Posted on

It Is Good That We Are Here

Revealed Truth in the Majestic Glory

On the Feast of the Transfiguration, the Church draws our attention away from arguments, anxieties, and abstractions and places us on a mountain. Before us stands Jesus Christ, radiant with uncreated light. His face shines like the sun. His clothes blaze white. Moses and Elijah speak with him. A cloud overshadows the scene. And from that majestic glory cloud comes a voice that names reality itself:

This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him.

Peter, overwhelmed, blurts out words that are far wiser than he knows:

Lord, it is good for us to be here.

That simple sentence names something essential about Christian faith, discipleship, and truth itself. Before Peter understands what to do, before he knows what this moment means, before theology or mission or ethics come into focus, he recognizes goodness. He perceives glory. He senses that he is standing in a place where reality is finally aligned. “Lord, it is good for us to be here.”

And that matters deeply in a world unsure of what is true, suspicious of authority, and uncertain about what is truly lovely and therefore profoundly good. Peter understands what to do, before he knows what this moment means, before theology or mission or ethics come into focus, he recognizes goodness.

He perceives glory. He senses that he is standing in a place where reality is finally aligned. “Lord, it is good for us to be here.”

And that matters deeply in a world unsure of what is true, suspicious of authority, and uncertain about what is truly lovely and therefore profoundly good.

Glory Before Instruction

The Transfiguration reminds us that Christianity does not begin with rules, arguments, or moral exhortation. It begins with revelation. With glory. With God showing us who he is.

The order of events on the mountain is crucial. Jesus does not first explain himself. He does not argue his authority. He does not demand obedience. He is transfigured. Only after the majestic glory is revealed does the voice from heaven speak. Authority follows revelation; it does not precede it.

This is why Peter’s instinctive response is so important. He does not say, “Now I understand.” He says, “It is good that we are here.” His affections are awakened before his intellect catches up. He senses beauty before he can articulate doctrine. He knows, at a level deeper than analysis, that this is true.

That ordering—royal glory before command, beauty of holiness before obedience—is foundational to Christian faith. It is also deeply countercultural. Modern life often reverses the sequence. We are told to obey before we see, to affirm before we understand the moral order, to accept authority (or reject) without any shared vision of what is true, right, or good. The result is predictable: authority feels arbitrary, morality feels imposed, and truth feels negotiable.

If we are not first invited to see what is true, beautiful, and fitting about the moral order, then moral claims arrive only as commands. Obedience is experienced as submission to someone else’s will rather than participation in reality. Without a vision of holiness as beautiful, morality is reduced to restriction. What might have been received as wisdom is heard instead as control.

This sense of imposition is only intensified when authority is detached from revelation. If norms are no longer grounded in something seen, given, and recognized as true, they appear arbitrary or ideological. People ask, “who decided this?” rather than, “what does this reveal about the nature of reality?” In a culture shaped by expressive individualism, the self is assumed to be the final moral reference point. Any claim that comes from outside the self is felt as interference. When freedom is defined as self-definition, even true moral law feels oppressive because it challenges the sovereignty of the individual will.

Rules inevitably clash with untrained loves. If the heart has not been shaped to love what is good, then moral instruction collides with instinct rather than cooperating with it. As CS Lewis rightly observed in Abolition of Man, we cannot expect virtue where we have refused to cultivate the affections that make virtue intelligible. The Transfiguration shows another way. When goodness is first beheld as glory, obedience no longer feels like coercion. It feels like alignment to reality.

The Transfiguration insists on another way. It tells us that authority grounded in glory is not oppressive but fitting. When God says, “Listen to him,” it does not land on the disciples as an arbitrary demand. It is a revelation of reality. This is who Jesus is. Listening to him is simply alignment of our lives with what is.

Not Cleverly Devised Myths

In the epistle appointed for Transfiguration, Peter reflects later in life on that same mountain. Writing in 2 Peter 1:16–21, he insists:

We did not follow cleverly devised myths when we made known to you the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but we had been eyewitnesses of his majesty.

Peter is doing more than defending the historical reliability of the gospel. He is making a claim about the nature of truth itself. A “cleverly devised myth” is not simply false; it is manufactured, constructed. It originates in human imagination, human will, human desire. Myths, whether ancient or modern, are stories we tell to explain ourselves, justify ourselves, or manage reality on our own terms.

Peter insists that the Christian proclamation does not arise that way. It is not the product of religious creativity or ideological need. It comes from outside us. It interrupts us. It confronts us. The apostles did not invent the story of Jesus’ glory; they were seized by it. They did not project meaning onto Jesus; meaning broke in upon them.

This distinction is enormously important in a cultural moment saturated with stories, narratives, and “truths” that are constantly constructed, deconstructed, and reconstructed. We live in an age suspicious of claims that arrive with authority. We are trained to ask not “Is it true?” but “Who benefits?” and “Who decides?” Peter’s answer is bracing in its simplicity: we saw it. We heard it. We were there.

Christian faith, at its core, is not a philosophy of meaning-making. It is testimony to revelation.

The Majestic Glory and the Authority of Scripture

Peter makes an even more surprising move. After recounting the most intense spiritual experience of his life—the voice from heaven, the dazzling light, the holy mountain—he turns not away from Scripture but toward it:

So we have the prophetic message more fully confirmed.

This is not a dismissal of experience. It is its proper ordering. The Transfiguration does not replace the Word of God; it confirms it. The glory of Christ anchors the authority of Scripture in reality. Scripture is not authoritative because the Church decided it was, or because it resonates with our experience, or because it feels meaningful. It is authoritative because it bears faithful witness to what God has done, supremely revealed in Jesus Christ.

Peter presses the point further:

No prophecy of scripture is a matter of one’s own interpretation… but men and women moved by the Holy Spirit spoke from God.

In a world that treats interpretation as endlessly personal and truth as endlessly flexible, Peter insists on something bracingly countercultural: Scripture does not originate in us. It addresses us. It stands over us. It judges us even as it saves us.

And yet—this is crucial—Scripture’s authority is not cold or abstract. Peter compares it to “a lamp shining in a dark place.” The authority of God’s Word is not the authority of domination, but of illumination. It shows us where we are. It reveals what is real. It guides us until “the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.”

Authority here is not coercive. It is clarifying. It is life-giving. It is rooted in glory and transforms us from the inside out.

“Listen to Him”

Back on the mountain, the voice from the cloud distills everything into one command:

Listen to him.

