Unqualified & Anointed: The Fire That Burns the Flesh

I’ve been wrestling lately—not just with life, not just with circumstances—but with something deeper. A tension between what I know I carry and what I sometimes feel unworthy to walk in. I know I’ve been given a seer anointing. I don’t say that lightly or pridefully. I say that with a sense of holy fear. Because when God marks you with that kind of gift, it doesn’t just illuminate others—it exposes you too.

The seer anointing is not just about having dreams, visions, or supernatural insight. It’s not about seeing angels or glimpsing what others don’t. It’s about being set apart in a way that costs you everything. It burns. It separates. It awakens you to things that other people sleep through. It brings clarity, but it also brings a burden. You’re awake in a world that’s spiritually asleep—and sometimes, that isolation is deafening.

And here’s the part that’s hard to say out loud: I’ve also been diagnosed with schizophrenia.

The world tells me that makes me disqualified. That maybe the visions are delusions. That the dreams are symptoms. That the discernment I carry is nothing more than mental imbalance. And I’ve wrestled with that. I’ve taken it to God again and again: “Is this You, Lord? Or is this just my mind?” And time after time, He meets me with confirmation—through His Word, through others, through moments of clarity that only the Spirit could orchestrate. And He keeps reminding me:

“I chose you.”

Still, I’ve asked: Why would You trust someone like me with something so holy?

That’s when I hear Him speak again—not always audibly, but deep within:

“Because you know you can’t do it without Me. Because you depend. Because you don’t trust your flesh. Because you’ve been through the fire and didn’t walk away.”

And that takes me to Philippians 3. Paul says something so striking, so freeing, and so needed for someone like me to hear. He warns us to “beware of the mutilators of the flesh,” those who boast in outward religious signs and self-righteous performance. Then he says this:

“If someone else thinks they have reasons to put confidence in the flesh, I have more…”

And he begins to list his spiritual resume. Tribe of Benjamin. Circumcised on the eighth day. A Pharisee of Pharisees. Zealous, righteous, flawless by the law’s standard. He had every credential the religious world could want.

But then he throws it all away with one sentence:

“But whatever were gains to me I now consider loss for the sake of Christ.”

Paul’s saying, If this was about being qualified—I would’ve had it in the bag. But none of that matters in light of truly knowing Christ.

That hits me hard.

Because I don’t have Paul’s credentials. I don’t have the degrees, the polished image, or the mental health “stability” that some people think you need to walk in ministry. But here’s what I do have: dependence. Surrender. A hunger for Jesus. And most importantly, a willingness to burn.

The seer anointing doesn’t come to puff you up. It comes to burn the flesh off. It exposes your inner world before it ever gives you a word for someone else. It crucifies the ego. And when you carry this kind of fire while also dealing with something like schizophrenia, it doesn’t make things easier—it makes them rawer.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe God doesn’t anoint those who seem put together. Maybe He anoints those who are surrendered enough to say, “Lord, I can’t carry this without You.”

That’s where fasting comes in for me. I used to think fasting was about spiritual qualification—like if I fasted long enough, hard enough, I’d earn more revelation or closeness to God. But now I see it differently. I fast not because I’m qualified—but because I’m desperate.

Fasting doesn’t elevate me—it empties me. It strips away the mental clutter, the soul wounds, the distractions, the trauma patterns, the pride, the self-sufficiency. It gets the “ick” out of me—the residue of the flesh that still tries to run the show. Sometimes I don’t even realize what’s still alive in me until I fast. That’s when the Holy Spirit starts revealing the hidden places.

It’s in the hunger, the weakness, the quiet, that I remember I’m not strong enough on my own—and that’s right where He wants me.

Because in the Kingdom, weakness isn’t a liability—it’s a doorway.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)

This is why I believe the anointing and the diagnosis can coexist. Because God is glorified through vessels that shouldn’t be able to do what they’re doing. People look at my life and say, “How are you even standing?” And I just point to Jesus. I point to grace. I point to the cross. Because if I didn’t have Him, I’d fall apart.

This is why I can say with confidence: I may be unqualified by the world’s standards, but I am called.

God doesn’t call the qualified. He qualifies the called.

And maybe you need to hear that too. Maybe you’ve disqualified yourself because of your mental health, your past, your struggles, your weaknesses. Maybe you’ve convinced yourself that someone like you can’t carry something holy.

But let me tell you—you can. You can, because it’s not about you. It never was.

It’s about Jesus. It’s about surrender. It’s about staying on the altar long enough for the fire to fall. And when it does, it won’t just rest on you—it will burn through you. It will purify you. And it will make you into someone the world cannot explain.

So if you feel like you’re too broken, too unstable, too inconsistent to carry a calling—welcome to the wilderness. That’s where God does His best work.

The anointing isn’t for the ones who look ready.

It’s for the ones who are willing to burn.