I’ve spent the last two Sundays preaching from Matthew 16, which means I’ve spent a lot of time with Peter on what had to be one heck of a day.

It begins about as well as it possibly could. Jesus asks his disciples what people are saying about him, and they rattle off the usual answers. Some say John the Baptist. Others say Elijah, Jeremiah, or one of the prophets. Those are respectful answers. Flattering, even. But respect is not enough, so Jesus turns the question on them.

He said to them, “But who do you say that I am?” Simon Peter replied, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And Jesus answered him, “Blessed are you, Simon Bar-Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven.” (Matthew 16:15–17, ESV)

Peter nails it. Jesus is the Christ, God’s anointed King, the Son of the living God. Jesus calls Peter blessed and says the answer came from the Father. This is Peter’s moment.

Then, six verses later, Jesus calls him Satan.

That went downhill quickly.

From that time Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer many things from the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, “Far be it from you, Lord! This shall never happen to you.” But he turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a hindrance to me. For you are not setting your mind on the things of God, but on the things of man.” (Matthew 16:21–23, ESV)

Six verses. Peter moves from a revelation given by the Father to words Jesus identifies with Satan. His answer has not changed, either. He still believes Jesus is the Christ.

So how can Peter get the answer so right and still get Jesus so wrong?

The Right Title, with Peter’s Definition

Peter has packed the word Christ with expectations Jesus never promised to fulfill. Whatever he pictured the Messiah doing, rejection and execution were nowhere on the board. The Messiah win. He will drive out enemies, restore the kingdom, and put the right people in charge. But a crucified Messiah looks like one more failed revolutionary hanging on a Roman cross.

Peter knows the correct word for Jesus before he understands what that word means when Jesus lives it out.

That is why Matthew 16:21 begins, “From that time Jesus began to show his disciples…” Once they have confessed his identity, Jesus begins teaching them what his identity means. He is the Christ, and he will go to Jerusalem, suffer, be killed, and rise.

The cross stands at the center of his messianic work. Jesus will confront sin, death, and the powers through faithful, self-giving love. He refuses to defeat his enemies by becoming a more righteous version of them. He will absorb their violence without returning it, expose their power through his apparent weakness, and trust his Father to raise him from the dead.

The way of Jesus is the way of the cross.

Peter likes the title Christ. He objects to the road Jesus says the Christ must travel.

Honestly, I understand him. If I had been standing there, I doubt I would have nodded thoughtfully at Jesus’ words and said, “Yes, that sounds like a solid messianic strategy.” Peter loves Jesus. He does not want him to suffer. He may even believe he is showing faith. Surely God would never allow his chosen King to be defeated like that. Maybe Jesus is being unnecessarily pessimistic. Maybe he needs someone close to him to offer a little encouragement and get his thinking back on track.

So Peter takes Jesus aside and begins to rebuke him.

There is something almost comical in the sentence, “Far be it from you, Lord! This shall never happen to you.” Peter calls Jesus “Lord” while explaining to Jesus that he is wrong. He confesses Jesus as King and then hands the King a revised itinerary.

I’ve never physically pulled Jesus aside, of course. I have prayed, “Lord, I trust you,” and then spent the next ten minutes explaining exactly what he needed to do. I suspect Peter is not alone here.

A Christ Without a Cross

Jesus’ response sounds shockingly severe until we remember that he has heard this temptation before.

In the wilderness, Satan showed Jesus “all the kingdoms of the world and their glory” and offered them to him. Jesus could have the kingdom and the glory without the long road of obedient faithfulness. All he had to do was bow.

Now Peter offers his own version of the shortcut. You are the Christ. You will have the kingdom. But the suffering, rejection, and death cannot be right. There must be another road.

Jesus recognizes the old lie immediately. It does not ask him to stop being the Christ. It asks him to pursue his mission by some means other than the cross.

That should sober us. We tend to associate the word satanic with obvious wickedness, but here the temptation sounds like a loyal friend trying to protect someone he loves. Peter’s words are caring, sensible, and completely shaped by a world that cannot imagine victory through suffering love.

Sometimes the temptation lets us keep every correct title for Jesus. We simply edit his methods.

Jesus has just spoken about rock and building. Now he calls Peter a “hindrance,” a stumbling block in his path. The man who made the right confession becomes an obstacle when he tries to steer Jesus away from the cross.

The church can make that move too. We can say everything correctly about Jesus and still stand in the way of the Jesus we proclaim.

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Get Back Behind Me

Jesus says, “Get behind me, Satan,” and then immediately tells the rest of the disciples:

“If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.” (Matthew 16:24, ESV)

The repeated “behind me” language matters. Peter has stepped out of the disciple’s proper place. Instead of following Jesus, he has moved in front and started offering directions. Jesus puts him back where a disciple belongs.

Behind me.

There is grace even in that sharp correction. Jesus does not send Peter away forever. He tells Peter to get back in line and follow. Peter cannot confess Jesus as Christ and then decide what kind of Christ Jesus should be. If he wants to follow, Jesus sets the direction.

And the road Jesus chooses for himself is the road he gives his disciples.