This command cuts through much of the confusion of modern discipleship. We are often tempted to reduce faith to self-expression, spiritual exploration, or personal meaning. But the Transfiguration confronts us with a different posture: receptivity. Attentiveness. Submission, not as humiliation, but as alignment with reality.

The disciples’ physical response underscores the point. They fall to the ground, overcome by fear. Glory is not casual. It is weighty. It disorients before it reassures. And yet Jesus does not leave them there. He comes to them. He touches them. He says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

True authority does not crush. It restores. It reorders. It sends us back into the world changed.

Seeing Clearly Before Acting Faithfully

Peter’s instinct to build dwellings—three tents for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah—is understandable. Who wouldn’t want to stay? But it is also premature. He wants to act before he has fully learned how to see.

This, too, is deeply instructive. Much Christian anxiety today flows from an impulse to act without first being formed by vision. We rush to application without contemplation, to activism without adoration, to moral effort without moral imagination. The result is often exhaustion, polarization, or shallow faith.

The Transfiguration reminds us that discipleship begins with beholding. We are not first called to do something for Jesus, but to see him as he is. Only then can obedience take its proper shape. Only then does listening make sense. Only then can we descend the mountain without losing our way.

Coming Down the Mountain

The Transfiguration is not an escape from the world; it is preparation for faithful engagement with it. Jesus leads the disciples back down the mountain toward suffering, misunderstanding, and ultimately the cross. Glory does not negate the valley; it interprets it.

This is why Jesus orders them to keep silent “until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.” The meaning of glory cannot be grasped apart from the cross and resurrection. The light of the mountain does not bypass suffering; it reveals its purpose.

And this is perhaps the deepest gift of Transfiguration faith. In a world darkened by cynicism, relativism, and competing claims to authority, the Church does not offer a cleverly devised myth. We offer testimony. We point to a glory that has been seen, a Word that has been spoken, a truth that stands whether we acknowledge it or not.

Why This Matters Now

We live in a time when many have lost confidence that truth can be known, that authority can be trusted, or that goodness is anything more than personal preference. In such a climate, moral exhortation alone will not persuade. Rules without radiance collapse. Commands without glory provoke resistance.

The Transfiguration offers another way. It invites us to begin where faith actually begins: with wonder. With reverence. With the recognition that reality is not ours to construct but ours to receive.

“It is good that we are here,” Peter says. He is right—not because the moment is comfortable or controllable, but because it is true. The goodness he perceives is not manufactured. It is given.

And once we have seen that glory, once we have heard that voice, the command that follows is no longer burdensome but inevitable:

Listen to him.

For in listening to him, we are not surrendering our freedom. We are finally learning how to live in alignment with what is real.

Posted on

Seeing Through God’s Eyes: Desire, Diligence, Delight

Social media can be a strange place. Normally, I only post pictures of fish I’ve caught, a beautiful sunset, or my family. Those kinds of posts usually bring smiles and likes, nothing too controversial. But last week, I felt compelled to post something different.

I was moved by the ministry of Charlie Kirk, a young man who boldly entered college campuses to share his Christian faith. Whatever you think of his politics, I admired that he was willing to step into the arena—like Teddy Roosevelt’s famous description of “the man in the arena”—to engage those who disagreed with him. He was willing to be vulnerable and courageous in contending for the hope he had in Christ and his conservative beliefs and values. He invited people who disagreed with him, gave them a microphone and platform, and then respectfully engaged.

But when I shared a word of appreciation for that prophetic and evangelical witness, I quickly learned why I normally stick to fish pictures. Even in the wake of his tragic assassination, the politics surrounding his name created division. Friends unfriended and blocked me. People I thought knew me well assumed the worst because I raised a tribute to someone they apparently despised. It was a stark reminder of how polarized our culture has become, and how easy it is to cancel one another instead of listening and loving.

Splitting and the Culture of Cancellation

In recent Wall Street Journal commentary, “Splitting and the Celebration of Charlie Kirk’s Assassination,” the writer notes a psychological term used by psychotherapists for what they hear in their offices daily when “anger hardens into fantasy”: splitting.

Splitting is when we divide people into categories of “all good” or “all bad.” When someone offends us or disagrees with us, we label them evil and cut them out of our lives.

Social media supercharges this tendency. One post, one opinion, one moment — and suddenly someone is “dead” to us. We unfriend, block, or cancel. And while we may not see it this way, canceling someone is a kind of social murder. It removes them from our circle of care and erases them from our world.

Jesus warned about this very thing. In the Sermon on the Mount, He said:

“You have heard that it was said to those of old, ‘You shall not murder; and whoever murders will be liable to judgment.’ But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment; whoever says, ‘You fool!’ will be liable to the hell of fire.”
(Matthew 5:21–22)

To call someone a “fool” is to reduce them to a label, to strip them of dignity, to erase their humanity in your heart. That is the same destructive energy as splitting: we stop seeing the image of God in the other and see only a caricature.

We may not use the word “fool” much anymore, but we have a long list of replacements: fascist, Christian nationalist, Nazi, communist, racist, bigot, hater—on and on it goes. Once someone has been given one of these slur labels, they are no longer a complex human being made in God’s image. They are simply “the enemy.” And once they are “the enemy,” we feel justified in canceling them, cutting them off, or treating them with contempt.

Jesus Welcomes the Unwelcome

In Luke 15, Jesus gathers a crowd. Some were labeled “sinners,” others were tax collectors—the most despised people in society at the time. These tax collectors weren’t just IRS agents; they were Jewish men working for the occupying Roman Empire, extorting their neighbors to fill both Roman coffers and their own pockets. If there was ever a group that people felt justified in hating, it was them.

The Pharisees and scribes looked at this scene and grumbled: “This man receives sinners and eats with them.” They couldn’t comprehend why a holy man would welcome such company.

But here’s the irony: the only person in that gathering who wasn’t a sinner was Jesus. And He was the very one opening His arms, extending fellowship, and sharing meals with them.

Jesus refused to play by the rules of exclusion. He refused to label people as irredeemable. Instead, He told stories about a lost sheep and a lost coin to show that God’s heart beats for the one who is missing, the one who has wandered, the one everyone else has written off.

James Tissot (1836-1902). “The Good Shepherd,” (c.1886-1894. The Brooklyn Museum. Public Domain.

