Romans 8:35-39
Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution,
or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword? As it is written,
“For your sake we are being killed all the day long;
we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered.”
No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.
For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come,
nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation,
will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord
The phone buzzed at 2 a.m. A diagnosis crashed through the silence. The pink slip arrived without warning. The relationship shattered like glass on concrete. The bank account flatlined. The anxiety surged like floodwaters, rising higher than you could tread.
Life throws haymakers. It corners us in dark alleys where fear whispers its deadliest lies: You’re alone. You’re abandoned. You’ve fallen too far. God has forgotten your name.
But Paul, writing from a Roman prison cell—chains clanking, guards sneering, death looming—penned the most defiant declaration of love ever written. He didn’t theorize from a comfortable study. He proclaimed from the pit. And his words thunder across two thousand years with undiminished power:
“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword?”
Notice Paul doesn’t deny these horrors exist. He doesn’t sugarcoat reality or peddle cheap optimism. He names the monsters—trouble that steals your peace, hardship that crushes your dreams, persecution that targets your faith, famine that gnaws your belly, nakedness that strips your dignity, danger that stalks your steps, sword that threatens your breath.
Paul knew them all. He’d been shipwrecked, beaten, stoned, imprisoned, hungry, cold, hunted. He’d stared death down so many times it became a familiar face. Yet from that crucible of suffering, he didn’t whimper. He roared.
“No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.”
More than conquerors. Not barely surviving. Not white-knuckling through. Not limping across the finish line, bloodied and defeated. More than conquerors. Victorious. Triumphant. Overcoming with strength to spare.
How? Through Him who loved us. Not through positive thinking. Not through human willpower. Not through gritted teeth and fake smiles. Through Christ’s relentless, pursuing, unshakeable love.
Paul stakes everything on this truth. He bets his life, his death, his eternity on it. Listen to his crescendo of confidence:
“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Death can’t separate you—Jesus conquered the grave and holds the keys. Life can’t separate you—every breath you draw happens in His presence. Angels can’t separate you—they worship the same God who calls you His child. Demons can’t separate you—Christ disarmed them at the cross and made a public spectacle of their defeat.
The present can’t separate you—He walks with you this very moment. The future can’t separate you—He already inhabits your tomorrows. No powers in heaven or hell can separate you—Christ sits enthroned above every authority, dominion, and name.
Height can’t separate you—you can’t climb beyond His reach. Depth can’t separate you—you can’t sink below His grip. Nothing in all creation can separate you—because the Creator Himself refuses to let go.
This isn’t wishful thinking. This is an ironclad reality. God’s love isn’t a feeling that fluctuates with your performance. It’s not a reward you earn or a prize you lose. It’s a covenant. It’s blood-sealed. It’s signed in the scars on Jesus’ hands.
When you stand at the graveside weeping, His love holds you. When the diagnosis devastates, His love anchors you. When the marriage crumbles, His love remains. When the job vanishes, His love provides. When the depression descends like fog, His love pierces through. When the addiction claws back, His love fights for you. When the doubt screams, His love speaks louder.
Nothing—nothing—can pry you from His grip.
The enemy prowls, looking for someone to devour. Circumstances conspire against you. Trials arrive uninvited. Suffering doesn’t ask permission. But you are not a victim. You are not defenseless. You are not abandoned to the wolves.
You are loved by the God who flung stars into space and knows every hair on your head. You are loved by the Christ who left heaven’s throne to bleed on a Roman cross for your redemption. You are loved by the Spirit who lives inside you, interceding with groans too deep for words.
This love doesn’t promise the absence of hardship. It promises something better—the presence of God in the middle of it. It transforms you from survivor to conqueror. Not because you’re strong, but because He is. Not because you’re sufficient, but because His grace is.
Thank You, Father, for a love that laughs at impossibilities. Thank You for refusing to abandon us when we feel most alone, for holding us when we’re too weak to hold on, for fighting battles we can’t win in our own strength. Thank You for Jesus, who descended into death itself to prove that nothing—absolutely nothing—can separate us from Your love. We are not merely survivors clinging to hope. We are more than conquerors through Christ who loved us, loves us still, and will love us forever. In His matchless name, amen.