No recognition of fragility.

Tomorrow is treated as guaranteed rather than given.

This is what godless planning looks like—not atheism, but assumption. Not rebellion, but confidence. Not loud defiance, but quiet self-sufficiency.

And this is where James presses close to us as a good pastor would.

Because arrogance toward God doesn’t usually sound arrogant. It sounds responsible.

“I’ve thought this through.”

“I’ve done the math.”

“I’ve accounted for the risks.”

“I’ve got contingencies. I’ve got backups. I’ve got a plan B and a plan C.”

None of those statements are wrong. But they can slowly begin to communicate something deeper: I’ve got this.

James isn’t condemning foresight. He’s confronting the subtle drift where planning becomes a way of managing our anxiety apart from God—where control begins to replace trust.

And here’s the key insight James wants us to see:

Godless planning is not a scheduling error—it’s a heart posture.

It’s the posture that says, “I know how this goes.”

It’s the posture that assumes tomorrow will cooperate.

It’s the posture that treats life as stable, predictable, and ultimately manageable.

And if that sounds familiar, it’s because we’ve seen this posture before.

Ecclesiastes showed us effort without God—working endlessly to secure meaning.

Babel showed us achievement without God—building to protect ourselves from vulnerability.

The rich fool showed us security without God—accumulating to guarantee life.

And now James shows us planning without God.

Different strategies. Same longing.

The longing to feel settled.

The longing to matter.

The longing to know the future is safe in our hands.

James is not shaming that longing. He’s revealing its danger. Because when planning becomes the place where our confidence rests, we stop receiving life as a gift—and start treating it as a possession.

And that’s why James doesn’t immediately offer a solution. He lets us feel the weight of the posture first.

Because before we can talk about surrender, we have to tell the truth about how confidently we’ve been holding tomorrow.

And that prepares us for what James says next—because once the posture is exposed, the illusion underneath it can’t stay hidden.

Life Feels Solid, but it is Always a Mist

After quoting the confident plans of the merchants, James asks a question that gently but decisively unsettles everything: James 4:14a “Yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring.”

That line alone would be enough. But James goes further—not to condemn, but to reframe reality. James 4:14b-c “What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.”

James does not say life is meaningless. He does not say life is insignificant. He does not dismiss planning or effort. He names something else—fragility.

A mist is real—like the fog that hangs for a moment and then burns off. You can see it. You can feel it. But you cannot hold it. And you cannot make it stay.

James is not minimizing life—he’s restoring perspective.

Because the illusion of control thrives when life feels solid. Predictable. Durable. When tomorrow feels like something we can manage rather than receive.

And most of the time, life does feel solid.

That’s what makes this so difficult to hear.

We sign contracts. We lock in rates. We set timelines. We build houses. We plan years ahead. And none of that feels imaginary. It feels concrete.

This is where I need to tell you something personal.

There was a season when Yvette and I made plans we were absolutely certain would last the rest of our lives. We built a custom home on a 33-acre ranchette—space, quiet, permanence. We didn’t think of it as a chapter. We thought of it as the end of the story.

This was the place we expected to die.

Everything about it communicated stability. Rootedness. Control. It felt solid.

And then something happened we had not planned for.

Not failure. Not collapse. Not even disobedience. Just interruption.

God began to redirect us in ways we could not have anticipated, managed, or scheduled. And suddenly what had felt permanent revealed itself as provisional.

Here’s the important part:

The plans didn’t fail—our assumptions did.

James is not saying that our plans are foolish. He is saying they are fragile. That the certainty we attach to them is often misplaced.

Life feels solid—but it isn’t.

It is held. Sustained. Given moment by moment.

And that’s what makes James’s image so unsettling. Mist doesn’t announce when it disappears. It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t wait for us to be ready.

Which means the danger is not that we plan—it’s that we forget how dependent we really are.

When life feels solid, control feels reasonable. When life feels predictable, confidence feels justified. And when life feels durable, surrender feels unnecessary.

But James reminds us that our lives have always been contingent. Always dependent. Always sustained by grace rather than certainty.

This is not meant to scare us. It’s meant to sober us.

Because the illusion of control is most powerful when everything seems to be working.

And James lets that sit.

He doesn’t rush to comfort. He doesn’t soften the image. He simply tells the truth: life is brief, fragile, and never fully in our hands.

And until we accept that—not just intellectually, but emotionally—we will keep planning as if tomorrow is ours.

Which is why James now turns—not to fear, but to surrender.

Because once we recognize how mist-like life really is, the question becomes unavoidable:

If life is this fragile… Who are we trusting to hold it?

And that’s where James leads us next.

Surrendered Planning Names God as the Decisive Reality

After naming the confidence of our plans and the fragility of our lives, James finally tells us what faithful planning looks like.

James 4:15 “Instead you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that.””

Those words are often misunderstood. They can sound like a religious add-on—a polite phrase believers tack onto plans after everything is already decided.

But James is not teaching vocabulary. He’s addressing posture.

This is not a slogan. It’s a confession.

“If the Lord wills” is not about hedging our bets or covering ourselves spiritually. It’s about naming who is decisive.

James is saying that surrendered planning openly acknowledges that God is not a footnote in our future—he is the author of it.

And that matters, because James is not calling these believers to stop planning. He doesn’t say, “Don’t make plans.” He says, “Plan as people who know they are not in control.”

This is not passivity. It’s submission.

Surrendered planning still thinks ahead. Still works hard. Still sets goals and timelines. But it does so with an open hand rather than a clenched fist.

It plans with humility rather than presumption.

It says, “This is what we intend,” while also confessing, “But our lives are held, not owned.”

And James presses this further than we might expect.