What We Can Learn

Those parables teach us three lessons—three “D’s” to guide our hearts and our mission.

Desire for the Lost

Do we share God’s desire to seek the lost? Every sheep matters. Every coin matters. Every person matters to God. That includes the people we’d rather avoid, the people we disagree with, even the people who hurt us.

Diligence in the Search

The shepherd leaves the ninety-nine to find the one. The woman lights a lamp and sweeps her whole house for the coin. There is intentionality and persistence in God’s search. What would it look like for us to be just as intentional—crossing barriers, stepping into uncomfortable conversations, or simply being present where people are?

Delight in the Found

When the lost are found, heaven rejoices. There’s a party for one sinner who repents. Think of that: the angels throw a celebration for every single return. How different would our communities look if we delighted in reconciliation rather than cancellation, if we threw parties for prodigals rather than writing them off?

A Better Way to See

The apostle Paul called himself the “foremost of sinners” (1 Timothy 1:15). He admitted his past as a blasphemer, persecutor, and violent man. Yet he said, “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst.”

Paul wasn’t speaking from a place of elitist superiority but of humility. He saw himself as one beggar telling another where to find bread. That’s the posture the church is called to take—not arrogance, not condemnation, but grace-filled humility.

Too often, like the Pharisees, we divide the world into categories: good people and bad people, insiders and outsiders, “us” and “them.” We label whole groups as “the problem” and pat ourselves on the back for being better. But Jesus breaks down those categories. He shows us that every single person—even the ones we most want to avoid—has infinite worth in God’s eyes.

An Invitation

So what does this mean for us?

It means cultivating a heart that aches for the lost, like God’s does. It means practicing diligence in our own neighborhoods, schools, workplaces, and even online communities to reach out with love. And it means learning to rejoice when anyone takes a step toward Jesus—because heaven is already celebrating.

Instead of blocking, unfriending, or writing people off, what if we prayed for them? What if we looked for ways to connect rather than cancel? What if we remembered that no one is a lost cause in God’s eyes?

Thank God He never gave up on us. Let’s not give up on one another.

A Closing Prayer

Lord, give us Your heart for the lost. Help us to see through Your eyes, to desire those who wander, to diligently seek them out, and to delight in every soul that turns back to You. Keep us humble, remind us that we too are sinners saved by grace, and use us as instruments of reconciliation in a divided world. Amen.

Post is based on Sermon preached at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Jacksonville: The God Who Seeks The Lost (September 14, 2025).

Posted on

Charlie Kirk: The Man in the Arena

Before anything else can be said, our hearts must turn to Charlie Kirk’s beloved wife and their young children. No words can carry the weight of their loss, nor can they ease the deep grief of a family suddenly bereft of a husband and father. As a community, we are called to weep with those who weep (Romans 12:15), to uphold them in prayer, and to surround them with tangible love and care. Their sorrow is heavy, but they do not walk alone. May the Lord, who is “a father to the fatherless and a defender of widows” (Psalm 68:5), be their refuge and strength in these dark days. I pray that his children, though deprived of his presence, may one day see clearly that their father’s courage and faith were godly and true. Yet we acknowledge with broken hearts that it would have been far better for them to have their father by their side.

Deacon Stephen, the first to be killed for his belief in Jesus, asked, “Which of the prophets did your fathers not persecute?” (Acts 7:52).

In every respect, Charlie Kirk was a godly prophet—courageous in ways that many seasoned leaders in the church often fail to be. One reason why so many young adults were drawn to him and his open forums was that he was willing to discuss any subject, debate any topic, and wrestle with what God’s Word and his Christian faith had to say about it. Nothing was ever off the table. Most of us would never submit our deeply held convictions about faith and politics to the public, content to speak only in safe spaces and behind cloistered walls. But not Charlie Kirk—he was brave enough to take the truth of God into the arena.

I have noticed that some are cynically commenting on the irony of his defense of the Second Amendment. Of course, gun control is a hot topic in our public debate. But so too should be the heart, mind, and ideologies behind those who would assassinate defenders of rights and freedom. The defense of our freedoms carries inherent risk. Charlie Kirk was brave, truth-speaking, public. He submitted himself and his ideas to debate and scrutiny. He was open and vulnerable—vulnerable to being proven wrong, vulnerable to having his ideas tested, vulnerable to public ridicule and scorn, vulnerable to being canceled, vulnerable even to being killed.

By contrast, the assassin is a coward. He hides in the shadows, under cover of darkness. He is faithless, a hater of truth and light—evil. God sees and knows, and the assassin has done evil in the sight of the Lord (Proverbs 15:3).

“Which of the prophets did your fathers not persecute?” (Acts 7:52). The words of Jesus also ring true: “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!” (Matthew 23:37). Unfortunately, these words have been fulfilled again.

Charlie Kirk stood up for family, for moral clarity, for the freedom of inalienable rights, and for divine truth. And for that, he was murdered in the public square. I cannot help but think about the call of Jesus before he ascended: “But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth” (Acts 1:8).

Charlie Kirk was courageously faithful to this mission. He was a witness for Jesus Christ, relying on the empowerment of the Holy Spirit to give him the words. In the early church, the Greek word behind our English “witness” became synonymous with giving up one’s life for the faith. That word is martyr. Charlie Kirk is a witness—and a martyr—for Jesus Christ.

There are seasons when culture becomes corrupt through godless thinking. Ours is such a season, and we need more Charlie Kirks to stand up and speak. Of course, he has shown us the cost of such a stand. Each of us must summon our own courage and be responsible for our own witness. At times, Jesus spoke boldly, and at times, he remained silent (cf. John 18:33–37; Mark 14:61). We are called to be “wise as serpents and innocent as doves” (Matthew 10:16ff.). Persecution will come. The days are evil (Ephesians 5:16). We are also called to be the salt of the earth and the light of the world (Matthew 5:13–16). Charlie Kirk rightly critiqued the church for too often hiding its light under a bushel and losing its saltiness.

It has often been said in moments like this: “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.” Church history is replete with those who bravely faced the sword, imprisonment, stoning, wild beasts, fire, and the cross—all to bear witness in Jesus’ name. These are those “of whom the world is not worthy” (cf. Hebrews 11:35–38). Their martyrdoms never go unnoticed. They become beacons of greater faith and courage by those who share their beliefs. Not only does the Lord see their testimony, but so does a watching world. This is the paradoxical power of the cross and the crucified life. To the world it is foolishness, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God (1 Corinthians 1:18).

