YOU DON’T KNOW ME
You ever notice how some of the most dangerous things in life don’t make any noise? They don’t roar, they don’t rattle the cage, they just sit there quietly—waiting to trip you up.
And one of the biggest? Familiarity.
Familiarity whispers, “I know who you are. I know your story. I know where you came from.” And it says it like that’s the whole truth. But it isn’t.
Jesus dealt with this Himself. Mark chapter 6 tells us He went back home to Nazareth. Now, you’d think His hometown would throw a parade, right? He’s out here healing the sick, teaching with authority, doing miracles nobody has ever seen. But instead of celebrating Him, they cut Him down. They said, “He’s just a carpenter, the son of Mary.”
That wasn’t just a casual remark—it was an insult. In that culture, calling a man by his mother’s name was a way of questioning his legitimacy. They were basically saying, “We know who you are. We know your family. Don’t act bigger than what we’ve seen.”
They couldn’t see past the sawdust to recognize the Savior. They missed the Messiah because they thought they already had Him figured out.
And here’s what that means for you: if they did it to Jesus, they’ll do it to you.
Think about it. You show up at a family cookout, and before you even sit down, somebody’s bringing up, “Remember when…” They remind you of mistakes you made years ago, as if that’s still your résumé. They keep trying to put you back in an old box that doesn’t fit anymore.
And if you’re not careful, you’ll start to believe them. You’ll start living by their memory of you instead of God’s vision for you. That’s what I call the prison of perception.
Mark goes on to say something that blows my mind: because of their unbelief, Jesus couldn’t do many miracles there. Not because His power ran out, but because their faith ran dry. Their doubt created a climate where the supernatural couldn’t breathe.
Unbelief doesn’t shrink God—it just shrinks your access to Him.
And here’s the truth: sometimes the person hardest to convince isn’t your family or your friends—it’s you. You hear the whispers in your own head. “You’re not enough. You’re not holy enough. You’re just a carpenter.” And before you know it, you’re praying small prayers to a big God, because you’ve let unbelief set the atmosphere inside your own heart.
But grace isn’t just a story about yesterday—it’s power for right now.
That’s why 2 Corinthians 5:17 hits so hard: “If anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: the old has gone, the new is here.”
That means Heaven already updated your file. Your past isn’t your prison—it’s your testimony. Your identity isn’t stuck where people left it—it’s defined by the One who saved you.
So the next time the enemy comes dragging up old labels, you’ve got a response ready: “You don’t know me like that anymore.”
The next time someone tries to hold you to an old version of yourself, you can smile and say, “That was me then. But this is me now.”
So here’s what I want you to sit with this week:
Where are you still letting familiarity hold you back?
Who are you listening to more—Nazareth, or Heaven?
And what would shift in your life if you really believed what God says about you?
Because they thought they knew Jesus—but they didn’t. And they may think they know you—but they don’t know the you God has called.
You’re not a prisoner of the past. You’re a pioneer of purpose.
And the next time those old voices rise up, you can stand firm in grace and declare, “You don’t know me like that anymore.”