Jesus alone bears the cross in its saving fullness. None of us will atone for the sins of the world or defeat death through our suffering. Still, the cross does more than accomplish our salvation. It reveals the shape of the life into which Jesus saves us.

“Deny yourself” does not mean learning to hate yourself. Taking up a cross has very little to do with a bad back, a difficult coworker, or slow Wi-Fi. Nor does Jesus ask anyone to remain quietly in an abusive situation. A cross was an instrument of shame and execution. The person carrying one had surrendered control of where his life was headed.

Our lives belong to Jesus now. Comfort does not get the final vote. Neither do reputation, safety, success, or the need to win. We follow even when faithfulness costs us something we would very much like to keep.

Most of the time that will look less dramatic than we imagine. It may mean apologizing before we explain ourselves. Telling the truth without adding a little jab designed to make it hurt. Forgiving without pretending the wrong did not matter. Serving when nobody notices. Refusing to return contempt for contempt.

Cross-bearing never requires enabling somebody else’s sin. It does require refusing to become like the evil we oppose.

That is where this stops being an interesting story about Peter and starts interfering with us.

The Cross We Prefer at a Distance

Christians have always found it easier to receive the benefits of Jesus’ cross than to accept its pattern. We are glad that Jesus died so we can be forgiven. We become less enthusiastic when he tells us the cross will now shape how we use power, treat enemies, and handle injury.

We can sing about the cross, hang one in the sanctuary, wear one around our neck, and arrange nearly every part of our lives around avoiding anything cross-shaped.

I can preach a faithful sermon about Jesus and still want the church to grow partly because its success makes me look successful. I can call my anxiety “responsibility” and my need for control “leadership.” I can defend something true in a way meant to embarrass the person who disagrees with me. A cross on the wall does not automatically make any of that cruciform.

Churches do this on a larger scale. Attendance, budgets, buildings, and influence can all be used faithfully, but they are lousy definitions of faithfulness. A church can grow while becoming less like Jesus. A ministry can gain a platform while losing the humility that once made it worth hearing. Sound doctrine does not make manipulation, secrecy, or intimidation holy.

And then there is politics. This is usually where we decide the way of the cross needs a long list of qualifications.

We say Jesus is King, but we often expect him to win the way every other king wins. We excuse contempt because the stakes are high. We shrug at cruelty when it lands on people we fear or dislike. We tolerate lies from our preferred leaders because they promise judges, policies, or protection we want. We rename vengeance “strength” and dehumanization “telling it like it is.” Enemy love remains a beautiful idea for private relationships, while public life is supposedly too serious for it.

At that point, we may still have the title right. We still say Christ, Lord, and King. But we have started telling Jesus what kind of King the world really needs.

I know the objections because I hear them in my own head. This election is different. The other side is worse. People will get hurt if we lose. Sometimes those concerns are legitimate. None of them changes the identity of our King or the road he told us to walk. The cross cannot be our way only when it is safe, practical, and likely to succeed.

If a politician promises to protect Christian interests while teaching us to despise our neighbor, that protection comes at a price the church cannot afford. Christians cannot cheer cruelty because it has the correct target. We cannot excuse lies because they may produce a policy outcome we like. We cannot baptize humiliation as courage simply because the person doing it is fighting people we also oppose.

We cannot build the Lamb’s kingdom with the Dragon’s methods.

That does not require withdrawal from public life. Christians can vote, organize, run for office, protest injustice, and confront evil. Love does not mean pretending an enemy is harmless. It may oppose someone, vote against them, report their crimes, remove them from authority, or establish firm boundaries. Jesus himself confronted hypocrisy and defended the vulnerable.

But he never needed cruelty to be courageous. He refused to let his enemies decide what kind of person he would become.

Cross-shaped faithfulness asks more of us than holding the correct position. It asks us to pursue what is right in the way of Jesus. When our methods require lies, humiliation, hatred, or delight in another person’s suffering, those methods are already forming us away from him.

And we regularly decide that the way of Jesus is too slow, too weak, or too impractical for the crisis in front of us.

Peter would understand.

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What If Winning Is How We Lose?

Jesus continues:

“For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? Or what shall a man give in return for his soul?” (Matthew 16:25–26, ESV)

We often read those words as a general warning against greed. But in context, Jesus is talking about the cross and confronting our instinct to preserve ourselves at any cost. Peter wants to save Jesus’ life. Jesus warns that the attempt to save our lives can become the very way we lose them.

That should unsettle every scoreboard we use. What if a church gains influence and loses its soul? What if we preserve an institution through fear and secrecy but no longer resemble the crucified Lord whose name is on the sign? What if Christians gain access to the halls of power and slowly lose the ability to recognize any other kind of power?

What if the thing we keep calling “winning” is precisely how we are losing?

The cross reveals that visible defeat and actual defeat are not always the same. Rome looked powerful on Good Friday. The priests looked vindicated. The disciples looked foolish for believing Jesus was the Christ. If the story ended at the tomb, Peter would have been right to object.

But Jesus said he would suffer, be killed, and on the third day be raised.

Resurrection is God’s vindication of the way of the cross. The Father declares that Jesus’ faithful, self-giving love was not wasted. The powers did not truly win, and death does not get to write the ending. The cross does not receive the final word, but no one reaches resurrection by taking a detour around it.

