The Remote You Refuse to Release

The Remote You Refuse to Release

A Devotional by Harold Mawela

Scripture: "Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." (Matthew 6:34)

My neighbour in Akasia, Mr. Dlamini, has three television remotes on his coffee table. But he only needs one. The other two control decoders he cancelled months ago. When I asked him why he keeps them, he laughed and said, "Sho, Harald, what if I need them again? What if the new service fails?"

What if. What if. What if.

Two dead remotes. Useless. But he refuses to release them.

I walked back to my gate that afternoon, and the Holy Spirit hit me like a taxi on the R80 freeway—not to harm me, but to wake me up. Harold, you do the same thing every morning. You hold remotes to days that no longer exist and days that have not yet breathed. You press buttons on tomorrow's problems and wonder why today feels stuck.

The Anatomy of a Ghost War

Let me define my terms with the precision of a surgeon and the fire of a prophet:

Worry is not concern. Concern builds a budget. Worry builds a prison. Concern calls the doctor. Worry digs the grave before the diagnosis arrives. Concern plans for the storm. Worry lives in the storm while the sun is still shining.

The Scripture declares unequivocally: "Do not worry about tomorrow."

Not "try not to worry." Not "pray about it and then worry professionally." But do not. A command. A boundary. A divine restraining order against a phantom.

Is it not true that we all feel the tug? You are sitting in Soshanguve, and your mind is already standing in a courtroom in Pretoria. You are cooking pap in Mamelodi, but your spirit is already failing an exam in Tshwane University of Technology. You are lying next to your spouse in Akasia, but your heart is already attending a funeral that has not been scheduled.

Worry wages war against a ghost—tomorrow hasn't breathed yet.

The Mathematical Impossibility of Worry

Let us reason together, as the prophet Isaiah said. Let me present a logical argument that even a philosopher in Sunnyside cannot dismantle:

Premise One: Tomorrow contains no material reality in the present moment. It has no weight, no substance, no location in space-time.

Premise Two: Only things that exist can be changed by your actions. You cannot alter what does not exist.

Premise Three: Worry is the expenditure of emotional, psychological, and spiritual energy for the purpose of altering an outcome.

Conclusion: Worry is therefore a category error like trying to plant maize in a parking lot at Menlyn Mall. You are investing currency in a country that does not yet have borders.

A common objection I hear from my sisters in the church: "But Harold, are you saying we must not plan? Must we not prepare for our children's school fees? Must we not think about retirement?"

No, mama. That is not what I am saying. Let me draw a sharp line through this confusion:

Planning asks, "What can I do now?"

Worrying asks, "What might happen then?"

Planning moves your feet.

Worrying moves your stomach acid.

Planning consults God.

Worrying consults your imagination, which is a terrible prophet.

The evidence strongly supports this distinction. Research from the South African Depression and Anxiety Group (SADAG) shows that 85% of what people worry about never happens. And of the 15% that does happen, researchers found that people handled the situation better than they expected 79% of the time.

Which means: You are suffering today from a movie your mind is playing about a sequel that may never be filmed.

The Parable of the Taxi and the Traffic

Imagine, if you will, a taxi driver in Mamelodi. His name is Vusi. Every morning, Vusi worries about the afternoon traffic on the N4 before he has even left his yard. He sits in his taxi at 5 AM engine cold, passengers absent, sun still sleeping and he sweats. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. His jaw is clenched. He is shouting at cars that are still parked in garages.

"Sho, wena! Move! Why are you blocking me?"

His wife brings him tea. He screams, "Can't you see I am stuck in traffic?"

Where is the traffic? In his head. The road is empty. The world is quiet. But Vusi has already lost his peace to a future that has not yet arrived.

Now tell me—is that not you? Is that not me?

We sit at the breakfast table in Akasia, and we are already fighting a boss who has not yet given us an instruction. We are already crying over a child who has not yet made a mistake. We are already emptying our bank account for an emergency that has not yet knocked.

You will never fix tomorrow by breaking today.

A Personal Confession from Akasia

I must tell you the truth. I am not preaching from a mountain of perfection. I am preaching from the valley of recovery.

Three years ago, my wife and I faced a financial wall that looked like the gates of hell itself. The business I had built for twelve years—the one that fed my children, paid my bond in Pretoria, sent offerings to my local assembly—that business collapsed like poorly mixed cement. Creditors called before sunrise. Lawyers sent letters that weighed more than hope. And I, Harold Mawela, the man who writes devotionals about faith, I became a professional worrier.

I woke at 3 AM to calculate numbers that had not yet been written. I rehearsed conversations with banks that had not yet called. I argued in my mind with collection agents who were still sleeping in their own beds.

My wife would find me on the balcony in Akasia, staring at the R80 highway, muttering figures like a man possessed.

"Harold," she said one night, "you are fighting a war against an army that has not been conscripted. You are spending bullets on shadows."

She was right. I was holding a remote to a future I could not control. And my grip was so tight that I could no longer worship. I could no longer laugh. I could no longer look my children in the eyes without calculating their funeral costs—and they were perfectly healthy!

Worry is not love. Worry is unbelief dressed in a business suit.

