The old Moral Majority, for all its energy and influence, mistook the fruit for the root; it sought cultural transformation without sufficiently grounding that transformation in the ecclesia. But if Church and worship are disoriented, society loses its capacity to function with any real order. The answer to our cultural decay is not first political; it is ecclesiastical.

The Church is not an accessory to public life; she is the genesis of a moral vocabulary shaped by the Sacred Scriptures. Without her, we do not merely lose transcendence; we lose definition. If we no longer know what a woman is, it is because the Church has failed to catechize the world in the grammar of creation. That failure is not accidental; it is theological, liturgical, and ecclesial.

For too long, the Church has played nice; she has sought to minimize offense and, in doing so, has forfeited her voice. When asked whether we are too polarized, the instinct is to lament division, but the deeper problem is that we are not polarized enough. The Church has refused to show up for the family portrait. Instead, she has become the distant relative, present at formal ceremonies and absent from formation. Yet she must be present; not merely present, but central in the formation of the culture around us.

The Idol of Individualism and the Silence of the Church

A new moral majority will not emerge from think tanks or campaign platforms; it will emerge from pulpits and tables, from Word and Sacrament, from a people shaped week after week by the rhythms of worship. The Church is the paradigmatic institution; she does not borrow her authority from the state, rather the state borrows its legitimacy from a moral order that the Church proclaims.

The great obstacle to this vision is not first external opposition; it is internal corruption. The modern Church has been catechized by individualism; this spirit has turned her inward, privatized her mission, and reduced her to a therapeutic community of self-expression. And as Carl Trueman has observed, “the modern self assumes the authority of inner feelings to define what is real.” That is the social imaginary in its purest form; a world in which identity is no longer received from God but constructed from within. When the Church refuses to confront that assumption, she quietly baptizes it.

In this social imaginary, the self becomes the arbiter of truth; reality is no longer received, it is constructed. The Church, instead of confronting this rebellion, has often accommodated it. She has embraced a navel-gazing pietism and mistaken introspection for holiness. But a Church that does not speak to the nations is a Church that has forgotten her calling.

This was made clear in recent years. When crisis came, many churches relinquished the corporeal necessity of worship; they traded the gathered assembly for digital substitutes. The result was predictable; a de-churched Church. When liturgical bones are not exercised, they atrophy; when the Church ceases to practice her story, she forgets who she is (see my essay in “Failed Church” edited by Andrew Sandlin).

What followed was not neutrality; it was silence. And that silence bore fruit; instead of forming a people resistant to tyranny, many churches surrendered their sacred time and their sacred practices. The consequence is a Church unsure of her authority and hesitant in her witness.

The Rise of an Ecclesial Majority

A new moral majority must begin with a renewed commitment to worship; the first day of the week must again become central for the formation of political thinking and cultural engagement. Before we are citizens, we are worshipers; before we engage the public square, we ascend the heavenly one.

Ecclesial conservatism begins here; we think first as churchmen and only then as citizens. Our loyalty is first as worshipers; the political flows from the liturgical, not the reverse. We refuse to place the civic calendar above the Christian calendar; we will not allow the flag to eclipse the cross or the pledges of men to replace the creeds of the Church.

This vision restores prayer to its rightful place; not as a sentimental or even pietistic way of approaching God, but as action. The Church must pray for her leaders as Scripture commands; not as a formality, but as a means of shaping reality. Prayer is not withdrawal. At the very center, it is engagement at the deepest level.

Further, this ecclesial majority does not flee politics; it redeems it. It rejects the secularism that divorces faith from public life and the reductionism that makes politics ultimate. This is not a call to revolution by arms; it is a call to revolution by armor. The Church advances through worship, hospitality, feasting, and faithfulness; she forms a people whose life together embodies an alternative society, a foretaste of the kingdom of heaven.

The public square is indeed a battleground of the gods, but Christians have too often entered that battlefield unarmed, having neglected the very means by which God forms his people. The result has been confusion, compromise, and defeat. What we need, then, is not merely a louder conservative movement; we need a holier Church. Not merely a stronger voting bloc, but a stronger ecclesia. Not merely a moral majority, but a moral-moral majority, a people whose morality is not borrowed from tradition alone, but generated from the living worship of the Triune God.

The Church must once again become the beating heart of cultural renewal; she must sing again with angels and archangels, proclaim again the unchanging Word, and gather again as the visible society of God’s redeemed people.

Only then will a true moral majority emerge: not as a political accident, but as the inevitable fruit of a faithful Church.

Nuntium

My time in Michigan was also a tour of Michigan. We arrived in Detroit on Wednesday and made our way to Shelby, MI, with Pastor Jeff Swanson. We had a splendid time, and then we headed over to the Southeastern region of Michigan, to a lovely town called Howell. The downtown area was delightful.

The congregation, Christ Church of Livingston County, has been part of the CREC for many years. They are currently in search of a new pastor, but with some solid pulpit supply as they conclude their search. I gave a talk on the CREC, followed by a delightful Q&A session. The congregation was full of hospitality and eager to serve their community.

But in the meantime, as a pastor arrives, some of the men are starting a classical school in Howell. And they are enthusiastic for its mission.

It was an honor to meet with the board and offer a lecture to those interested. My main premise was that institutions that are faithful and true are not merely preparing students for the future, but preparing them for a collection of enemies. From the talk:

You can check out their website for more information.

My time here in Michigan has been filled with wonderful glimpses of God’s providence. We arrived early Wednesday, got on our rental in Detroit, and happily made the 3-hour journey to West Michigan to visit Pastor Jeff Swanson, a delightful and larger-than-life figure. We received a tour of his farm and the Dairy plant where he works, learned about the good work done at Christ the King, and spent time with his dear family. It was a joy to experience CREC hospitality in this part of the country.

Rev. Swanson has been shepherding this CREC congregation for many years, and his imprint is all over it. The congregation has a true passion for the Word of our God and also shares the ambitious vision of raising men to take dominion and training young ladies to be lovers of the home.

It was a joy to spend the evening with a portion of his congregation, eating and drinking together, and to have the opportunity to speak about the CREC and our work worldwide. We had a lovely time in good fellowship; the kind of thing that CREC’ers do with excellent frequency. After my talk, we gathered for a picture outside their facility.

While the tide has been on our side for many years, we are slowly gaining momentum in acquiring buildings for our churches. The good folks in West Michigan own their building and use it joyfully for the edification of the saints. If you are ever in West Michigan, you should stop by Christ the King and visit the glorious Lake Michigan, a piece of artistic paradise that is splendid for all 350+ miles. It’s hard to express the glory of such a place! We breathed the crispness of the Lake Michigan air and gave thanks to God.

A little pastoral reflection may suit a few of you today. The more time I spend with fellow ministers, the more self-aware I become of the uniqueness of our calling. This uniqueness comes at different levels, and it moves men in profound ways depending largely on their personalities and predispositions. There is a kind of invisible labor in the pastoral office, one that does not always show itself in sermons or public duties, but in the quiet accumulation of relationships, prayers, and shared lives. Over time, a pastor does not merely preach to a people; he becomes bound to them.