Because Jesus is risen, we can loosen our grip on outcomes. We can tell the truth without controlling what happens next. We can love enemies while remaining honest about the harm they cause. We can lose status, comfort, influence, and even life itself without believing God has lost control of the story.

Christian hope gives us that kind of courage. The risen King still bears scars.

Jesus’ question remains: “Who do you say that I am?”

Peter gave the correct answer. Then he spent the rest of his life learning what his answer required.

The good news is that Jesus did not discard him. “Get behind me” was a rebuke, but it was also an invitation to return to the place of a disciple. Peter’s confession was true. His imagination, instincts, and understanding of power still needed to be converted.

So do ours.

We can confess a crucified Savior while resisting a cruciform life. We can call Jesus King while trying to redirect him toward the methods, enemies, and victories we already prefer. Jesus will not follow us down that road. He calls us back behind him.

Peter got the answer right. Jesus loved him enough to show him where he was still wrong. The Christ goes ahead of us through surrendered love, costly faithfulness, the cross, and into resurrection. We do not name him and then hand him our map. We answer his question with our words, and then, by grace, we learn to answer with our lives.

Because the way of Jesus is still the way of the cross.

“God told me.”

Three words that can carry an awful lot of weight.

And before anybody gets nervous about where I’m going with this, I am not arguing that God does not lead his people. I believe he does. I believe the Holy Spirit is active in the lives of Christians. I believe he convicts us, leads us, gives wisdom, prompts us toward faithfulness, and sometimes presses something onto our hearts in ways that are difficult to explain entirely in ordinary categories.

I’ve experienced some of that myself.

But I also believe Christians can be really, really good at wanting something and then discovering, somewhat conveniently, that God wants exactly the same thing.

That is where those three words become dangerous.

Because once I say, “God told me,” I’m not simply asking you to consider whether I might be right anymore. I have quietly raised the stakes. Now, if you disagree with me, you’re not merely questioning my judgment. You might be questioning God.

“God told me” can become a theological trump card.

And that’s a lot of authority to place behind a thought that may have just wandered through my head.

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Yesterday, on social media, I posted this:

A fleeting thought is not automatically the voice of God.

A strong desire is not automatically the leading of the Spirit.

And “God told me” is not a theological trump card that lets us ignore Scripture, wisdom, accountability, or the character of Jesus.

Sometimes what we call “God speaking” is just us wanting something very badly.

The image that has stayed with me since then is one of forging God’s signature.

We have something written in our own handwriting. Maybe a desire. An interpretation. A decision we have already mostly made. A political conviction. A relationship we want. A ministry idea we’re excited about. And then, somewhere at the bottom, we scribble God’s name underneath it.

Now it has authority.

Which brings me to The Passion Translation.

When Jesus commissions your Bible translation

Yesterday I read Taylor Berglund’s Christianity Today article, “How The Passion Translation’s Problems Hid in Plain Sight.”1 I’ve had concerns about The Passion Translation for years, and there are people far more qualified than I am in Greek, Hebrew, Syriac, textual criticism, and translation theory who have been pointing out its problems for a long time.

But something in the larger story hit me differently this time.

Brian Simmons, the lead translator of TPT, has claimed that in 2009 Jesus personally commissioned him to produce the translation. In telling the story, Simmons said Jesus promised to help him and give him “secrets of the Hebrew language” and of the Bible for an end-times awakening. In the same older interview, he also described an internal word from the Lord concerning an angel named Passion associated with his ministry.

Those are claims about God, not merely claims about translation philosophy. And that matters because those extraordinary spiritual claims sit beside some very ordinary questions about Simmons’s ability to do the work he says God commissioned him to do.

CT documents years of questions surrounding his training in the biblical languages, his claims about Aramaic and Syriac, the amount of genuine scholarly oversight involved in the project, and how his previous missionary translation work has been described. Simmons himself acknowledged having only a minimal background in biblical languages and later wrote to New Testament scholar Mark Strauss, “I am not an Aramaic scholar.” Scholars with actual expertise in Syriac and Aramaic have challenged a number of the linguistic claims found throughout TPT.

At the same time, TPT’s own website describes Simmons as a “linguist,” says its books and footnotes are evaluated by respected scholars and editors, and describes its review process as rigorous. It also presents TPT as a faithful translation intended for serious engagement with Scripture.

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And now there are new allegations.

David Fish and others have documented what they believe are thousands of instances where distinctive wording in TPT appears to have been taken from other English translations or commentaries without attribution. Those allegations deserve to be described carefully while they continue to be investigated, but the examples have been substantial enough to reopen questions about the entire project.

That is a serious problem. But I don’t actually want to write an article about plagiarism.

And this isn’t even primarily an article about whether The Passion Translation is a good translation. (spoiler: it is not!) Others have already done that work, and done it much better than I could.

Something underneath all of this bothers me even more.

What happens when “God told me” becomes the answer to “How do you know?”

Normally, when someone undertakes work that requires expertise, we ask fairly boring questions. What training do you have? How did you arrive at this conclusion? Who checked your work? Can other people who know this field examine what you’ve done? What happens when somebody points out an error? Those are normal, not hostile, questions.