Charlie Kirk’s ministry was called Turning Point. The name itself is inspirational, envisioning young adults recognizing their calling to be the change in this world. We are indeed in a time where we need a turning point—for our culture, our country, and our world—to turn back to God and to faithfulness to His Word. This too is a prophetic call. Just as 9/11/2001 became a turning point when many turned to the Lord in the face of horrific evil, may September 10, 2025, be the prescient moment of a turning point for renewed witness for Jesus Christ in the public arena.

Here Roosevelt’s words seem prophetic: “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles… The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood… who errs, who comes short again and again… but who does actually strive to do the deeds… who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.” Charlie Kirk dared greatly, because he was the man who was actually in the arena.

Evil may think it has won a victory in silencing a compelling voice and extinguishing a bright light for God. But this is Satan’s downfall. The cross of Jesus Christ is the true victory. Those who pick up their cross and follow Him will overcome, tearing down the gates of hell “by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, for they loved not their lives even unto death” (Revelation 12:11).

Posted on

What Truly Is Life?

A Reflection on Luke 12:13–21

When it comes to measuring the value of life, our culture often looks at bank accounts, portfolios, and possessions. But Jesus offers a very different standard: “One’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.” (Luke 12:15)

This was a lesson I began wrestling with early in my Christian walk. As a junior at the University of Florida, I had a newfound zeal for Jesus and a desire to follow Him fully. One day, while reading the Gospel of Luke, I came across some tough words about money and discipleship. I began to mentally inventory my belongings to see if I would truly be willing to give them up for Christ.

At that point in life, I didn’t have much. Everything I owned could fit into my bright yellow 1978 Delta 88 Oldsmobile—affectionately known as the “Chuck Model 1.” I could part with the car. I could part with my clothes. But then came the fish tank—my prized 50-gallon aquarium, home to an eel named Larry and a black bass named Bill.

I couldn’t imagine giving it up.

Years later, when Brooke and I got married and moved to Chicago for seminary, Brooke gently but firmly said, “The fish tank can’t come.” She was right. I gave it to a kid in the neighborhood, not realizing that in doing so, I was finally surrendering that little idol. Strangely enough, years later, after we moved back to Florida, someone called out of the blue: “Are you Charlie Holt? I think I have your fish tank.” It had passed from family to family, with each one told, “If Charlie ever comes back to town, he might want this.”

God took it away. Then God gave it back. It was a parable in itself about detachment and God’s generous provision.

The Heart of Greed

Greed, Paul tells us in Colossians, is idolatry—when our hearts are fixated on money, stuff, or security apart from God. Greed isn’t about how much you have; it’s about what has you. It’s being so attached to something—be it a fish tank or a fortune—that you’d sin to get it or sin to keep it.

In Luke 12, Jesus addresses two brothers fighting over inheritance. Their request sounds reasonable: “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.” But Jesus doesn’t affirm their desire. Instead, He warns them to “be on your guard against all kinds of greed.” Why? Because He knows that greed will tear families apart and lead hearts away from God.

Many of us have seen this firsthand: families that once shared meals and laughter are torn apart by inheritance disputes and property battles. The sin nature rears its head when money is on the line.

The Rich Fool and the Internal Monologue

Jesus follows His warning with a story about a wealthy man blessed with an abundant harvest. The man doesn’t pray, doesn’t thank God, and doesn’t ask what God would have him do with the surplus. Instead, he talks only to himself: “Soul, you have ample goods laid up… relax, eat, drink, be merry.”

The Rich Fool: Luke 12:13-21
James Tissot’s painting, The Man Who Hoards

God calls him a fool—not because he was rich, and not because he saved—but because he left God out of the equation. In Scripture, the fool is the one who “says in his heart, ‘There is no God.’” (Psalm 14:1)

This man lived like a practical atheist—planning his life around his own comfort, rather than around the Kingdom of God. And when the day of reckoning came, all his wealth meant nothing.

You can’t take it with you—and if you haven’t used it for God’s purposes, someone else will.

So What Do We Do?

This passage is not an attack on retirement, savings, or even wealth. It’s a call to re-center our hearts and our stewardship around God. Whether you’re working or retired, the question is: “What does God want me to do with what He has given me?”

Here are three practical steps:

1. Examine Your Conversations

Are your life plans entirely internal—between “me and myself”? Or are you regularly praying, “Lord, what would you have me do with my time, talents, and treasures?”

2. Embrace the Spiritual Discipline of Tithing

Tithing is not just about funding the church—it’s about dethroning money in our hearts. The Old Testament calls for 10%, a standard that still challenges us today. Tithing hurts just enough to make us realize our dependence on God, but it also blesses in ways we can’t anticipate.

Years ago, a man in my church told me his tithing testimony: He started small, then committed to 10%. That year, his tithe was more than his entire salary the year before. The next year, it increased again. His giving became a pipeline for God’s provision.

I warned him: “What happens when things go down?” Sure enough, they did. The market crashed. But to his credit, he remained faithful. Tithing is not about prosperity—it’s about trust.

3. Redefine What “Abundance” Means

Jesus said, “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.” (John 10:10)

This does not mean you’ll be wealthy. Many of the most joy-filled, Spirit-filled people I’ve known lived modestly. Abundance in Christ is not about stuff—it’s about peace, purpose, and contentment.

Final Word: The Life That Truly Is Life

Let me leave you with this word from Paul to Timothy (1 Timothy 6:6–10, 17–19):

“But godliness with contentment is great gain… For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it… As for the rich… they are to do good, to be rich in good works, generous and ready to share… so that they may take hold of that which truly is life.”

That’s the kind of “net worth” that never crashes with the market.

Are you rich toward God?

If not, it’s never too late to start investing in the life that truly is 

Posted on

“Go and Do Likewise”: A Gospel Reflection on the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–37)

Heavenly Father, thank you for the gift of your word and for your gospel. May we not just be hearers of your word, but doers also. As Jesus said, “Go and do likewise.” Amen.

Who Is My Neighbor?

To understand the impact of this parable, we must first understand the context. It all starts with a conversation between Jesus and a lawyer. And not just any lawyer—a theologian, an expert in the law of God. We might say he was like a priest and a judge all rolled into one. As someone who interpreted the law for the people of Israel, he would have known the Scriptures inside and out.