That bond is not mechanical. It is deeply human and profoundly spiritual. It is formed in hospital rooms and fellowship halls, in late-night conversations and ordinary Lord’s Days, in the steady rhythm of Word and Sacrament. And because of this, the pastoral calling is not simply a vocation one performs, but a life one enters. It shapes the affections, deepens the burdens, and ties the minister’s heart to the people under his care in ways that are difficult to fully articulate.

The Joy and Burden of a Shared Life

One of those emotional bursts in the life of the minister happens when a saint leaves the local church. Church departures can be among the most emotional experiences for pastors and members alike. Since we live in a military community, we have seen our share of individuals and families leave our church who have consistently enriched our lives for a beautiful season. These saints add different gifts to the church and undoubtedly immense joy to the flock. Their presence becomes part of the church’s liturgy of life, their voices part of its song.

I am reminded by what the Apostle says in Hebrews 13:17. Members are to submit to their leaders so that their work will be a joy, not a burden, for that would be of no benefit to you. Membership carries a weighty responsibility: to make the pastor’s job joyful rather than burdensome. This is not a call to flattery or superficial harmony (we don’t need that), but to a shared commitment to the health of the body, where encouragement, patience, and mutual care sustain the work of ministry.

When I wrote my doctoral dissertation some years ago, I wrote about the nature of longevity in the pastoral office. I observed that most pastors leave the ministry quite early due to a lack of encouragement from the flock, which leads to burdens, which burdens lead to misery, which misery leads to early departures from the ministry. In fact, the low rate of pastoral stay in churches, less than five years, is largely due to the Hebrews 13:17 factor. A congregation that understands its role in cultivating joy in its shepherd is not merely helping a man endure; it is strengthening the long-term stability and faithfulness of the church itself.

This, of course, is not to say that pastors live an error-free life. There are times when pastors fail to make their parishioners’ lives joyful and to fulfill their ministerial duties effectively. These all play a significant role in this conversation as well. Shepherds are not immune to weakness, and the same Scriptures that call members to faithful submission also call pastors to faithful oversight, humility, and repentance. The health of the church depends on both.

The Grief of Departure and the Hope of Reunion

Nevertheless, when families leave, it creates an immense void in the pastor's life. After all, we invest in their lives in Word and Sacrament, we host them in our homes, officiate weddings for their children, bring their children to the font, minister in times of crisis, eat, laugh, sing, worship together week after week in the calendar of the church, and much more. And when the reality hits that a family must leave for whatever reason, it feels like a form of death for a minister. It is not merely an organizational change. It is the quiet severing of a shared life.

Ministers pour into the lives of saints in a deeply emotional way. When Paul spoke of being a father to the Corinthians, this was no metaphor. For Paul, to watch little children grow up under your care, to see them suffer, to walk and live with them in the rhythm of the church calendar year after year, can only be described as a fatherly role. It is, in one sense, the feeling parents have when their children leave for college or the feeling a sister has when their best friend leaves for another state. It all reaches into the deepest places of human affection.

Changes happen. Things move. Chapters close. Kids grow up. But the absence of the following Sunday, when those chairs are no longer filled with the presence and humanity of those saints, carries a loss that is hard to articulate. Even when the departure stems from difficult relationships, theological differences, or a professional move, we, pastors, humbly called to serve and filled with our own insecurities, suffer the absence of those whom we loved in our local community. We, therefore, pray that our reunion one day will supply some of the joy that departed when they first left, trusting that the communion of saints is not ultimately broken, but only, for a time, scattered.

Notations

New Perspectivalist Episode

Great thanks to the ladies on The Feminine Glory Podcast for having me on.

How Does Kuyperianism Apply To Women?

Unlike some traditions, Providence Church practices paedocommunion, which means that every baptized child in this congregation is welcomed to the table of Jesus Christ. This is not a novelty for us, nor is it an attempt to be provocative. It is, rather, our attempt to take seriously what the Scriptures say about the nature of the Table and the nature of the Church.

The Apostle Paul tells us that one must “discern the body” before coming to the Table. But we must be careful not to turn that phrase into something foreign to the text. To “discern the body” is not to produce a theological dissertation on the atonement or to demonstrate a sophisticated grasp of Good Friday. Paul’s concern in I Corinthians 11 is not intellectual insufficiency, but relational disorder.

The Corinthians were dividing the Church. Some ate while others went hungry. Some feasted while others were humiliated. They had turned the Lord’s Supper into a display of status and fragmentation. As I have argued elsewhere, “the proof that a Christian—young or old—must display is his desire for unity in the body of Christ, not his performance of self-introspection.”

Paul’s rebuke is not aimed at the simple, but at the divisive. It is not the child who fails to discern the body, but the adult who despises it. Practically, all one has to do is bring a child to the center of a group. How do people react? Does it provide disunity? Or does it draw people closer? The answer is obvious. Children draw people together.

So, what does it mean to discern the body? It means to act in such a way that unites the body. It means to recognize that this Table is not a private meal, but a family feast. It means to come not as an isolated individual, but as a member of Christ’s people. If you are a divider of the body, if you harbor contempt for your brother, if you erect barriers where Christ has torn them down, then you are not discerning the body. And I would urge you to refrain.

But children, as in the days of Jesus, are welcomed. Their presence does not fracture the assembly; it strengthens it. They come not with agendas, but with open hands. They come not to assert themselves, but to receive. And many times, unlike many grown-ups, they have little difficulty desiring the good and unity of the body.

The Covenant Pattern of Faith and Formation

To understand why this is so, we must return to the basic pattern of Scripture. The Bible does not present faith as an abstract, self-generated achievement detached from relationships. It presents faith as something cultivated within the bonds God Himself has established.

As James Jordan has argued so forcefully, we must think back to the garden. If Adam and Eve had not sinned, their children would have grown up knowing the Lord. They would not have needed to “decide” for Him in some isolated, self-conscious moment. They would have been born into a world of fellowship, into a network of relationships that naturally directed them to God.

And even in a fallen world, we see glimpses of this restored pattern. John the Baptist, still in the womb, leaps for joy at the presence of Christ. That is not mere instinct; it is a response of faith. As Jordan puts it, “I believe a fetus can have faith.” Not a fully articulated theology, but a real, living orientation toward God.

This should not surprise us. God’s ordinary way of working is through households. Children are born into relationships. They begin by trusting what their parents say. And that is not a defect; it is God’s design. If God had intended otherwise, He could have created fully formed adults capable of making immediate, independent decisions. But He did not. He created infants who grow, who learn, who trust, and who gradually mature in their understanding.

As Jordan observes, children move through stages. They begin by relating to God as Father, climbing into His lap, so to speak. Later, they grow into deeper and more self-conscious forms of relationship. But the early stage is not inferior; it is foundational. It is the beginning of covenant life.

And if our children are truly part of that covenant, if they are genuinely members of the household of God, then we must ask: why would we exclude them from the family meal?