But once divine commissioning enters the conversation, normal questions can start to feel strangely unspiritual.

You say you’re not qualified. But God called me.

You say the evidence doesn’t support this interpretation. But God showed me.

You say scholars who actually know this language disagree. But God gave me insight they don’t have.

You ask me to submit my claim to examination. But maybe you’re just quenching the Spirit.

And suddenly “God told me” has become armor.

The Bible says to test it

Here is the strange thing: the Bible does not seem nearly as uncomfortable with testing spiritual claims as we sometimes are.

Paul tells the Thessalonians:

“Do not quench the Spirit. Do not despise prophecies, but test everything; hold fast what is good.” 1 Thessalonians 5:19-21

I love the tension in that passage.

Do not quench the Spirit.

Paul clearly does not want Christians to respond to everything supernatural with folded arms and a suspicious squint. He believes God is at work among his people. He believes the Spirit speaks and acts.

But then, almost in the same breath:

Test everything.

Apparently those two things are not opposites. Being open to the Spirit does not mean being gullible. Testing a spiritual claim does not mean you lack faith.

In fact, if Paul tells us to test these things, then refusing to test them might be the less biblical option. The Christian response to spiritual claims is neither cynicism nor credulity. It is discernment.

And this isn’t just Paul. Ezekiel gets even more uncomfortable. God says:

“Woe to the foolish prophets who follow their own spirit, and have seen nothing!” Ezekiel 13:3

Their own spirit.

That phrase has been rattling around in my head. Apparently confusing my spirit with God’s Spirit is a very old religious problem.

These prophets weren’t walking around saying, “Hey everybody, here’s a thought I made up this morning.” They were claiming to speak for God. And God’s accusation is that they were actually following something that came from inside themselves.

Jeremiah encounters the same thing:

“I have heard what the prophets have said who prophesy lies in my name, saying, ‘I have dreamed, I have dreamed!’” Jeremiah 23:25

Notice the problem isn’t that somebody had a dream. The problem is putting God’s name on it. Which sounds a little more contemporary than I would like.

• “I just feel peace about it.”

• “God laid this on my heart.”

• “I got a word from the Lord.”

• “I just know this is where the Spirit is leading me.”

None of those sentences is necessarily wrong. I’ve probably said versions of all of them. But none of those sentences makes what follows unquestionable either.

The Apostle John puts it even more directly:

“Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God.” 1 John 4:1

Do not believe every spirit…. That is in the Bible.

Christian maturity is not measured by how many supernatural claims you are willing to believe. Sometimes spiritual maturity sounds like, “I don’t know if that was God.”

Sometimes it even sounds like, “No, I don’t think that was God at all.”

“It seemed good…”

There’s another little biblical phrase I find helpful here.

In Acts 15, the early church has to work through a huge question about Gentiles, Torah, circumcision, and what faithfulness to Jesus looks like in this suddenly multiethnic church.

They argue. They listen to testimony. They look at what God has done. James interprets what is happening through Scripture. Leaders deliberate together.

And then the letter they send says:

“For it has seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us…” Acts 15:28

I love that. “It has seemed good.”

There is confidence there, certainly. They believe the Spirit has led them.

But look at the process.

Scripture. Testimony. Community. Debate. Wisdom. Leadership. The evidence of what God has actually been doing. And the Holy Spirit working through all of it.

Honestly, biblical discernment is often a lot less flashy than we want it to be. We would like the voice from heaven. Instead, sometimes we get prayer, Scripture, wise Christians, careful thinking, time, character, evidence, and the difficult work of listening to people who might tell us we are wrong.

Not nearly as exciting. But perhaps safer.

And this is one of the things about The Passion Translation story that particularly concerns me. Part of its appeal has always been the promise of something deeper, something previously hidden, new meanings supposedly unlocked through Aramaic or other linguistic insights ordinary readers have missed. Yet scholars trained in those languages have repeatedly challenged the foundation beneath a number of those claims.

Christians love secret knowledge. We always have.

We love the idea that somewhere underneath the boring surface of the Bible is the real Bible, and if only we had the right teacher or code or Hebrew word nobody else has noticed, suddenly we could access what Christians have somehow missed for two thousand years.

But good Bible reading usually looks a lot less sexy. Context matters. Grammar matters. Genre matters. History matters. Intertextual echoes matter. Reading slowly matters. And, yes, sometimes listening to people who have spent twenty years learning a dead language you do not know matters.

Sometimes the Bible doesn’t need us to discover the secret thing it secretly means.

Sometimes we need to let the Bible say the weird thing it actually says.

Let the Bible Be Weird Book

Unfortunately, this is about us too

Now comes the part where I lose the comfortable distance between Brian Simmons and myself.

Because I have never claimed Jesus breathed on me and gave me secret knowledge of Hebrew. But I have wanted things. Badly.

I have had ideas that I thought were really good ideas. I have prayed about decisions and then noticed that, amazingly enough, God seemed to agree with the option I already preferred.

I have interpreted circumstances as confirmation.

I’ve felt strongly about something and then been tempted to give that feeling more authority than it probably deserved.