When Jesus told the parable of the Good Samaritan, he never actually used the word good to describe the Samaritan. That was our addition. In fact, the central figure of the story—the Samaritan—is simply identified by his ethnicity, which was a scandal to Jesus’ original audience.

And yet, Luke tells us plainly: the lawyer stood up to test Jesus.

Testing the Teacher

This wasn’t an innocent question. It was a trap. Like a journalist trying to bait a politician with a “gotcha” question, the lawyer asked, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”

Jesus, as he often did, answered the question with another question: “What is written in the law? How do you read it?”

The lawyer replied with what every Jewish child was taught: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

“You have answered correctly,” Jesus told him. “Do this, and you will live.”

But the lawyer wasn’t satisfied. Luke tells us he wanted to justify himself. And so he asked, “And who is my neighbor?”

This question reveals a deeper spiritual problem—not just confusion, but resistance. The lawyer wanted to draw the circle of “neighbor” in such a way that it fit his lifestyle and limited his obligations. In short, he wanted to shrink God’s command down to a manageable size.

Self-Justification vs. True Righteousness

Here lies the fundamental error: we often try to adjust God’s Word to fit our lives, rather than conforming our lives to God’s Word. The lawyer was doing what many of us do. He was attempting to justify himself by narrowing the scope of love.

But Jesus, as always, refuses to play along.

Instead of answering with a direct definition, Jesus tells a story—a parable designed not just to teach, but to trap the hearer in a mirror of their own heart. It’s not unlike what the prophet Nathan did to King David. Sometimes the most effective way to reach a hard heart is through a story that invites the hearer to unknowingly step into their own judgment.

The Man in the Ditch

So Jesus tells of a man traveling the dangerous road from Jerusalem to Jericho—a notoriously treacherous path. The man is attacked, robbed, and left half dead.

Two religious figures pass by: first a priest, then a Levite. Neither stops to help. Perhaps they feared ritual impurity. Perhaps they were busy. Perhaps they were just indifferent. Whatever the reason, they chose distance over compassion.

Then, a Samaritan—a hated outsider—comes by. He sees the man. He has compassion. He bandages the wounds, transports him on his own animal, pays for his care, and promises to return.

The Good Samaritan

Jesus then turns the question back to the lawyer: “Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

The lawyer can’t even say “the Samaritan.” He answers: “The one who showed him mercy.”

Jesus replies: “Go and do likewise.”

Becoming the One in Need

What Jesus masterfully does in this parable is shift the lawyer’s point of view. The question was “Who is my neighbor?”—implying that I am the helper, and they are the potential recipients.

But Jesus flips it. You’re not the priest. You’re not the Levite. You’re not even the Samaritan. You’re the man in the ditch.

This is the moment of grace. Jesus invites the lawyer—and us—to stop seeing ourselves as the righteous ones doling out mercy, and instead as the broken ones in desperate need of it.

That kind of recognition changes everything. If you’ve ever been the one in need, you know that when you’re lying in the gutter, bleeding out, you don’t care if your rescuer is rich or poor, black or white, Republican or Democrat. You just want help.

As Ronald Reagan once said to his doctor after being shot: “I hope you’re all Republicans.” The doctor wisely replied, “Mr. President, today we’re all Republicans.” When mercy is needed, identity politics melt away.

Not Mostly Dead—Totally Dead

There’s an old joke from The Princess Bride—a man is “mostly dead,” which is still “slightly alive.” But Scripture says we’re not mostly dead in our sins—we’re completely dead. Hopeless. Helpless. Unable to revive ourselves.

That’s why this story isn’t just about being merciful like the Samaritan. That’s certainly part of it. But it’s also a portrait of salvation.

Jesus doesn’t just bind our wounds and leave us at an inn. He goes all the way to the cross. He lays down his life for us. He takes our place, pays our debt, and offers us a new one—his life.

Transformed by Mercy

So where are you in the story?

  • Are you trying to justify yourself? Adjusting God’s commands to fit your lifestyle?
  • Or are you ready to admit that you’re the one in the ditch—dead in sin and in need of a Savior?

Here’s the truth: Jesus doesn’t come to affirm your lifestyle. He comes to transform your heart.

The simple prayer is this:

“Lord, thank you for saving me. Forgive me for my sin. Fill me with your Holy Spirit. Conform my life to your will. Transform me into the person you’re calling me to be.”

That’s the heart of the gospel. We don’t justify ourselves. We are justified by Jesus.

And in response to that mercy, Jesus says:

“Go and do likewise.”

Want to reflect more?

Pray through Luke 10:25–37 and ask:

  • Who do I relate to most in this story?
  • Am I trying to define who deserves my love—or am I letting Christ define what love looks like?
  • Where is God calling me to offer mercy, even if it’s inconvenient?

Let the Word not just be something you hear, but something you do.

Posted on

From Babel to Pentecost: Turning Outward Toward God

What a joy it is to witness the movement of the Holy Spirit in real time—not just in Scripture, but in the lives of God’s people today. On Pentecost Sunday, as we celebrated seven baptisms in our congregation, we experienced firsthand the promise that still echoes from the prophet Joel and the apostle Peter:

“Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”

Let’s take a moment to reflect on the divine reversal that Pentecost offers—from Babel to Jerusalem, from confusion to communion, from human striving to Spirit-filled unity.

The Tower of Babel: A Name for Ourselves

In Genesis 11, we see humanity united in purpose—but not in worship. They say, “Come, let us build ourselves a city… and make a name for ourselves.” It’s an image that looks eerily like modern-day efforts: global unity without God, progress without repentance, technology without humility. It’s the city of man, as Augustine would say—built on pride, curved inward on itself (incurvatus in se).

The result? God scatters them and confuses their language. Not out of wrath, but mercy. To slow our descent into self-idolatry. To turn our hearts outward once again.

The Day of Pentecost: A Name Above Every Name

Then in Acts 2, we see a beautiful reversal. Where Babel brought confusion, Pentecost brings clarity. Where pride divided, the Spirit unites. Ordinary Galileans proclaim the mighty works of God, and every nation under heaven hears the good news in their own tongue.

It’s not about building a name for ourselves anymore—it’s about lifting high the name of Jesus. That’s the heartbeat of Pentecost: God making a name for Himself through His Spirit-filled people.

