“You are a Christian — you can never be destroyed. Your situation is not to kill you but to prepare you for a new level.” Those words, once spoken by Late Prophet TB Joshua, are not mere consolations. They are eternal verdicts from a courtroom where grace presides over affliction. In a world increasingly haunted by uncertainties, betrayals, and the dizzying fall of moral compasses, the true Christian remains an indestructible paradox: wounded yet thriving, cast down yet not crushed, delayed but never denied. The situation you are in is not a coffin. It is a cocoon.
The noise of pain is often louder than the whispers of purpose. But divine curriculum is strange. It teaches backwards — demotion before promotion, wilderness before Canaan, silence before sound. It was in a prison that Joseph was preserved for the palace. It was on a cross that Jesus bore the passport of resurrection. The Christian life, then, is not a life of exemption from fire, but transformation through it. What burns others refines us. What weakens many wakes the chosen. For we do not merely survive the storm; we become the storm’s instructor.
In Nigeria today, where believers often find themselves mocked, marginalized, or manipulated, we must ask a deeper question: is suffering a sign of divine absence, or a mark of divine investment? Apostle Ayo Babalola once thundered, “You can’t see the throne without the wilderness.” His own life, punctuated by spiritual conflicts and miraculous revivals, was a testimony that heaven trains its generals in caves before crowns. The scars of a Christian are sacred signatures of future glory. Our breakdowns are only permitted when they build foundations for breakthroughs.
Look around: the world feeds on despair, thrives on likes, survives on deceit. But the Christian does not. We survive on the word or prophecy, on promise, on pain turned into praise. David, chased by a mad king, wrote psalms. Paul, beaten and bound, wrote letters that outlived empires. Even Jesus, bleeding on a tree, uttered forgiveness that still heals rebels. We do not walk through fire to entertain hell; we walk through fire to inherit heaven’s weight. TB Joshua’s statement is therefore more than encouragement — it is spiritual legislation. When you are in Christ, destruction loses its jurisdiction. You may be bent, but you cannot break.
What is a situation to the one who carries the Holy Spirit? It is a womb. A pressing place. A holy complication. And just as the eagle uses storm winds to rise, the Christian uses resistance to rewire. We are calibrated by crisis. Molded by mess. Favored through fire. And strangely enough, what the devil designs as a final blow becomes God’s starting point for a revival. There is no pit deep enough to cancel a divine destiny. None. The same Red Sea that Pharaoh saw as Israel’s grave became the very water that buried his own soldiers.
To be Christian, truly Christian, is to carry the DNA of the indestructible. “Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him,” said Job, his voice echoing not just as poetry but as prophecy. For what was lost was restored. What was taken was returned sevenfold. And in the calculus of heaven, pain is never wasted. It is multiplied. Recycled. Repackaged. Until your very shame becomes your stage. Until your setback becomes someone else’s syllabus. Until your midnight becomes someone else’s morning.
The youth of this generation must be told — especially in Africa, where faith is commodified and suffering often misread as failure — that every divine delay is not denial, but design. This is not motivational jargon. It is gospel algebra. If Jesus could sleep through storms, then storms are not signs of God’s absence, but the theatre of divine revelation. That marriage breakdown, that business betrayal, that academic stagnation — they are not the end. They are the enemy’s distraction. The real end is higher: a testimony forged in the heat of endurance, seasoned with wisdom, and soaked in glory.
Even the Bible declares, “Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all” (Psalm 34:19). The word “many” is not an accident. It is a roadmap. Afflictions will come — branded in disguise, dressed as disappointments, but they are vehicles, not verdicts. TB Joshua’s spiritual blueprint never denied suffering. He only taught that suffering is not the conclusion; it is the corridor. And corridors are only meaningful because they lead somewhere. Yours is leading to glory.
Africa must unlearn the belief that ease equals success. That blessing always wears designer clothes. That God is loud only when the account is full. No, beloved. God is often the loudest in the silence. He speaks in the storm, walks in the fire, whispers in the wind. Christians must be trained to embrace divine contradictions. Jesus, the King of Glory, chose to wear scars. Paul, the apostle of power, had a thorn. Your pain is not strange. It is spiritual alignment.
There is a rhythm to every season. God is never late, though we weep in the waiting. He is never absent, though we feel abandoned. And He never forgets, though we sometimes forget ourselves. It is your season of alignment. That sickness is not unto death. That delay is not denial. That heartbreak is not hell. It is heaven hiding something heavier. Something eternal. Something new.
Christians cannot be destroyed because we died already — in Him. And you cannot kill what has already died and risen in glory. It is the resurrection life that powers our persistence. It is the Spirit of the Lord that causes us to rise, again and again, even when men bury us with words, shame, or silence. Like the bamboo tree, we grow downward before bursting upward. Like the seed, we rot before we resurrect. And like gold, we burn before we shine.
There is a fireproof DNA in the believer. We may not escape every pain, but pain will not escape the hand of God. For all things — not some things — work together for good to those who love Him (Romans 8:28). Your story is not ending here. You are only in a chapter. And chapters close, but books continue. What you’re facing now is an introduction to elevation. It is not a funeral; it is a foundation. It is not your destruction. It is your consecration.
So rise. Not because it is easy, but because you are chosen. Rise. Not because men understand you, but because God has ordained you. Rise. Because the tomb is empty, the throne is occupied, and the Spirit is still speaking. Rise, for nothing — nothing — can destroy a Christian whose destiny is wrapped in Christ.
We do not end in defeat. We end in fire. Holy, refining, undeniable fire.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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