The Forerunner Has Already Entered Your Future

But here is the gospel. Here is the good news that broke my chains at 3 AM on a cold Akasia morning:

Jesus Christ has already entered your future.

The Scripture calls Him the forerunner in Hebrews 6:20. A forerunner in ancient times was the man who ran ahead of the king's procession. He cleared the path. He checked for ambushes. He made sure the bridges were safe. By the time the king arrived, the forerunner had already faced every danger.

Hallelujah! Somebody shout right there!

Your Jesus is not waiting for you to arrive at your tomorrow. He is already there. He has already sat in the doctor's office before you walk through the door. He has already stood before the interview panel before you print your CV. He has already held your weeping body before the tragedy strikes.

The argument can be formulated thus:

Major Premise: Christ has been given all authority in heaven and on earth (Matthew 28:18).

Minor Premise: Tomorrow falls within "all authority" as it exists within creation.

Conclusion: Therefore, Christ's authority already covers everything you fear about tomorrow.

You are worrying about a future that is already past tense to Jesus. He has seen it. He has walked through it. He has already decided to carry you through every valley.

Why are you holding a remote for a territory He already governs?

The Cultural Idol of Control

We must sound the alarm against a demon that has dressed itself in modern clothing. In South Africa today—in our beautiful, broken, load-shedding, pothole-riddled, tax-expensive, hope-thirsty nation—we have worshiped a new god.

His name is Control.

We want to know the schedule. We want to predict the petrol price. We want to forecast the election results. We want to guarantee our children's future. We want to insure against every possible catastrophe.

And in worshiping Control, we have sacrificed our peace on the altar of preparation.

Listen to me, Pretoria. Hear me, Johannesburg. Feel this in Soweto and Tembisa and Diepsloot:

You will never be God. And your worrying is proof that you tried to be.

The recent news of escalating taxi violence in Cape Town—do you think worrying prevents it? The rising cost of electricity that makes every household in Akasia hold their breath—do you think anxiety will bring down the tariff? The stories of retrenchments in the mining sector—do you think sleepless nights will save your job?

No! A thousand times no!

Worry adds not a single hour to your life. In fact, research from the University of Pretoria's psychology department confirms that chronic worry actually shortens your lifespan by increasing cortisol, damaging your heart, and destroying your sleep.

You are killing yourself to control something that was never yours to control.

The Law of the Released Remote

Here is the wisdom principle. Write it on your mirror in Akasia. Paste it on your steering wheel in Soshanguve. Carve it on your heart in Mamelodi:

Your grip determines your peace.

What you refuse to release, you will be crushed by. What you surrender, you will be saved from.

The paradox of the kingdom is this: The moment you release the remote, God takes the controls. And His navigation is infinitely better than your guessing.

Is it not true that your worst-case scenarios rarely happen? Is it not true that when they do happen, God shows up with manna you never expected? Is it not true that you have survived every single thing you have worried about so far?

Then why are you still holding dead remotes?

Surrender the Schedule

I want to challenge you today. Not with soft words. Not with sentimental poetry. But with the axe of the gospel laid to the root of your anxiety:

Repent of your worry.

Yes, repent. Because worry is not a personality trait. It is not "just how God made me." It is unbelief masquerading as responsibility. It is saying with your actions, "God, I don't trust You to handle this, so I will handle it in my mind at 2 AM."

The Bible says, "Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you" (1 Peter 5:7).

The word "cast" means to throw with force. To violently release. To launch away from yourself. It is the same word used for throwing a net into the sea. It requires effort. It requires intention. It requires decision.

Trust isn't passive—it's aggressively laying down your what-ifs at His feet.

So here is your call to action. Your practical, immediate, Mawela-style law:

Every morning, before you check your phone, check your grip.

Ask yourself: What remote am I holding that belongs to tomorrow? What schedule am I clutching that God has not asked me to manage? What future am I trying to direct that only the Forerunner has seen?

Then open your hands. Literally. Open your palms in front of you. Look at them. See your worry as a physical object. And throw it toward heaven.

Say this prayer—not as a ritual, but as a rebellion:

Prayer of the Released Remote

Lord, quiet the screaming questions. Silence the courtroom in my head. Shut down the disaster movie my imagination keeps streaming.

I trade anxiety for Your authority.

I trade control for Your character.

I trade my remote for Your reign.

Jesus, You are already in my tomorrow. You have already flattened every fearful forecast. You have already prepared the table in the presence of my enemies—even the enemies that have not yet shown their faces.

I refuse to fight ghosts anymore.

I refuse to pay rent in a house I do not yet live in.

I refuse to bleed from wounds that have not been inflicted.

This breath? This moment?

Enough.

In the name of the Forerunner, the Finisher, the Faithful One—

AMEN.

The Final Word

This morning in Akasia, the sun rose over the R80. Mr. Dlamini walked past my gate with a smile. He had thrown away the two dead remotes.

"Sho, Harold," he said, "my coffee table is clean. And you know what?"

"What?"

"Turns out I didn't need them after all."

Beloved, throw away the remote. The God who holds tomorrow is holding you. And His grip? His grip never falters.

You were not made to carry tomorrow. You were made to trust the One who already owns it.

Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. (Matthew 6:34)

Go and be free.

—Harold Mawela

Akasia, Pretoria

South Africa