The Restoration of the Family Table

At its heart, the Lord’s Supper is a meal. And not just any meal, but a family meal. It is the place where Christ gathers His people and feeds them as one body.

In Corinth, that vision had been shattered. The architecture of their homes even reinforced division: the wealthy in the dining room, the poor in the atrium. The best food for some, scraps for others. It was, as Pliny the Younger described, a setting where “the best dishes were set in front of himself and a select few, and cheap scraps… before the rest.”

Paul will have none of it. The Supper is not a place for hierarchy, but for unity. It is a memorial, not in the sense of private nostalgia, but as a corporate proclamation of what God has done, is doing, and will do in Christ.

To come to the Table rightly is to recognize that Christ has broken down barriers. It is to see one another as participants in the same redemption. It is to eat and drink together as one people.

And this is precisely why the inclusion of children matters. The Church is not a collection of autonomous individuals, but a household. It is composed of young and old, mature and immature, all bound together in Christ. When we exclude children, we subtly communicate that they are not yet full participants in that body. But when we welcome them, we testify that Christ has united the whole Church into one great banquet.

This does not mean that all distinctions disappear. Children will grow. They will come to deeper understanding. They will wrestle, and some may rebel. But the starting point matters. They begin not as outsiders striving to gain entry, but as insiders being nurtured in grace.

So we bring them. We place the bread in their hands and the cup to their lips. Not because they understand everything, but because they belong. Not because they have mastered the faith, but because they are being formed by it.

And in doing so, we bear witness to the gospel itself: that Christ gathers a people, not merely individuals; that He restores what was broken; that He builds a household where all—young and old—are fed at His Table.

This is the Table that unites the body. And this is why we welcome the children.

It is generally agreed among scholars that Charles Finney brought the definitive catechism of revivalism into American culture. Its effects are lasting and still endure in evangelicalism. Not only was there a denial of the monergistic work of the Spirit, but also an emphasis upon the sinner to ask, cry, repent, receive, walk down the aisle, raise his hand, pray a prayer, and follow all the meticulous and intricate steps to finally arrive at a place where one can feel secure in salvation. Of course, after this series of sentimental experiences often comes the guilt years, which tend to arise during the teenage years for those who grow up in a typical evangelical home.

The Confusion of Gospel and Method

It may seem odd to think that such a series of decisions would be equivalent to the gospel. The reality is that this list of necessary occurrences for experiencing true salvation is foreign to the biblical text. It belittles the message of the cross and further enhances confusion in the already troubled evangelical mind.

There is no denial that revivals have brought about genuine conversions, but I do deny that they have been beneficial to the body as a whole. A multitude of souls is even too expensive a price in light of faithfulness to the truth.

Revivals can have their place, even an important one, much like emergency measures that can save a life in a moment of crisis. But they are not the ordinary means God has appointed to sustain and grow the life of His Church. They may awaken, but they do not ordinarily nourish. The regular health of the Christian life comes not through spiritual emergencies, but through the steady, appointed means of grace.

It is health we need. We have plenty of remedies, just not the right ones. As Steve Schlissel once put it, “There is too much evangelism today, just not the right kind.”

From Self-Reliance to Gospel Rest

For the gospel of grace to be preached effectively, we need to destroy the concept of self-reliance and resurrect the concept of dependence. It is God alone who brings about revivals, that is, a revival of the heart. Souls must be resurrected from their spiritual death. The author of resurrection is like the wind, and you cannot summon the wind to meet you on a cold evening at a tent revival.

The shocking consequences of this mentality have led some to atheism or to a modern form of Pelagianism. If we seek to be conformed to the standards of modern evangelicalism, we lose our biblical identity. But if we seek to apply gospel truth to our everyday lives, then we destroy our fleshly instincts. This is precisely what we are called to do: to lose our lives in order that we may walk according to the Spirit. The Christian may find rest in the gospel even now.

The calamity that has befallen the church is a direct result of a foundational misunderstanding of the good news: you can never get over it. You need it every day and every hour. If you want assurance of your faith, then trust in the gospel again and again. Taste the goodness of the vine at the table of our Lord. Abandon the hypocrisy of weekly re-commitments and embrace Christ once and for all

.

Nuntium

My energy is fairly limited as I prepare to head out to JFK back to Pensacola. We made it early to the airport after a fruitful 36 hours in New York City. A couple of quick pictures from my long walk in Central Park with a dear friend.

Notations

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But we are also at a stage where we are culturally, theologically, and liturgically self-aware. We are no longer in our infancy. The Lord has been kind to us. We have grown to produce godly and faithful pastors, and now our children and our children’s children are coming of age within our churches, offering remarkable gifts within their own spheres of influence. This is not accidental. It is the fruit of a shared life, a common confession, and a deliberate commitment to worship and practice.

And as you grow as an institution, it becomes imperative to establish and maintain boundaries. Growth without clarity is not maturity. It is significant that our culture is preserved, and that our theological and liturgical distinctives are not only articulated, but guarded and strengthened, even more so at the presbytery level. In other words, we can now afford to be careful. We can afford to be selective, not out of pride, but out of stewardship.

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The calling of a pastor-theologian is not to be a specialist but a special kind of generalist. This distinction matters, especially in an age that prizes expertise in narrow fields. The Church does not ordain men to become isolated technicians of the sacred text, nor to function as amateur psychologists, political pundits, or cultural critics who occasionally preach. Rather, she sets apart men to handle the Word of God faithfully while tending to a people whose lives are richly layered and often complicated.

This means that expectations must be rightly ordered. A young pastor, newly trained in the rigors of exegesis, should not be burdened with the assumption that he must possess equal mastery in every domain of human inquiry. To expect him to navigate the complexities of psychological disorders with the same precision as he handles the book of Hebrews is to misunderstand the nature of pastoral formation. The temptation, however, is real. Many young ministers, eager to prove their worth, attempt to display intellectual range by consuming vast amounts of secondary literature, often indiscriminately. In doing so, they risk substituting depth with display.

Parishioners are not ultimately nourished by verbosity. They are not transformed by the pastor’s ability to reference obscure sources or parade theological vocabulary. What they long for is clarity, wisdom, and application. They want to know how the Word they hear shapes their lives as hearers and doers. Therefore, the pastor must learn early that reading is not an exercise in accumulation but in cultivation. He reads not to impress but to shepherd.

Reading for the Sake of the Flock

The pastor-theologian ministers not to abstractions but to flesh-and-blood people. The congregation sitting under his care carries burdens, histories, wounds, and hopes. The ministry of the pulpit and the table naturally extends into counseling, conversation, and shared life. A pastor who limits his engagement to the intellectual realm will inevitably produce a lopsided parish. Likewise, one who focuses solely on emotional resonance without theological grounding will lead his people into instability.

Balance is not optional. It is essential.

This is why broad reading is not a luxury but a necessity. The diversity within a congregation demands it. People arrive from different traditions, vocations, and cultural backgrounds. They bring with them questions shaped by their environments and experiences. To minister effectively, the pastor must develop a reading life that equips him to speak meaningfully into this variety without losing his theological center.