James 4:16 “As it is, you boast in your arrogance. All such boasting is evil.”

That sounds strong—but notice what James calls arrogant. Not effort. Not foresight. Not ambition.

Arrogance, in James’s view, is living as though God is unnecessary to tomorrow.

And then comes the line that delivers the sting—not sharply, but unmistakably: James 4:17 “So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.”

This is not about forgetting to pray. It’s about refusing to acknowledge dependence.

Sin, here, is not reckless behavior. It’s functional independence. It’s constructing a life where God is acknowledged in theory but excluded in practice.

James is saying that once we know life is fragile, once we know our plans are provisional, once we know tomorrow is not guaranteed—continuing to plan as though we are in control is not neutral.

It is morally serious.

Because it treats God as optional.

This is where the message sharpens—but not to condemn. To clarify.

Godless planning is not just unwise. It is a posture of the heart that says, “I will decide what happens next.”

Surrendered planning says something very different:

“I will plan—but I will not pretend.”

“I will work—but I will not boast.”

“I will move forward—but I will not forget who holds my life.”

And this brings the entire series into focus.

Ecclesiastes warned us about effort without God. Babel showed us achievement without God. Jesus exposed security without God. And James now names planning without God.

Different expressions. Same root.

A longing to matter. A desire to be secure. A temptation to live as though control belongs to us.

James does not shame that longing. But he does insist that it be reoriented.

Because the only plans that can bear the weight of our lives are plans surrendered to the will of God.

Not as a disclaimer. Not as a ritual phrase. But as a lived confession that says:

“My life is a mist. My future is a gift. And God—not my plans—is the decisive reality.”

And once that truth is named, the question is no longer whether we will plan.

It’s how we will plan—and who we will trust to hold tomorrow.

At this point in the letter, James has done something very gentle—and very exposing.

He hasn’t told us what to change yet. He’s told us what to notice.

So before we rush toward adjustment, Scripture invites us to sit with honesty.

Let me say the bottom line once here, because it helps frame this moment without panic or pressure:

Tomorrow belongs to God, not me.

That’s not meant to frighten us. It’s meant to free us.

The application is not to tear up your calendar, cancel your plans, or stop thinking ahead. The application is to ask a quieter, deeper question:

Where have I been presuming on tomorrow instead of depending on God?

And these are not questions to answer quickly. They’re meant to be held prayerfully.

Where have I assumed continuity instead of dependency? Not consciously—but functionally. Living as though what has been stable will automatically remain so.

Where do my plans leave no room for interruption? Where is everything so tightly scheduled, so carefully engineered, that there is no space left for God to redirect?

Where have I thanked God for outcomes—but not consulted him for direction? Grateful after the fact, but independent beforehand.

James isn’t accusing us of rebellion. He’s revealing a posture that creeps in quietly.

Because presumption doesn’t usually feel sinful. It feels efficient. Thoughtful. Responsible.

But Scripture is asking us to notice where confidence may have replaced humility.

Not to fix it yet. Just to name it.

Because until we tell the truth about how we’re holding tomorrow, we can’t learn to hold it differently.

One of the quiet lies many of us carry is that interruption means something has gone wrong.

That if plans unravel, God must be distant. Or displeased. Or absent.

But Scripture tells a different story.

God’s interruptions are not punishment.

They are not sabotage.

They are not cruelty.

They are mercy.

God disrupts our illusion of control because he wants to give us something better than certainty—trust.

Trust that doesn’t depend on outcomes.

Trust that doesn’t require guarantees.

Trust that anchors us not in what we can manage, but in who God is.

And this is where I want to say something carefully—especially in light of my own story.

When God disrupted what Yvette and I were certain would be our forever plan, he was not taking something from us.

He was reforming how we held the future.

He was loosening our grip—not to leave us empty-handed, but to teach us how to receive tomorrow as a gift instead of a possession.

And that’s hopeful.

Because it means God is not waiting for us to get planning “right” before he is faithful.

He is faithful in the interruption.

Faithful in the uncertainty.

Faithful in the space between what we expected and what actually is.

James is not trying to unsettle us for the sake of unease. He’s inviting us into a better way to live—one where peace is not dependent on predictability.

And that means the discomfort we feel right now is not abandonment.

It’s invitation.

Invitation to stop pretending we are in control.

Invitation to stop carrying a weight we were never meant to bear.

Invitation to trust a God who already holds tomorrow.

So how do we respond?

Not with vows.

Not with resolutions.

Not with promises we can’t guarantee.

We respond with surrender.

The action today is not strategic—it’s spiritual.

To lay down presumption.

To loosen your grip on tomorrow.

To name God—not your plans—as Lord.

Let me say the bottom line one more time, because this is what we carry with us into this moment:

Tomorrow belongs to God, not me.

That is not weakness. That is worship.

So in the space that follows, don’t rush to fix anything. Don’t feel pressure to resolve the future or clarify every next step.

Instead, allow the Holy Spirit to gently re-order how you are holding tomorrow.

Where have you been carrying the future as though it rests entirely on you?

Where has confidence quietly become assumption?

Where have your plans moved forward without ever being placed before God?

You don’t need to sort all of that out today. You don’t need answers. You don’t need guarantees.

You’re simply being invited to release what was never yours to secure.

So as we respond in song, let this be a moment of surrendered trust. Not forced emotion. Not hurried decisions. Just an open-handed posture before God.

A posture that says, quietly and honestly:

“Lord, I place what comes next in your hands.”

“I will plan—but I will not presume.”

“I trust you with the future I cannot control.”

And as you do, trust this: the God who asks us to surrender tomorrow is the same God who is already present there—faithful enough to hold every future we place in his care.

(transition to music)