Church leaders can do this. Church members can do this. Parents can do this. Entire churches can do this.

We can do it with relationships. “God told me this is the person I’m supposed to marry.”

We can do it when leaving a church. “God told us it was time to go.”

We can do it with money, jobs, ministry opportunities, politics, conflicts, major life decisions.

And sometimes God may genuinely be leading us in those things.

But sometimes what we mean by “God told me” is:

“I really want this.”

“This makes sense to me.”

“I have a strong feeling.”

“I’ve already decided.”

Or even:

“I would rather not have this decision questioned.”

That’s the part that worries me most. Because invoking God’s voice should make me more humble, not less accountable. The more authority I attach to God’s name, the more careful I ought to be about confusing his voice with mine.

Maybe we need to recover some humbler language.

“I think the Lord may be leading me this way.”

“I’ve been praying about this, and this is where I sense God directing me.”

“I have a strong impression about this, but I want to test it.”

Or perhaps one of the most spiritually mature sentences Christians can learn to say:

“I could be wrong.”

That does not mean we never make decisions. It doesn’t mean we walk around paralyzed by uncertainty until God drops a notarized letter from heaven. It means I refuse to confuse my certainty with God’s omniscience.

So test it.

• Does this supposed leading agree with Scripture?

• Does it look like Jesus?

• Will following it make me more truthful, more faithful, more loving, more humble, more holy? Or does this conveniently give me permission to become less like Christ while claiming Christ told me to do it?

• Can I bring it before wise Christians who are allowed to disagree with me? And not just the three people I chose because I already knew what they would say.

• Can the claim survive ordinary evidence?

That last one matters. The Holy Spirit does not need us to protect him from facts. Truth does not become less spiritual because someone can examine it. And if my supernatural explanation only works as long as everybody ignores the evidence sitting in front of us, I’m not sure that is evidence of particularly strong faith.

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Which brings me back to Brian Simmons.

I don’t know his heart. I don’t know whether he has knowingly exaggerated things, sincerely misunderstood experiences he believed were from God, remembered parts of his story differently over time, or whether there are other explanations I haven’t considered.

I don’t need to know. Christian discernment does not require mind-reading. We can examine claims. We can examine the text. We can listen to people qualified in the relevant fields. We can notice contradictions. We can ask whether correction is received. We can test.

And when the thing being produced is not merely a sermon, devotional book, or interesting theological idea, but something being presented to Christians as the Word of God translated into English, the responsibility becomes even greater.

James warns:

“Not many of you should become teachers, my brothers, for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness.” James 3:1

If teaching God’s Word carries that kind of weight, putting words on a page and telling people this is what God’s Word says deserves an almost frightening level of care.

Which brings me back to those three words.

“God told me.”

I don’t want us to stop listening for God. Pray. Listen. Pay attention. Be open to the Spirit. Follow when you believe the Lord is leading.

But test it. Hold it against Scripture. Look at Jesus. Bring it before wise people. Pay attention to character and fruit. Look at the evidence.

And leave enough room for the humbling possibility that the voice you heard inside your head belonged to the person whose head it was inside.

Our thoughts matter.

Our desires matter.

Our impressions may matter.

God may even use all of those things. But they do not automatically carry his authority.

God does not need me to strengthen my opinions by putting his name underneath them. And if the words are mine, the desire is mine, the interpretation is mine, or the mistake is mine, then I need enough humility to own it.

Don’t forge God’s signature.

I read those words from Jesus this morning, and they stuck.

John 14 is familiar territory. Jesus is preparing his disciples for his departure. The cross is coming. Resurrection is coming. Ascension is coming. And these men who have spent the last few years quite literally following Jesus around are about to enter a world in which they can no longer just look across the campfire and ask him what he meant.

Understandably, they are a little unsettled.

Jesus tells them:

“And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Helper, to be with you forever, even the Spirit of truth…” John 14:16-17

And then:

“I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.” John 14:18

Obviously, in its immediate context, this is about the coming of the Holy Spirit. Jesus is assuring his disciples that his departure does not mean his abandonment.

But sitting with that phrase this morning, I was struck by how much is packed into it.

I will not leave you as orphans.

Jesus does not do the saving part and then peace out.

He doesn’t die for our sins, rise from the grave, give us a Bible, point vaguely in the direction of holiness and say, “All right. You guys can figure it out from here.”

Christian discipleship is not Jesus getting us through the front door and then leaving us to renovate the house ourselves.

We have not been orphaned.

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Orphans in the Bible

If you have read much of the Old Testament, the word orphan should already have some weight attached to it.

Again and again, God identifies himself as the defender of those who have no one else to defend them.

Israel is commanded:

“You shall not mistreat any widow or fatherless child.” Exodus 22:22

Moses says of God:

“He executes justice for the fatherless and the widow, and loves the sojourner, giving him food and clothing.” Deuteronomy 10:18

The Psalms call him the “Father of the fatherless and protector of widows” (Psalm 68:5), and Psalm 146 says that the LORD “upholds the widow and the fatherless.”

This is not some tiny biblical side theme.

The orphan is one of Scripture’s recurring pictures of vulnerability. Someone without protection. Without provision. Without the person who is supposed to stand up and say, “This one belongs to me.”