Douglas Wilson captures this well in Gashmu Saith when he writes, “Preachers of the gospel must also be students of the culture they are sent to.” This is not a call to chase cultural trends or to baptize every new idea. It is a summons to awareness. A pastor who understands the cultural currents shaping his people will be better positioned to apply the Word with precision and pastoral sensitivity.

Yet, this cultural awareness must always remain subordinate to Scripture. The pastor does not read culture as an authority but as a context. His task is to interpret that context through the lens of divine revelation. In this way, his reading becomes an act of pastoral care. He studies broadly so that he may speak narrowly and faithfully into the lives of his people.

Reading in the Light of the Incarnation

At the center of the pastor’s reading life stands the Triune God. The pastor-theologian is, before all else, a servant of God in every capacity, including how he reads. The incarnation of Jesus Christ establishes the pattern. God did not remain distant. He entered history, took on flesh, and spoke in ways that could be heard, understood, and received.

This incarnational reality shapes the pastor’s vocation. The Word must be read, digested, and proclaimed. Jesus declares, “I am the truth” (John 14:6), and the apostle reminds us that in Him “are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge” (Col. 2:3). The pastor reads, therefore, not merely as an academic exercise but as an act of devotion and preparation. He seeks wisdom that is godly, knowledge that is ordered, and understanding that serves the Church.

Such reading produces humility. The pastor recognizes that he is always a student, always learning, always dependent. It also produces confidence, not in his own intellect, but in the sufficiency of Christ. The treasures he seeks are not scattered across endless disciplines in a way that leaves him fragmented. They are gathered and fulfilled in the person of Jesus.

When the pastor reads in this way, his ministry takes on a particular texture. His preaching becomes clear and grounded. His counseling becomes wise and patient. His presence among the people becomes steady and attentive. He is not trying to be everything, but he is striving to be faithful in all things.

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The pastor-theologian, then, is a generalist of a holy sort. He reads widely, but he lives and ministers from a center that does not shift. He studies culture without being shaped by it. He engages people in their fullness while anchoring them in the truth. And in all of this, his reading becomes an extension of his calling, a quiet but essential labor in the service of Christ and His Church.

Much of this essay is an elaboration of a small section of my doctoral dissertation.

Notations

On the Church Calendar

What we celebrate today is not just one more moment on the church calendar. Easter is the turning point of everything. For weeks, we have been walking through a long and often heavy season. We have felt the weight of sin, the silence of waiting, and the sorrow of the cross. But all of that was leading here.

If you think of the past couple of months in simple terms, we have been on a journey. It has been like a long exile, like being far from home, and now, in the resurrection of Jesus, we are brought back. It has been like wandering in the wilderness, learning repentance and dependence, and now we are brought into life and abundance. It has been a time of shadows and questions, especially as we followed Jesus toward the cross, and now everything is made clear in the light of the empty tomb.

All the sorrow of Holy Week, all the grief of Good Friday, now gives way to joy. What looked like defeat has become victory. What seemed like the end has become a beginning. The cross is not erased, but it is now crowned with resurrection glory.

This is why everything changes in our worship. The quiet gives way to singing. The restraint gives way to celebration. The “Alleluia” returns to our lips. Joy is no longer held back. The Church moves from mourning into feasting because Christ is no longer in the grave.

And this is the heart of it all: from death comes life. From the darkest moment in history, God brings about the greatest good. This is not only what happened to Jesus but also what now shapes our lives. The resurrection is not just something we remember. It is the power by which we now live.

So lift up your hearts this morning. Leave behind the grave clothes of fear and sorrow. Christ is risen, and because He is risen, everything has changed.

The Church also celebrates Maundy Thursday as our Messiah’s commandment to love one another just as He loved us. We then proceed to sing of the anguish of that Good Friday as our blessed Lord is humiliated by soldiers and scolded by the unsavory words of the religious leaders of the day. As he walks to the Mount, his pain testifies to Paul’s words that he suffered even to the point of death. But hidden in this glaringly distasteful mixture of blood, vinegar, and bruised flesh is the calmness of the day after our Lord’s crucifixion.

After fulfilling the great Davidic promise in Psalm 22, our Lord rests from his labors in the tomb. Whatever may have happened in those days before his resurrection, we know that Christ’s work was finished.

The Church refers to this day as Blessed Sabbath or, more commonly, Holy Saturday. On this day, our Lord reposed (rested) from his accomplishments. Many throughout history also believe that Holy Saturday is a fulfillment of Moses’ words:

God blessed the seventh day. This is the blessed Sabbath. This is the day of rest, on which the only-begotten Son of God rested from all His works . . .(Gen. 2:2)

The Church links this day with the creation account. On day seven, Yahweh rested and enjoyed the fruit of his creation. Jesus Christ also rested in the rest given to him by the Father and enjoyed the fruits of the New Creation he had begun to establish, which would be brought to light the next day.

As Alexander Schmemann observed:

Now Christ, the Son of God through whom all things were created, has come to restore man to communion with God. He thereby completes creation. All things are again as they should be. His mission is consummated. On the Blessed Sabbath He rests from all His works.

Holy Saturday is a day of rest for God’s people; a foretaste of the true Rest that comes in the Risen Christ. The calmness of Holy Saturday makes room for the explosion of Easter Sunday. On this day, we remember that the darkness of the grave and the resting of the Son were only temporary, for when a New Creation bursts into the scene, the risen Lord of glory cannot contain his joy, and so he gives it to us.

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Throughout the Gospels, we often hear of the confusion and uncertainty about the nature of Jesus. But by this point, the leaders of the day have realized that Jesus is no ordinary man claiming to be the Messiah, but he is a kingly threat to the current establishment. After this realization, their tone changes drastically. Their plans of execution and murder suddenly become quite concrete. This is the politics of Good Friday, as one author observes:

God enters His creation, and His creatures concentrate all their ingenuity, passion, piety, and power to destroy Him.

What is distinctive about the politics of Good Friday is not that Jesus despises power; after all, he will receive all power and authority in heaven and earth from the Father. Instead, the uniqueness of Good Friday lies in the fact that power comes through death, where kingship does not appear in the splendor of a Roman coronation, but in the horror of a tree.

When Pilate handed Jesus over to the Jews and mockingly stated, “Behold your King!” little did he know that the destruction of his own kingdom was now inevitable, and the genesis and emergence of an everlasting kingdom were already underway.

Unlike Adam, Jesus did not fail to crush the Serpent. On a tree, Adam fell, but through a tree, a New Adam and a New Humanity are resurrected. Hail, Good Friday! All glory, laud, and honor to the Redeemer King!

Good Friday Confession of Sin

God of all mercy,
we confess that we have sinned against you,
opposing your will in our lives.
We have denied your goodness in each other,
in ourselves, and in the world you have created.
We repent of the evil that enslaves us,
the evil we have done,
and the evil done on our behalf.
Forgive, restore, and strengthen us
through our Savior Jesus Christ,
that we may abide in your love
and serve only your will. Amen.