And Peter’s call still rings out:

Repent. Be baptized. Receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.

https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b0166d2f2e6b1d4bfbc5dab/efc49ab1-d1be-4749-a505-53a02e0bee03/ARW47608-Pano.jpg

Baptism: Turning Outward in Faith

As we baptized children and welcomed them into the family of God, we weren’t just performing a ritual. We were bearing witness to a spiritual reality: the old self is buried, and a new life is born. These families stood before the congregation, renouncing the self-centered kingdom of man and embracing the kingdom of God.

It’s not just their promise. It’s ours too. The promise of forgiveness, of new life, and of the indwelling Spirit is for you—for your children, and for all who are far off.

The Call of Pentecost Today

What does it mean to live in the power of Pentecost?

It means asking daily, “Lord, fill me with Your Spirit.”
It means refusing to build monuments to self, and instead building altars of praise.
It means turning outward—toward God, toward others, and toward the mission of Jesus.

Friends, this is not a story from long ago. It’s our story now. The Spirit who fell at Pentecost is still being poured out on all flesh—on the young and old, the broken and the bold, the ordinary and overlooked.

So today, will you turn outward? Will you call on the name of the Lord?

If so, here’s a simple prayer:

Lord Jesus, I renounce pride and self-reliance. I turn to You. Fill me with Your Holy Spirit, that I may be Your witness and walk in Your ways. Amen.

And may the Spirit who hovered over creation, who fell like fire at Pentecost, now renew you, your family, and this whole world in the love of Christ.

Posted on

The Author Steps Onto the Stage

There’s a moment at the end of a great play when the author walks onstage. The curtain’s drawn, the story complete, and now the playwright himself steps into the light, reminding us that everything we’ve just witnessed came from his mind, his hands. As C.S. Lewis once reflected, that’s how you know the play is over—the author appears.

And in the final pages of Revelation, we find just that: the Author of history stepping onto the stage.

“Behold, I am coming soon, bringing my recompense with me… I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.” (Revelation 22:12–13)

Jesus—our risen Lord—doesn’t just pen the introduction or write the final chapter. He is the story. Every word, every letter. Alpha to Omega. The first and the last. He is the Author, and He has a word for us.

The Reality of the Story We’re In

We live in a time that’s lost its story. Modern philosophy—rooted in Descartes’ “I think, therefore I am”—has shifted our focus inward. And that’s led to what we now call deconstructionism: the belief that there is no grand story, no meta-narrative, no Alpha and Omega. Everyone has “their truth,” but few are asking what’s true.

The result? Confusion. Division. Tribalism. One story pitted against another, each competing for dominance. But Revelation reminds us that there is a story—one written from the foundation of the world. And it’s not ours to edit.

Jesus says, “I am coming soon.” Whether we embrace the story or try to rewrite it, the Author will return—and He will hold us accountable. Not to punish, but to set things right. To bring clarity. To heal what’s broken.

Two Responses

On that day, there will be two responses to the Author’s appearing.

One is found in those who have “washed their robes”—a symbol of redemption, of sinners made clean through the blood of Christ. These are the ones who will eat from the tree of life and enter the city by its gates.

But there’s another group. It’s a sobering image: “Outside are the dogs, the sorcerers, the sexually immoral, the murderers, the idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood.” (Revelation 22:15)

This verse often gets left out. It’s uncomfortable. It’s not “nice.” But it’s honest—and necessary. Because the love of God tells the truth. And that truth is this: either you let Jesus wash your sins, or you choose to carry them yourself.

Lady Macbeth once cried out, “Out, damn’d spot!” as she imagined blood on her hands from her guilt. But no matter how much she scrubbed, the stain remained. Shakespeare, like the prophets, understood something deeply human: we all want to be clean, but we cannot cleanse ourselves.

Only Jesus can.

https://images.fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/mediumlarge/3/christ-enthroned-in-majesty-darcy-garneau.jpg

Don’t Change the Story

The final warning of Scripture is a plea: don’t add to these words, and don’t take away from them. Yet how often do we do just that? We add extra writings. Or we delete the difficult parts. We want a god who sounds more like us—more tolerant, more relaxed, less demanding.

But that isn’t the Author. That’s a counterfeit.

The real Author offers not just judgment but grace. “Let the one who is thirsty come; let the one who desires take the water of life without price.” (Revelation 22:17) This invitation—wide open and full of mercy—is spoken by both the Spirit and the Bride (the Church). It’s not exclusive. It’s not narrow. It’s generous. And it’s for you.

No matter your story, Jesus wants to redeem it. He wants to write you into His story—one of cleansing, restoration, and purpose.

One Prayer, One People

In His final prayer before the cross, Jesus prayed for us:

“That they may all be one… I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.” (John 17:20–23)

Our unity as believers isn’t based on preference or personality. It’s grounded in truth. When we cling to the Author’s story, we become living witnesses to the world—a people marked not by confusion, but by conviction and grace.

The final words of the Bible are not threats. They’re promises.

“Surely I am coming soon.”
“Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.”
“The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all. Amen.”

That’s the heart of the gospel. A warning and a welcome. A righteous Judge and a loving Savior. A story that invites us in, just as we are—and transforms us.

Blessed are those who wash their robes in the blood of the Lamb.

Posted on

Reflecting on Psalm 8: Our Royal Identity

The Majesty of God and the Dignity of Humanity

Have you ever gazed up at the night sky, marveling at the vastness of the universe, and felt simultaneously small yet profoundly significant? This paradoxical experience captures the essence of Psalm 8, a beautiful hymn of praise that explores the relationship between God’s majesty and human dignity.

“O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!” These words, which both open and close Psalm 8, set the tone for a profound reflection on the nature of God and humanity’s place in His creation. The psalmist invites us to consider the greatness of God, revealed in the wonders of the natural world, while also pondering our own role and significance within it.

As we delve into this psalm, three key themes emerge, each offering rich insights into our relationship with God and our place in the world:

The Power of Childlike Faith

“Out of the mouths of babes and infants, you have established strength because of your foes, to still the enemy and the avenger.” This verse highlights the unexpected power of childlike faith and praise. In a world that often values complexity and sophistication, there’s something disarmingly potent about the simple, sincere worship of a child.

This truth echoes throughout Scripture, from the promise in Genesis of a child who would crush the serpent’s head, to Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, where children’s praises fulfilled this very psalm. Even in our everyday lives, we can witness profound wisdom from the youngest among us. As one touching anecdote illustrates, when asked what the greatest thing in the world was, a young child replied simply, “Prayer to God.”

