Before the Resolutions

Before the Resolutions: Finding Your Foundation for the New Year

The days after Christmas carry a peculiar energy. The tree that once sparkled with promise now sheds needles like confetti. The lights come down in impossible tangles. And somewhere between the leftover cookies and the credit card statements, we find ourselves staring down the barrel of a new year.

January arrives with its annual invitation: reinvent yourself. The gym memberships beckon. The planners sit pristine and hopeful. The promises stack up like New Year's Eve champagne glasses, each one declaring that this year will be different.
But will it?

The Pattern We All Know
There's a familiar rhythm to our resolutions. We start strong, fueled by optimism and determination. For a few weeks, maybe even a month, we're all in. We track our steps, log our meals, check off our goals. The motivation feels real, the transformation within reach.

Then life happens. The alarm clock becomes easier to ignore. The planner pages go blank. And that phrase we promised we wouldn't say makes its inevitable appearance: "I'll start again on Monday."

We don't begin the year planning to quit. We start convinced that this time will be different. Yet by mid-January, many of us can't even remember what this year's resolutions were supposed to be.

The problem isn't that we lack good intentions. The problem is that we're asking resolutions to do something they were never designed to do: hold our lives together.

A Different Starting Point
What if the new year doesn't need to begin with what we plan to change? What if it needs to begin with who we're trusting to lead us forward?

The apostle Paul offers us a radically different foundation in his letter to the Colossians. He doesn't open with a self-improvement plan or a spiritual to-do list. Instead, he reminds the church of something they already possess: "He has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves."

Notice the tense. Has rescued. Not will rescue if you meet certain conditions. Not might rescue if you try hard enough. Has rescued. Past tense. Already done.

Before you lift a finger to change anything this year, your biggest problem has already been handled. God didn't send helpful suggestions from heaven. He staged a rescue.

Rescued, Not Renovated
Rescue assumes something humbling: we couldn't get out on our own. Nobody needs rescuing from a situation they have under control. You don't call the fire department because you burnt your toast slightly.

Rescue means you were overwhelmed, outmatched, stuck in something darker than you could fix. And Paul says God didn't just pull us out of darkness. He transferred us into something better—a complete change of location and authority.

This wasn't a renovation project. It was a relocation.

That distinction matters profoundly. Many of us approach faith like a spiritual home improvement show. We want Jesus to remodel one room at a time. We'll start with our prayer life, then maybe tackle our attitude, but let's not open that closet yet.

But God didn't move into your old place. God moved you.

Your old address doesn't define you anymore. The old landlord doesn't get a vote. The old labels don't have authority. You've been handed keys to a brand new home under a different King.

The Center That Holds
Paul continues with an extraordinary claim about Jesus: "He is before all things, and in him all things hold together."

Not some things. Not just spiritual things. All things.

Your faith, your family, your finances, your mental health, your already-full calendar—Jesus isn't just involved in your life. He's the reason it doesn't fall apart.

When Christ isn't at the center, we can feel it. Life looks okay on the outside, but underneath there's tension. Anxiety increases. Patience shortens. The smallest inconveniences feel enormous. The school pickup line becomes a spiritual test. The hold music with customer service feels like a personal attack. The Wi-Fi drops for thirty seconds and it's the end of the world.

What's happening isn't really about the line or the music or the internet. It's that when Christ isn't at the center, life has no cushion. When pressure hits, even something small lands heavier than it should.

Most of us build our lives like Jenga towers, carefully stacking habits and goals and commitments, praying no one bumps the table. Then life reaches in, pulls out one block, and everything wobbles or crashes.

The answer isn't better stacking. It's a better center.

More Than a Vote
Paul makes one final, crucial point: Jesus has "first place in everything." Not just important place. Not just a seat at the table. First place.

We're often good at inviting Jesus to support our plans instead of asking Him to lead them. January turns us into vision-casting experts. We map out our goals and timelines, then pray, "God, please bless what I'm doing."

When the better prayer might be: "God, what are you doing, and how can I join in?"
One prayer keeps us in control. The other requires trust.

When Jesus is first, everything else finally knows where it belongs. The weight of holding your life together is no longer on you. You don't have to manage everything perfectly or carry the pressure of being your own savior.

That role is already taken.

A Better Beginning
So before the lists, before the planners, before the promises you're already hoping you can keep, start here:

You have already been rescued. You have already been transferred out of darkness into light. Your life is already being held together, even on days you're barely holding on. And Jesus is already supreme, whether you acknowledge Him or not.

This year doesn't have to begin with you forcing, striving, or controlling your way into something better. It can begin with you stepping into what God has already done.

Your goals don't disappear when Christ is at the center—they find direction. Your plans don't vanish—they find purpose. Your discipline doesn't die—it finds strength.

You're no longer trying to build a better life on your own. You're building on the One who already holds everything together.

And suddenly, this new year doesn't feel heavy. It feels hopeful. Not intimidating, but intentional. Not like a test you might fail, but a journey with Jesus.

Don't start this year with a list. Start with surrender. Don't start with effort. Start with trust.

Don't start with resolutions.

Start with Jesus.