Almighty God, have mercy on us, forgive us all our sins through the grace of Jesus Christ, strengthen us in all goodness, and by the power of the Holy Spirit keep us in eternal life, Amen!

{Daily Office}

“My children…A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.”

We see Jesus’ tenderness displayed as he addresses his disciples as his children. For Jesus, they belonged in his kingdom. Therefore, our Lord had to protect them from what was ahead, which only Jesus could undergo.

“Where I am going, you cannot come,” Jesus said.

The Lord gives them this new commandment to hold on to as they continue kingdom work. But why is this a new commandment? Didn’t Moses already give us this imperative in Leviticus 19:18 when he said, “To love your neighbor as yourself?” Indeed. However, this new commandment is unlike Leviticus. In John’s Gospel, Jesus says, “Love one another, just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another.” The difference is that God became flesh and loved his disciples for three years.

The disciples now have God in the flesh as an example of what love truly looks like. Yes, it is a new commandment: Love one another. But when Jesus says, “Do this,” he has already demonstrated what it looks like.

Love is the center of Christian discipleship. How will the world know who we are? It should not be because of our intellectual expertise or professional accomplishments, but because of our love for one another at our tables, in our living rooms, workplaces, and places of worship.

Christian history triumphed because God has loved us in his Son, and Christians have reacted to that love by loving one another. Without love, there is no Christian faith; without love, we are noise-makers, clanging cymbals, and self-delusional religionists, but when we obey this new commandment, the world sees us, and they will know that we are disciples of the Crucified King, Jesus Christ.

Prayer: O Lord, of heaven and earth, we are undeserving of such love, yet you love us still without hesitation. We are your disciples and pray that your love would overflow in our hearts so that we might display this love to those around us by listening, cherishing, serving, and encouraging our neighbor in the Name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Notations

Pastoral Model

My take on John 13 is that Jesus is setting a model for pastoral ministry. Ministry is full of betrayals and denials, but the only sustaining models are sacramental, Baptism and the Supper. Foot-washing is a mini-baptism rooted in the priestly language of Exodus 28-29 (garments, basins, water, feet) and grants access to the Table. Water precedes war against traitors.

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Reading in 2026

It has been a fruitful reading season for me. The year began with Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, which I have read for the second time. Eco developed a theology of sacrifice by the end that was hard to forget. If an institution is corrupt and murderous, it must all go down in flames, and so must all the memories fade.

Then I delved headlong into Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky. Walking alongside the conscience of a murderer is not an easy spiritual task. But watching his sins melt and seeing redemption accomplished and applied was beautiful. Raskolnikov couldn’t outlast grace, and sometimes sins are easier to confess when the picture of the good walks with you.

I picked up Gashmu Saith by Doug Wilson and was reminded how grateful I am for his labors. Serving alongside him on the NSA board and receiving his wisdom as I represent the Communion of Reformed Evangelical Churches to the broader world has been nothing short of a gift. The Moscow mood, at its best, is simply this: to follow Nehemiah rather than Gashmu.

Oh, and Hemingway. Thanks to Dr. Hadley for the helpful overview of the book in our last book club. It was my first of Hemingway’s works. The Green Hills of Africa was a lot of what I am not. I don’t hunt. I don’t take pride in bull’s heads. But I do take joy in camaraderie and good drink, and godly ambition. The book was fun…funner than I envisioned.

Yes, since everyone is doing it, I might as well get on the Theo of Golden train. I suppose that after 2-3, or 10, witnesses tell me this is one of the most beautiful books they have ever read, I should get the hint. I have been listening to it, and hope to read it as well.

Speaking of, I have really embraced the model. The listening-and-writing model has allowed me to engage with characters and compare my interpretations through my own lens.

There is, however, one remarkable scene that takes place in Bethany.

One of the Pharisees invited Jesus to eat with him. He entered the Pharisee’s house and sat at the table. There was a woman in the city who lived a very sinful life and knew that Jesus was eating in the Pharisee’s house. In humble service, she brought an alabaster jar of perfume. Standing behind at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears, and she wiped them with the hair of her head, kissed his feet, and anointed them with the perfume (Lk. 7:36ff).

On Thursday, another table is set at the Last Supper. But on Wednesday, Jesus receives one of the most splendid displays of worship in his earthly ministry. A woman of immoral reputation anoints our Lord. In the Bible, kings are anointed. Unlike the traitorous leaders of the day, this woman wasted no time submitting to the Lord of Glory.

This scene is filled with symbolic significance. First, the woman wet his feet with tears, a symbol of casting her cares upon him. Then, she wiped his feet with her hair, a symbol not of uncleanness, but of glory laid down in humility, for “hair” in the Bible is often associated with a woman’s glory (1 Corinthians 11:15). She takes what is honorable and beautiful and places it at the feet of Jesus, offering her glory in an act of devotion. Finally, she kisses his feet—a symbol of loyalty. Unlike Judas, whose kiss meant death, this woman’s kiss meant life and loyalty.

On this Holy Wednesday, while Jesus’ ministry may be relatively silent, the angels in heaven are not; the Father and the Spirit are not, and this true worshipper in a Pharisee’s home is loudly worshipping the Second Adam.

Prayer: O Blessed Messiah, whose feet were kissed by those who follow you, we dare not betray you for you served us unto death. May our lives be like kisses of loyalty to the Son of Man who poured his love on all our hearts; yes, Jesus our Messiah, amen!

Notations

Maundy Thursday is structured in a sacramental fashion. There is a washing and then a table. Water precedes a meal. The disciples are priestly figures sent out to proclaim the good news because their feet are now made beautiful by washing.

The theme of darkness on Good Friday is a re-enactment of the creation account. Darkness precedes light, and so too does darkness precede resurrection—the new creation.

Recorded in 2020

Satan enters Judas and attempts to replicate the wilderness temptations, offering Jesus an easy way out of his course to the cross. If only Jesus were arrested, then he would precipitate a war with the Romans and show himself to be the Messiah. If the religious leaders arrest Jesus, perhaps there will be an inevitable war where Jesus will be forced to forego his mission. God will intervene, defeat the Roman powers, and establish a fleshly kingdom. And perhaps Judas will be a powerful leader in this newly established messianic reign.

But Judas’s dream of an earthly kingdom without the cross and the resurrection would not be fulfilled. In a fascinating turn of events, when Jesus was handed over to the religious leaders (on Holy Wednesday or Maundy Thursday, depending on harmonization), what did the disciples want to do? They wanted to take up the sword and begin a war. They even cut off the ear of one of the servants. Is Judas’s dream being fulfilled before his very eyes?

“My plan has worked. Jesus is going to cast himself from the temple, take the bread, break the fast and show his authority.”

Jesus, however, does not follow the script as Judas imagined. He immediately turns the tables, heals the man’s right ear, and says, “None of this. This is not the will of my Father.” Almost immediately, Judas’s vision of what he believed would happen after Jesus's arrest is shattered.