And God consistently places himself on their side.

There’s even this beautiful line in Hosea:

“In you the orphan finds mercy.” Hosea 14:3

So when Jesus sits with his frightened disciples on the night before his death and says, “I will not leave you as orphans,” that language has a history.

The God who has always revealed himself as the defender of the fatherless is standing in front of them in flesh and blood saying:

You will not become fatherless when I go.

And John 14 is absolutely soaked in Father-language.

Jesus speaks of the Father. He promises the Spirit from the Father. He is going to the Father. Philip asks to see the Father, and Jesus tells him that seeing Jesus is seeing the Father.

Then, just a few verses after promising not to leave them as orphans, Jesus says:

“If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.”
John 14:23

That might be one of the most astonishing promises in the whole chapter.

Not just, We’ll keep an eye on you.

Not, We’ll send help if things get really bad.

We will make our home with him.

The answer to our orphanhood is the presence of God.

Christianity Is Not Divine Abandonment

I wonder, though, if some of us functionally imagine the Christian life differently.

We believe Jesus has forgiven us. We believe Jesus has saved us. We believe Jesus will someday return for us.

But that enormous space between saved and someday can start to feel strangely lonely.

Almost like Jesus accomplished the really important theological work two thousand years ago, promised to come back eventually, and left us in the middle to make the best of things.

So we grit our teeth. Try harder. Read another book. Develop another system. Make another plan. Feel guilty when the plan doesn’t work. Develop a better plan.

Christianity can quietly become the exhausting project of trying to turn ourselves into the sort of people Jesus will hopefully approve of when he comes back.

But that is not what Jesus describes in John 14. He doesn’t say, “I’m leaving. Remember everything I taught you and try not to screw it up.” He says:

I am not abandoning you.

The Spirit is coming. I will come to you. We will make our home with you.

The Christian life is not imitation of an absent Jesus.

It is life with the present Christ.

“Another Helper”

In this passage, Jesus calls the Spirit “another Helper.”

The Greek word is paraklētos, one of those annoyingly rich Greek words that English translations handle several different ways: Helper, Advocate, Counselor, Comforter.

All of those are trying to get at something important.

What matters here is that Jesus is not promising his disciples some vague spiritual energy. The Spirit is not divine electricity that occasionally gives Christians goosebumps during the third verse of a worship song.

The Spirit is God’s own presence with his people.

Jesus’ point is deeply relational.

You have known my presence with you in one way. Now you are going to know my presence with you in another.

Which makes John 14 wonderfully strange.

Jesus is leaving. Jesus is coming. His departure does not mean his absence.

So when Jesus says, “I will not leave you as orphans,” he isn’t simply saying, Don’t worry, somebody else is coming to take over.

He is saying something much better: You are not losing me.

We Do Not Do This Alone

And honestly, that was the thought that caught me this morning.

I know this. I mean… theologically, I know it.

I’ve preached about the Holy Spirit. I’ve taught about the presence of Christ. I’ve read the verses. I could probably make you a reasonably respectable Bible study handout about it.

But there is a difference between affirming a doctrine and suddenly remembering what that doctrine means while you’re drinking coffee on an ordinary Wednesday morning.

I am not doing this alone.

And neither are you.

When you are trying to forgive someone you would much rather mentally launch into the sun, you are not doing it alone.

When faithfulness feels remarkably unproductive, you are not doing it alone.

When you’re trying to parent wisely and have absolutely no idea whether what you just said was profound fatherly wisdom or something your children will someday unpack with a therapist, you are not doing it alone.

When an old temptation shows back up.

When you’re grieving.

When you’re scared and don’t particularly want to admit that you’re scared.

When you’re trying to figure out what obedience even looks like here.

When prayer is hard.

When you’re reading Scripture and wondering what on earth Ezekiel is doing now.

You are not an orphan trying to find your own way home.

The Spirit of God dwells with God’s people.

Christ has not abandoned his church.

Presence Does Not Mean Easy

Now, before this turns into the inspirational-poster aisle at Hobby Lobby, we should probably say something important.

Jesus promising his presence does NOT mean Jesus promises an easy life.

Look at the people he originally said this to.

Within hours, everything was going to fall apart. Jesus would be arrested. Their little community would scatter. Peter would deny him. Their hopes would collapse.

And life did not exactly get easier after Easter. Many of these men would suffer enormously because they continued to follow Jesus.

“I will not leave you as orphans” did not mean: Nothing painful will happen to you.

It meant:

Nothing painful that happens to you will mean that I have abandoned you.

Those are very different promises.

Sometimes we assume God’s presence should be measured by the smoothness of our circumstances. The cross should probably have killed that theology permanently.

God’s presence is not demonstrated by our ability to avoid suffering. Sometimes we discover his presence precisely because suffering happened and, somehow, did not separate us from him.

We may walk through the valley. But we do not walk through it orphaned.

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And Maybe That Changes Discipleship

Because there is a big difference between obeying Jesus because your Teacher left instructions and obeying Jesus because your Teacher is still forming you.

It changes the way we read Scripture too. We are not just studying what God once said. We open the Scriptures believing the Spirit still forms the people of God through the Word of God.