These instances remind us that true wisdom often lies in humility and simplicity. Jesus himself taught that we must have faith like a child to enter the kingdom of heaven. In our praise and our approach to God, perhaps we too need to recapture some of that childlike wonder and trust.

The Crown of Human Dignity

As the psalmist contemplates the vastness of the heavens, he asks, “What is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?” This question could easily lead to a conclusion of human insignificance. Yet, remarkably, it takes us in the opposite direction.

“You have made him a little lower than the heavenly beings and crowned him with glory and honor.” This verse reveals a stunning truth about human dignity. Despite our seeming smallness in the grand scheme of the universe, God has bestowed upon us a unique status and role within creation.

We are created in God’s image, bearing a reflection of His nature that sets us apart from the rest of creation. This truth should radically shape how we view ourselves and others. Every person we encounter, regardless of their circumstances or background, carries this innate dignity as an image-bearer of God.

This perspective challenges us to “respect the dignity of every human being,” as some Christian traditions put it in their baptismal vows. It calls us to see beyond surface-level differences and recognize the royal nature inherent in every person we meet.

The Commission to Steward Creation

With great dignity comes great responsibility. The psalm goes on to describe humanity’s commissioned role: “You have given him dominion over the works of your hands; you have put all things under his feet.”

This dominion is not a license for exploitation, but a call to responsible stewardship. We are entrusted with the care of God’s creation, to tend and nurture it as His representatives. This role is fulfilled not through autonomous rule, but through submission to God’s authority and purposes.

When we align ourselves with God’s will, recognizing Him as our true Lord, we can fulfill this commission in ways that bring blessing rather than curse to the world around us. However, when we attempt to rule independently of God’s guidance, we risk corrupting and damaging the very things we’re meant to steward.

This commission extends beyond environmental concerns to encompass all aspects of how we interact with the world and each other. It’s a call to cultivate and create in ways that reflect God’s character and purposes.

The Ultimate Fulfillment in Christ

While Psalm 8 speaks profoundly to every human being, it finds its ultimate fulfillment in Jesus Christ. Throughout the New Testament, we see this psalm applied to Jesus in unique ways.

Jesus often referred to himself as the “Son of Man,” a title that echoes the language of this psalm. In his incarnation, Jesus exemplified both the humility and the exaltation described here. He willingly became “lower than the angels for a little while,” taking on human flesh and experiencing our weaknesses and sufferings.

Yet through this humility and obedience, Jesus was “crowned with glory and honor.” His life perfectly embodied the submission to God’s lordship that the psalm calls for, and in doing so, he opened the way for all of humanity to be restored to our intended dignity and purpose.

As we reflect on Psalm 8, we’re invited into a posture of both humility and confidence. We recognize our smallness before an infinite God, yet also embrace the incredible dignity and purpose He has given us. We’re challenged to approach God with childlike faith, to treat others with the respect due to those made in God’s image, and to steward our lives and our world in ways that honor Him.

May we, like the psalmist, be moved to wonder and praise: “O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!” As we embrace this perspective, we find our true place in God’s grand design – humble yet dignified, small yet significant, always looking to our majestic Creator as the source of our identity and purpose.

Posted on

Behold, I Am Making All Things New

“And the one seated on the throne said, ‘Behold, I am making all things new.’” – Revelation 21:5

A Vision Worth Seeing

The book of Revelation invites us to see—truly see—what God is doing in the world. In chapter 21, the voice from the throne says, “Behold, I am making all things new.” This isn’t just poetic language. It’s an imperative: Look. See. Pay attention.

The Greek word here—ἰδού (idoú)—carries that sense of urgency. It’s as if God is waving us down, saying, “Look here! I need you to see this.” This call to see echoes throughout the New Testament, where Jesus invites people to look beyond the surface and behold the Kingdom of God breaking in.

But many of us struggle to see. Our culture, influenced by centuries of philosophical turns, especially since Descartes, has trained us to start with ourselves: “I think, therefore I am.” But what if Descartes got it backward? What if it’s not “I think, therefore I am,” but “I am, therefore I think”?

In Exodus, when Moses meets God at the burning bush and asks for His name, God replies: “I AM WHO I AM.” This divine self-revelation is the true foundation for knowledge, identity, and meaning. Rather than beginning with our thoughts, Scripture calls us to begin with God’s revelation. It’s a totally different way of seeing ourselves and the world.

Seeing Through God’s Eyes

In Revelation 21, John describes what he saw: a new heaven and a new earth, a holy city descending like a bride prepared for her husband. God promises to dwell among His people, wipe away every tear, and abolish death and mourning. It’s a breathtaking vision of hope and renewal.

But here’s the key: we’re not meant to merely admire this vision. We’re meant to live into it. To begin embodying it now.

Christian author Henry Blackaby put it this way:

“Watch and see where God is working, and join Him in His work.”

He reminds us that experiencing God isn’t about mustering up an encounter through self-effort. It’s about aligning ourselves with what God is already doing. And what is God doing? Making all things new.

Master Planning and Future Hope

At our church, we’ve been doing some literal master planning. We hired an architect named Sam, who walks around with a sketchbook. As we talk, he listens, dreams, and suddenly—with a few swift strokes of his pencil—draws out a vision of what could be. A beautiful new building. A transformed space.

That’s vision. That’s what God is offering us: not just a plan for bricks and mortar, but a picture of the new heavens, the new earth, and the new people He is forming. Jesus gives us a glimpse of that future and says, “Live into it. Let it take root in the present.”

Reimagining People

The Apostle Paul offers a strikingly practical application of this vision in 2 Corinthians 5. He writes,

From now on, we regard no one from a worldly point of view… If anyone is in Christ, new creation! The old has gone, the new has come.

What would it look like to see others—not as they are, but as God sees them? Not defined by their past, but by their potential in Christ?

This challenges us. We often define ourselves—and others—by our wounds, failures, and limitations. But the gospel calls us to a new way of seeing. You are not just your brokenness. You are beloved. You are being remade. And so is your neighbor.

In a world quick to label, dismiss, and divide, Christ gives us a ministry of reconciliation. Why? Because the old has passed away. The new has come. The risen Lord is building a new humanity.

The Eternal Perspective

Ortega is a beautiful place. Sometimes it feels like paradise. But even the most beautiful homes here are subject to rot. Even our historic buildings will one day pass away.