Jesus’ triumphal entry was not a declaration of physical warfare against the Romans; it was a declaration that his kingdom would be a different kind of kingdom. The kingdom of Jesus would never come through the sword, but salvation, not through war but worship.

Come, let us worship and bow down to the One who overcomes the Devil and rejects all satanic bribes.

Prayer: On this holiest day, O Lord, keep us in truth. Do not allow the offers of this world to persuade us to forsake the crucified Lord. We are unworthy as your servants, yet, we pray that you may count us worthy in your kingdom, for there is no earthly gift greater than the gift of being united to you. Amen.

Nuntium

Palm Sunday was wonderful! I am so grateful to our beautifiers! See also my Palm Sunday sermon.

“It is written, ‘My house shall be a house of prayer,’ but you have made it a den of robbers.”

In part, Israel's sin was to see Jesus as a one-dimensional character in the story. In their minds, he was simply an insurrectionist seeking to challenge the religious dogma of the first-century priesthood.

But when Jesus enters the scene, he communicates much more than meets the eye. Zechariah 9 instructs us that he is a King who finally comes home to set things right. He comes in priestly, prophetic, and kingly roles. The abuse of his home is over, and now a gracious ruler is here to guard the true religion of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. He will be the faithful priest who inspects the house and finds it wanting. He will be the true prophet who will proclaim glad tidings to those in captivity. And he will be the glorious king who will establish his reign by establishing a new house for his name.

Our temptation on the Monday of Holy Week is to keep business as usual. We are tempted to say: “In my home, there is no corruption. I am the right kind of housekeeper. Jesus, there is no need to change the furniture.” But Jesus comes to teach you that there is always cleaning up to be done. When Jesus comes, it’s Spring cleaning time. He comes to make all things new.

As we approach Good Friday, we must ponder anew how we may give our sins to Jesus so He can carry them to the cross where he bled and died. It’s time to allow Jesus to save you from your current residence. Aren’t you tired of the cycle of sin? Aren’t you tired of apathy? Aren’t you tired of not noticing any spiritual growth in your life in the last 2,5 or 10 years? It’s cleaning time!

It’s time to allow Jesus to enter and change the makeup of your home as he did in Jerusalem. It’s not going to be comfortable. He’s going to crush some things you treasure a lot, but he’s going to give them back to you in a new way.

If the Beatitudes describe a life that contradicts the world, then it should not surprise us that such a life provokes resistance. Jesus does not end His teaching with peace but with persecution. “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake,” He says, because living according to the standards of the kingdom will inevitably bring us into conflict with those who reject them.

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\This is not persecution for foolishness or arrogance, but for righteousness. It is the result of embodying a way of life that exposes the emptiness of the world’s alternatives. When you hunger for righteousness in a culture that celebrates compromise, you will be opposed. When you pursue peace in a world that thrives on division, you will be misunderstood. When you live for the approval of God rather than man, you will be reviled.

Lent prepares us for this reality by stripping away illusions. It reminds us that following Christ is not a path to comfort but to faithfulness. The cross is not an exception in the Christian life; it is its pattern. And therefore, we must not be surprised when obedience leads to tension, when faithfulness leads to misunderstanding, and when righteousness leads to opposition.

Misunderstood by the World

One of the most subtle forms of persecution is not physical but cultural. It is the experience of being misunderstood, of having your deepest convictions interpreted as strange, harmful, or even oppressive. The world cannot understand the culture of heaven because it has been formed by a different set of assumptions.

What the Christian sees as discipline, the world calls abuse. What the Christian sees as order, the world calls control. What the Christian sees as truth, the world calls intolerance. This is not new. It is the same pattern Jesus experienced and the same pattern the prophets endured before Him.

This kind of misunderstanding can be disorienting because it challenges not only our actions but our identity. It tempts us to soften our convictions, to adjust our language, to seek acceptance. But Jesus does not call us to be understood; He calls us to be faithful. And He reminds us that we stand in a long line of witnesses who have faced the same opposition.

Lent, therefore, is a season of recalibration. It teaches us to expect misunderstanding and to endure it without bitterness. It calls us to root our identity not in the shifting approval of men but in the steadfast approval of God.

How Shall We Then Live?

The question remains: how shall we live in light of this reality? The answer is not to withdraw from conflict, nor to seek it unnecessarily, but to understand it rightly. Conflict, when it arises from faithfulness, is not a sign of failure but an opportunity for the gospel to work.

In the life of the Church, this means viewing tensions not as interruptions but as instruments. God uses conflict to expose sin, to refine relationships, and to restore His people. It is uncomfortable, often painful, and rarely clean, but it is one of the primary ways God sanctifies His people.

This requires courage. It is far easier to avoid difficult conversations, to maintain superficial peace, to let offenses go unaddressed. But true peace is not the absence of tension; it is the presence of reconciliation. And reconciliation requires engagement, humility, and a willingness to bear the cost of restoration.

Lent calls us into this work. It reminds us that we are a people engaged in holy labor, not merely maintaining personal piety but participating in God’s renewal of the world. Our work, our relationships, our speech, and our conflicts are all arenas in which the kingdom is made visible.

And in the midst of this, we are given a promise. “Rejoice and be glad,” Jesus says, “for your reward is great in heaven.” This is not a call to ignore present suffering, but to interpret it in light of a greater reality. The approval of God outweighs the rejection of the world. The inheritance of the kingdom surpasses any loss we endure.

Lent, then, is not merely a season of sorrow, but of clarity. It teaches us to see that the path of Christ, though marked by conflict and suffering, leads to glory. And it calls us to walk that path with confidence, knowing that the kingdom that appears upside down is, in truth, the only kingdom that will stand.

Nuntium

I went back in time and spent a few hours with Third Day here in Pensacola. It’s amazing to see these guys on their 30th anniversary tour still jamming like it’s 1996. For those of us steeped in old CCM, these guys were pioneers. And they played their classics, including Thief, which is a brilliant angle on how the thief on the cross interpreted his position in those last moments.

Lent teaches us to see clearly, and what we begin to see is how deeply inverted our instincts are from the kingdom of heaven. Jesus ascends the mountain in the Beatitudes and opens His mouth, and what comes forth is not a strategy for dominance, nor a blueprint for cultural conquest as the world imagines it, but a declaration that the blessed are the poor in spirit, those who mourn, the meek, the merciful, and the peacemakers. This is not merely surprising; it is offensive to a world trained to admire strength, assertiveness, and self-sufficiency.

It is no wonder that someone like Friedrich Nietzsche found Christianity intolerable. He understood, perhaps better than many Christians, that the Beatitudes describe a world fundamentally opposed to the one he desired. In his vision, the strong prevail, the weak are discarded, and pity is a vice. But in Christ’s kingdom, mercy is strength, meekness is inheritance, and suffering becomes the pathway to glory. Nietzsche saw clearly that Christianity was not merely one option among many, but a complete contradiction to the world’s values. And this is precisely the point.