Prayer changes too. Prayer is not shouting messages toward a distant heaven and hoping somebody up there gets them.

And church cannot merely be a club for people who happen to share a set of beliefs about Jesus. The church is a people indwelt by the Spirit of Jesus.

Maybe one reason the Christian life gets so exhausting is that we keep trying to live a Spirit-dependent life through sheer human determination.

We are trying very hard to be good orphans. Jesus says we aren’t orphans at all.

“I Will Come to You”

There is something wonderfully strange about the way Jesus says it.

Not: You will find your way to me.

But: I will come to you.

And really, that is the whole biblical story, isn’t it?

Humanity hides. God comes looking.

Abraham wanders. God calls.

Israel is enslaved. God comes down.

Israel builds a tabernacle, and God dwells among them.

The temple is built, and God fills it with his presence.

Then humanity is lost in sin and death, and the Word becomes flesh and dwells among us.

Jesus prepares to depart. “I will come to you.”

And Revelation eventually ends the whole story with a voice from the throne:

“Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them…”
Revelation 21:3

Apparently God is very committed to being with his people.

From Eden to tabernacle to temple to incarnation to Spirit to New Creation, the story keeps moving toward the same astonishing reality:

Which means maybe John 14:18 is bigger than I usually let it be.

“I will not leave you as orphans” is not just a comforting sentence Jesus gave eleven frightened men before a terrible weekend.

It tells us something about the kind of God revealed in Jesus. He is not a God who saves from a distance. He is not a King who wins the battle and then disappears into his palace. He does not leave behind a textbook and hope his students studied carefully enough.

He is the God who comes near.

He makes his home with his people. He gives his own Spirit. He refuses to leave his children orphaned.

So whatever obedience looks like today, whatever burden needs carried, whatever temptation needs resisted, whatever grief needs endured, whatever love needs given, whatever strange portion of the Bible needs figured out...

We are not doing it in our own strength.

Jesus did not peace out.

He has not left us as orphans.

He is still here.

As I have been preparing four messages from Revelation for an upcoming revival, I have found myself returning to one uncomfortable detail in Revelation 13.

John sees a second Beast rising from the land. Unlike the monstrous Beast from the sea, this one has “two horns like a lamb,” but it “spoke like a dragon” (Revelation 13:11).

It looks Lamb-like.

It sounds Dragon-like.

That may be one of Revelation’s most important warnings to the Church.

Christians have spent an impressive amount of energy trying to identify the Beast. Over the centuries, people have named emperors, popes, presidents, dictators, computers, barcodes, credit cards, and nearly every technological development that frightened somebody’s grandmother.

As G.K. Chesterton famously quipped, “And though St. John the Evangelist saw many strange monsters in his vision, he saw no creature so wild as one of his own commentators.”

There are few things more convenient than studying Revelation and discovering that the Beast is exactly the person you already disliked.

It saves repentance from becoming too personal.

But Revelation was not given merely to help us point toward evil somewhere “out there.” It was written to form churches facing pressure from Rome, churches tempted to compromise with power, wealth, violence, propaganda, and cultural approval.

The question is not only: “Who is the Beast?”

Revelation pushes us toward harder questions:

Where is power becoming Beastly?

Where are fear, deception, domination, and dehumanization being used to control people?

And perhaps most uncomfortably: Where are we tempted to imitate those methods?

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The second Beast is dangerous precisely because it looks somewhat like a lamb. It borrows religious appearance. It dresses power in sacred language. It makes the first Beast’s domination appear righteous, necessary, perhaps even godly.

Not everything that borrows the language of the Lamb follows the way of the Lamb.

Sometimes something can quote Scripture, invoke God, speak of morality, and still sound suspiciously like the Dragon.

That warning applies across every political party, national identity, church tradition, and cultural movement. Our instinct will always be to apply Revelation’s warnings to the people we already oppose. John will not let us off that easily.

The Beast is not merely a weapon for naming our enemies.

It is also a mirror.

And at the center of Revelation stands an entirely different kind of power.

In Revelation 5, John hears that “the Lion of the tribe of Judah” has conquered. But when he turns, he does not see a roaring predator tearing apart its enemies. He sees “a Lamb standing, as though it had been slain.”

John hears Lion. He sees Lamb.

The Lion is the Lamb.

Revelation is not merely telling us that Jesus wins. It is showing us how He wins.

Jesus conquers through faithful, sacrificial, self-giving love. He does not become Beastly enough to defeat the Beasts. He remains the Lamb, even in victory.

That means the Church cannot claim to follow Jesus while pursuing victory through methods that contradict Him.

We cannot defeat deception with better deception.

We cannot overcome dehumanization by finding more creative ways to dehumanize our opponents.

We cannot resist domination by becoming more dominating.

We cannot follow the Lamb while speaking with the voice of the Dragon.

Revelation 12 says that the saints overcome the Dragon “by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony,” remaining faithful even when faithfulness costs them everything.

No political takeover.

No campaign of revenge.

No plan to out-dominate the dominators.

They conquer through what Jesus has already done, through truthful witness, and through patient endurance.