But you—the people of God—will not pass away. You are the beloved of Christ, the bride of the Lamb, the citizens of the new Jerusalem. Heaven and earth may pass away, but God’s people endure. And so we must shift our gaze—from fading structures to eternal souls. From what is passing to what will endure.

Living the Vision

Jesus left His disciples with a “new commandment”: “Love one another as I have loved you.” That is the seed of the new creation. When we live out that love, we begin to manifest the Kingdom now.

So let us no longer look at ourselves or others from a worldly point of view. Instead, let’s adopt the eyes of faith. Eyes that behold. Eyes that see. Eyes that recognize God’s vision and join Him in making it a reality.

“Behold, I am making all things new.”

May we see it. May we believe it. May we live it.

Heavenly Father, thank you for the gift of new life, for our children, and for the promises you give us in your Word. You are inviting us to catch a vision—a vision of a new community grounded in your new commandment to love as you have loved us. You are the one who declares, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Speak to us now through your Word. May the preaching of your Word be your Word—for the glory of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Posted on

Christian Unity: Its Role in Our Society

“And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one.” John 17:11

Do you want to understand what truly matters to people? Pay attention to their prayers. In John 17, Jesus shares his high priestly prayer, revealing his deep concerns and care for us as he intervenes on our behalf before God. At the heart of Jesus’ plea for his church is a desire for unity, as exemplified by the oneness of the Trinity.

The Crucifixion, Giotto, 1307

Christians call this unity communion, which means “oneness with.” We are brought into harmony through the mystical and sacred union with God achieved by Jesus’ sacramental body and blood. This profound connection bears witness to the union between Jesus and the Father, affirming his divine purpose to bring life to the world. Jesus repeats his plea for unity among his followers throughout the prayer, emphasizing his desire for all to be one with God and each other, just as he and the Father are one. This unity is vital, enabling the world to see and believe in God through Jesus. (John 17:21)

Our world is rife with conflict, violence, prejudice, and division, leading to a breakdown of human connectedness and the resulting pain and damage. Unfortunately, even within the church, we often reflect the same worldly tribalist tendencies and behaviors without introspection or remorse. This goes against the Lord’s vision for the church and presents a poor example to those outside the faith who long for a more compassionate and united way of being human amidst the extreme factionalism of our culture.

The cheap and easy communication tools afforded to us by social media sadly seem to do more tearing apart the body of Christ than uniting. Harsh and biting voices are given a platform with amplification making their words carry more weight than they should.

I recently heard an excellent talk by John Meacham about the role of Christian leaders in civil society. “If the American Republic is going to long endure. It will endure not least because of an Anglican Sensibility. The air you and I breathe theologically is one of complexity and tolerance and having the courage to admit you don’t know everything.”

Demonstrating humility in this manner reflects a profound comprehension that none of us possess the complete picture, and we are all capable of making mistakes and surrendering to our negative tendencies.

So Meacham challenged us as Christian leaders:

“Here’s what you all can do stop lamenting and start leading. We know things are bad. We’ve had an insurrection; we get it. Okay, things are so terrible, yes, they’re terrible. Why? Because people tend to be terrible. Okay, this is your job, for God’s sake; I mean, y’all are dealing with first principles. What are you commissioned to do? You’re commissioned to forgive sins, and you’re surprised that the world is sinful?… If everybody loved their neighbor, guess what? Jesus wouldn’t have had to command it!”

John Meacham, Episcopal Parish Network Keynote 2023. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AY_KDHGD2hg

The essence of Christian leadership is to remind ourselves of the Gospel’s power to save sinners through God’s grace. In and through gracious respect for the dignity of every human being, we are empowered not to harm each other despite our propensity to sin. Leadership requires bringing this message of God’s redemptive claim of our lives to our collective hearts and minds. As Meacham would challenge: “In this time in which we live, the church has a huge role to play to help our democracy and our relationships with one another to walk this path.”

As the church, our duty and mission have always been to fulfill this responsibility.  We are agents of the gospel and ambassadors of Christ to commissioned for the redemption of humanity.

In Ephesians, the Apostle Paul refers to “mystery” to explain how God works through the church to reveal His plan for the world. (Ephesians 3) Paul then transitions into a prayer for the unfathomable love of God, asking for spiritual strength and for Jesus Christ to dwell within our hearts. As a result, we come to understand God’s vast and extraordinary love.

A new and wonderful phenomenon is emerging in the world through the power of God. The death and resurrection of Jesus Christ are uniting people from different cultures, languages, and backgrounds. Former enemies are finding reconciliation, while Jews and Gentiles are discovering peace with God through the cross. Laws no longer govern our relationships but by mercy and grace. The blood shed on the cross gives us all access to God; through this entryway, we are baptized into a new identity and humanity. We become a unified structure, citizens and members of the same household, and a spiritual temple for God’s spirit to reside in.

Paul contemplates the profound advantages of the Gospel and offers a prayer for the church, recognizing that its influence extends beyond itself. The Gospel is of immense importance to the world, as it brings about the most crucial outcome of Gospel ministry: unity with God and among people. As the barriers of hostility are dismantled, and the new community of believers comes into being, the Holy Spirit’s radiance illuminates the living temple that rests upon the cornerstone of Jesus Christ and the foundation of the apostles. According to the divine plan, this disclosure signifies the unification of all things in heaven and on earth under a single leader, ultimately allowing God to reign supreme through the one head, Jesus Christ. (See Ephesians 1:10, 22, 23)

As followers of Christ, our unity in Him holds immense importance in the spiritual world as we fight against Satan and the forces of evil. We arm ourselves with spiritual weapons and armor to engage in this battle. Even when it may seem like the Gospel is not making a difference, we find solace in Jesus Christ being the ultimate authority. It’s crucial to remember that our struggle is not against flesh and blood, a fact often overlooked in our current political disputes within the church.

O God the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, our only Savior,
The Prince of Peace: Give us grace seriously to lay to heart the
Great dangers we are in by our unhappy divisions; take away
all hatred and prejudice, and whatever else may hinder us
from godly union and concord; that, as there is but one Body
and one Spirit, one hope of our calling, one Lord, one Faith,
one Baptism, one God and Father of us all, so we may be all
of one heart and of one soul, united in one holy bond of truth
and peace, of faith and charity, and may with one mind and
one mouth glorify thee; through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.

(Book of Common Prayer, p. 818)