Lent calls us to reject the illusion that we can baptize worldly definitions of power and simply add Jesus to them. The kingdom does not adjust to the world; it overturns it. The cross is not a refinement of human strength but its judgment. And so, the first lesson of Lent is this: if your vision of the good life fits comfortably within the world’s categories, then you have not yet understood the Beatitudes.

The Lie of False Peace

One of the most persistent temptations is to believe that peace can be manufactured by human systems. In every age, there are promises that if we simply elect the right leaders, pass the right laws, or balance competing interests, we will finally achieve peace. The Romans believed this through the sword. Modern societies believe it through policy. But both share the same illusion: that peace can be imposed from the outside.

Jesus rejects this entirely. “Blessed are the peacemakers,” He says, not the peace-enforcers or the peace-negotiators in a merely political sense. The peace of the kingdom is not the absence of conflict through coercion, but the presence of reconciliation rooted in truth. It is a peace that flows from God to man and then outward from man to man.

This means that peacemaking is costly. It requires entering into conflict, not avoiding it. It requires speaking truth when silence would be easier. It requires humility when pride would be more natural. As the Psalmist says, we must seek peace and pursue it, which means chasing it down, laboring for it, even when it demands something from us.

Lent reminds us that peace is not achieved by bypassing the cross, but by passing through it. There is no shortcut. The Prince of Peace establishes His reign not by eliminating enemies through force, but by bearing their hostility and transforming it through sacrifice. If we would be His people, we must learn the same path.

The Shape of True Blessedness

The Beatitudes do not describe abstract virtues; they describe a way of life that takes shape in a community. Jesus speaks in the plural because the kingdom is not an individual achievement but a shared reality. We are not called to private righteousness alone, but to a public life that reflects the character of Christ.

To be poor in spirit is to recognize our dependence together. To mourn is to grieve not only personal sin but the brokenness of the world. To be meek is to restrain power for the sake of others. To be merciful is to extend grace in a culture of retaliation. And to be peacemakers is to labor for unity in a world of fragmentation.

This is why Lent is not merely about personal discipline, but about communal renewal. It calls the Church to examine not only individual hearts but shared habits. Are we a people marked by peace, or by quiet division? Do we pursue reconciliation, or do we wait for others to make the first move? Do our words build up, or do they subtly tear down?

The world will not recognize this way of life as blessed. It will call it weakness, foolishness, or even failure. But Christ declares it blessed because it reflects the life of heaven breaking into earth. Lent trains us to believe that what appears upside down is, in fact, the only way that is truly right.

Notations

I do not believe there has been a more theologically impactful book on the interpretive biblical sphere than James B. Jordan’s ⁠“Through New Eyes: Developing a Biblical View of the World.” ⁠This book has shaped much of my thinking and forced me to see and develop a more biblicized approach to the Bible itself. The reason I say “forced” is that at times it is easier to bring in foreign hermeneutics to explain basic concepts. But the Bible has its own hermeneutics and language.

My goal through these podcasts is to offer an overview of James Jordan’s TNE and some additional insights to build a healthy interpretive guide to biblical passages.

Introduction of Through New Eyes

Chapter One of Through New Eyes

Chapter Two of Through New Eyes

Chapter Three of Through New Eyes

Chapter Four of Through New Eyes

Chapter Five of Through New Eyes

Mercy is not something we invent; it is something we receive. It reminds us that Yahweh is a merciful God, and Jesus, Yahweh in the flesh, embodies that mercy perfectly. He became a merciful and faithful High Priest, the One who took our place and restored us.

Think of your own story. There was a time when your sins left you paralyzed and broken. They caused chaos and darkness in your life. And yet, in that night of the soul, God did not abandon you. When no one was reaching out, He extended His right arm and pulled you out of your distress.

This is where mercy begins. Not with what you give, but with what you have received.

Mercy Moves Outward

But mercy is never meant to remain internal. It is not introspective, but extraspective. It moves outward toward God and toward neighbor.

To be merciful is not simply to feel compassion. It is to act. It is to enter into the needs of others and bring relief. And this is where many of us stumble. We confuse mercy with pity. We speak about needs. We acknowledge burdens. We even pray publicly. But mercy requires something more. It requires movement.

We live in an age where technology allows us to know the burdens of many. This is a gift, but it can also become a substitute for real obedience. Knowing is not the same as doing. Mercy is not gossip. Mercy is not passive sympathy. Mercy is action.9

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And therefore, wisdom is required. We cannot do everything for everyone, but we are called to invest deeply in some. Mercy begins in the household of faith and then extends outward.

Mercy Is Its Own Reward

What then should we expect? Gratitude? Perhaps, but not always.

As Calvin reminds us, the world may often be ungrateful. But that is not our measure. Our hope is not in the response of others, but in the character of God. He is gracious and merciful, and He stores up grace for those who show mercy.

This is our comfort. God sees. God knows. God rewards.

And so in these final days of Lent, do not merely remember that you were shown mercy. Become a vessel of that mercy. Let your scars remind you not of your shame, but of the God who remade you.

Notations

I have read a plethora of Wilson books, but if you are asking what the Moscow Mood is in a little book, look no further than “Gashmu Saith It,” a line taken from the book of Nehemiah. Here are a couple of gems of this succinct polemic:

“The story is often more powerful than the facts, and so the facts must be told well.”

“We are not in a misunderstanding; we are in a conflict.”

“If you are unwilling to be misunderstood, you are not ready to be faithful.”

Nuntium

I will be speaking at a counseling conference in late September. Here is the link to the event.

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

There is a deep misunderstanding in our age about meekness. We often equate it with weakness and imagine it as passivity or retreat, but the biblical vision is altogether different. Meekness is a strength that is tamed. The meek man is not weak. He is powerful, but his power is governed. His strength is under authority because he knows it comes from Yahweh, and therefore, he does not grasp for control.

The kingdom of God is upside down. The way of the world is dominance, assertion, and self-exaltation, but the way of the kingdom is restraint, trust, and quiet confidence in God’s justice. Consider Moses, the meekest man in all the earth. He led a nation, confronted Pharaoh, and wielded immense authority, and yet when accused, he did not exalt himself but entrusted his cause to God. That is meekness. It is not the absence of strength, but the refusal to misuse it.

Inheriting the World

God promises the earth to the meek. This is not a small promise, but the fulfillment of the Abrahamic covenant. Paul tells us in Romans 4 that we are heirs of the world. This earth belongs to Christ and therefore to His people, not to tyrants or false kingdoms, but to those who belong to the King.

We inherit it not through force, but through faithfulness. We do not seize it through domination, but receive it through obedience. We begin to claim the world by living in it rightly, adorning it, shaping it, and bringing it under the lordship of Christ. This work begins in the smallest places, in our homes, in our parenting, and in our speech.

We must ask how we exercise authority. Do we crush others with it, or do we win hearts through meekness? Lent exposes how often we misuse strength and calls us to repentance, not for having authority, but for abusing it. If we are to rule the earth as God’s people, we must first learn to restrain ourselves.

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A Holy Appetite

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.”

This next Beatitude brings the first section to its climax, issuing a call to deep, consuming desire. Righteousness is not optional for the Christian life. It is our hunger and our thirst. To hunger for righteousness is to long to obey God and to love His commandments. It is to pursue holiness not in abstraction, but in daily life.

At the same time, this hunger extends beyond personal morality. It is a longing to see righteousness established on earth. We do not want a world ruled by injustice or corruption, but long for the kingdom of heaven to shape the kingdoms of men. This longing must be intense and urgent. We cannot be satisfied with apathy or settle for compromise.

We must examine ourselves and ask where we have lost our appetite and where we have grown content with less than obedience. We must also consider how we encourage one another toward righteousness. The life of the kingdom is a life of growing desire, and the promise is that those who hunger will be satisfied.

This satisfaction is deep and lasting. The more we hunger, the more we taste, and the more we taste, the more we hunger. This is the good life, the life worth living, a life of participation in God’s work of making earth more and more like heaven.

Notations

Heavenly Rulers

A Devilish Invitation

The Beatitudes are instructions for how we are to live in this world, but beyond that, they are also how we turn the world upside down. They reveal how Christians' actions transform the world from an ethic of shame to an ethic of honor. They are value statements. When you read them, do not limit the word blessed as simply happy, but see it as honorable. To live this Beatitude life is an honor.

Jesus is saying that if you live in this way, you will be honored and exalted in due time. This is the paradox of the Christian message: that when you are poor in spirit, you are honored in the kingdom of heaven. This is not a ladder into the kingdom, but a description of those already transformed by grace. These are kingdom people, disciples who now live in a way that transforms the world.

To be poor in spirit is foundational. It is to depend on the infinite riches of God in Christ Jesus. It is to reject the self-sufficient spirit of our age and embrace a life of deep dependence upon God’s Word. Lent is a fitting season to recover this posture, to empty ourselves of illusions of strength and remember that all our sufficiency is in Him.

The Gift of Mourning

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

Jesus comes as the Restorer of His people. Israel has been an outcast, and now He restores, but not indiscriminately. He restores a particular kind of people, a people who mourn. This mourning is not mere self-pity, nor is it an introspective spiral of shame. There is a place for grieving sin, but that is not the emphasis here. The mourning of the Beatitudes is larger and more prophetic.

Those who mourn are those who grieve over the condition of the present world. They look at the world and know that something is not right. They see brokenness, rebellion, injustice, and decay, and they refuse to make peace with it. Their grief is not despairing, but hopeful, and it leads to expectation. This is why Isaiah 61 speaks of comfort. God comforts those who mourn because they are aligned with His vision of restoration.

As N.T. Wright observes, the kingdom is not an alien tyranny imposed on the world, but the confrontation of tyrannies with the good news of a God who restores true humanity. This is what mourners long for, a world set right under King Jesus.

Mourning That Moves

This mourning is not passive. We cannot mourn something we do not understand, and we cannot understand the brokenness of the world unless we truly see it. Seeing it requires engagement. Crying over the world is not enough. We mourn by participating in restoration. We lament, but we also labor. We grieve, but we also build.

The vision is global, but it begins locally. We begin with our city, our neighborhoods, and our families. We must ask whether there is enough brokenness around us to stir longing, or whether we have grown numb. The mourners in Ezekiel 9 were marked out because they grieved over the abominations of the city. They were preserved because they saw clearly and felt rightly.

So it must be with us. Lent trains us to see again, to feel again, and to long again. How honorable are those who mourn, who understand the wreckage of sin but also believe in the restoration of Christ! They know the world is broken, but they refuse to believe it will remain so, and so they mourn with hope.

Matthew tells us:

“Seeing the crowds, he went up on the mountain, and when he sat down, his disciples came to him. And he opened his mouth and taught them…”

This is not incidental. It is deliberate. The setting matters. The posture matters. The words matter.

Jesus goes up a mountain.

And immediately, Scripture is inviting us to remember another mountain—Sinai—where Moses received the law of God. There, Yahweh formed a people. There, He taught them how to live as a distinct nation among the nations.

Now, Jesus ascends a mountain and does the same.

But He is not merely repeating Moses. He is surpassing him.

The Greater Moses and the New People

The Gospel of Matthew is full of mountains. At the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, He is taken up on a mountain and offered all the kingdoms of the world if He would bow to Satan. At the end of the Gospel, He stands on a mountain and declares that all authority in heaven and on earth has been given to Him.

He refuses false authority at the beginning so that He might receive true authority at the end.

And here, in the Sermon on the Mount, we see the bridge between those two moments. Jesus, the greater Moses, gives instruction not merely for Israel, but for a new Israel composed of Jews and Gentiles, bound together not by ethnicity, but by faith.

This is the constitution of the kingdom.

But unlike the law given at Sinai, these words are not external commands written on stone. They are internal realities written on the heart. They are not burdensome rules, but grace-filled instructions that shape a new kind of life.

Lent is a fitting time to hear these words because they call us not merely to behavior modification, but to transformation. They demand not just obedience, but allegiance.

The Authority of His Mouth

Matthew also emphasizes that Jesus “opened his mouth and taught them.”

This phrase may seem unnecessary. Of course, He opened His mouth. How else would He speak? But Scripture is drawing our attention to something deeper.

In Deuteronomy, Israel is told to live by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God. Now, Jesus speaks—and His words carry that same authority.

Why?

Because He is Yahweh in the flesh.

The words of Jesus are not commentary on God’s will; they are the will of God. They are not suggestions; they are life itself. To hear Him is to hear God. To obey Him is to live.

This is why the Sermon on the Mount cannot be treated as inspirational literature. It is not optional. It is not hypothetical. It is the voice of the King commanding His people.

And Lent asks us: Are we listening?

The Gateway to the Kingdom

The first word Jesus gives is this:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

This is the doorway. The foundation. The beginning of everything.

To be “poor in spirit” is to recognize your utter dependence on God. It is to know that apart from His grace, you have nothing. No righteousness. No strength. No claim.

It is the opposite of self-sufficiency.

The rich in spirit trust themselves. They measure others. They criticize freely. They live as if they are complete. But the poor in spirit live with open hands. They receive. They depend. They rejoice in grace.

And here is the paradox: those who have nothing possess everything.

“Theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

Not will be. Is.

This is not a future promise alone; it is a present reality. The kingdom belongs to those who know they cannot earn it.

Lent is a season of becoming poor in spirit.

It is a time to lay down the illusion of control. To confess our pride. To acknowledge our need. It is a time to stop pretending that we are rich in ourselves and to begin living as those who depend entirely on God.

And this is not weakness—it is honor.

The Beatitudes are not descriptions of a pitiful people. They are declarations of a blessed people. A people honored by God because they have learned to live by His grace.

So ask yourself:

Do I know my need for God?

Do I live as one who depends on Him?

Or have I grown comfortable in a quiet self-sufficiency?

Christ calls you higher up the mountain, into His presence, under His word.

And there, with His mouth opened, He teaches you how to live.

Listen carefully.

Notations