That is one reason Revelation matters so much right now. It is not primarily a codebook helping us identify which modern headline fulfills which ancient symbol. It is an unveiling. It pulls back the curtain and shows us the spiritual character of power, allegiance, worship, compromise, and resistance.

It teaches us to recognize the Beast.

But just as importantly, it teaches us not to become Beastly.

This is one of the threads I keep returning to as I prepare these messages, and it is woven throughout the next volume in the Your Weird Bible series, tentatively titled Revealed.

Revelation is weird. Dragons, Beasts, horns, crowns, a slain Lamb standing before the throne. But the weirdness is not there to hide the message.

It is there to help us see.

The Dragon accuses.

The Beast dominates.

Babylon seduces.

But the Lamb reigns.

And the calling of the Church is not merely to believe that the Lamb wins.

It is to follow the Lamb’s way.

If you are in the area, I will be teaching about Revelation at the Newland Church of Christ in Warsaw, VA July 26-29!

The other day, a fellow Bible nerd asked if he could borrow my copy of Eugene Peterson’s Eat This Book.

Naturally, before handing it over, I had to open it again.

This is one of the peculiar laws of book ownership. A book can sit quietly on your shelf for years without receiving so much as a sympathetic glance. But the moment someone else wants to borrow it, you suddenly remember how important it is to you. Apparently, I relate to books the way toddlers relate to toys they have ignored for months.

But as I began flipping through Peterson’s book again, I was reminded why it had stayed with me.

I spend a great deal of my life reading the Bible. I read it for sermons, Bible studies, youth group discussions, articles, books, pastoral conversations, and because I genuinely love it. I enjoy the details. I enjoy the historical background, the original-language rabbit trails, the intertextual echoes, and those wonderfully strange moments when Leviticus suddenly explains Hebrews or Isaiah quietly shows up in Revelation wearing a different hat.

I am, after all, a professional Bible nerd.

But Peterson’s book confronts me with an uncomfortable possibility: It is possible to spend enormous amounts of time around the Bible without allowing the Bible to spend enough time inside us.

It is possible to study Scripture without meditating on it.

It is possible to explain the text without eating it.

It is possible to use the Bible constantly while rarely allowing the Bible to use us.

That distinction matters.

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A Dog, a Bone, and a Better Picture of Meditation

Early in Eat This Book, Peterson tells a story about a dog he owned while living in Montana. The dog would wander through the woods and occasionally return triumphantly carrying a bone from the remains of a deer. Sometimes the bone was nearly as large as the dog.

After receiving the appropriate praise from his humans, the dog would drag his treasure away to a quiet spot and begin working on it.

Peterson writes:

“He gnawed the bone, turned it over and around, licked it, worried it.”

The dog was not hurried. He did not view the bone as a task to complete. He worked it from every angle, making little sounds of satisfaction as he chewed. He might bury it, return to it the next day, and begin again. A good bone could occupy him for a week.

Peterson later noticed a surprising connection while reading Isaiah:

“For thus the LORD said to me,
‘As a lion or a young lion growls over his prey…’”
—Isaiah 31:4

The Hebrew word translated “growls” is hagah. It is the same word frequently translated “meditate,” including in one of the Bible’s most familiar descriptions of a flourishing life:

“But his delight is in the law of the LORD,
and on his law he meditates day and night.
He is like a tree
planted by streams of water
that yields its fruit in its season,
and its leaf does not wither.”
—Psalm 1:2–3

The word hagah can carry the sense of meditating or musing, but it can also describe uttering, murmuring, moaning, or growling. It is a word involving both thought and sound. It suggests something being turned over repeatedly, not only in the mind but also in the mouth.

That changes the picture.

When many of us hear the word meditation, we imagine silence, stillness, closed eyes, relaxed breathing, and perhaps some instrumental music playing softly enough to make us feel spiritual without becoming distracting. There is nothing wrong with silence or stillness. Both can be wonderful gifts.

But biblical meditation is not merely quiet contemplation.

It has teeth.

It chews. It mutters. It repeats. It turns the words over and around. It whispers them, questions them, prays them, and carries them into the day.

Peterson describes this kind of reading with phrases like “soft purrs and low growls” and “ruminative and leisurely.”

Biblical meditation is not staring blankly at a verse until something mystical happens. It is active, patient, embodied attention.

It is worrying the Word like a dog worries a bone.

Keep It in Your Mouth

This mouth-centered picture of meditation helps make sense of God’s instruction to Joshua:

“This Book of the Law shall not depart from your mouth, but you shall meditate on it day and night, so that you may be careful to do according to all that is written in it.”
—Joshua 1:8

Notice the movement of the passage.

The Word remains in Joshua’s mouth. He meditates on it in his mind. He becomes careful to practice it with his life.

Mouth. Mind. Body.

The Word is spoken, considered, and obeyed.

Meditation is the slow journey by which Scripture moves from the page to the mouth, from the mouth to the imagination, from the imagination to the heart, and from the heart into our habits.

The goal is not merely to remember what the passage said.

The goal is to become the kind of person who lives as though it is true.

That is why the person in Psalm 1 is not compared to a Bible encyclopedia, a theological database, or a walking concordance. He is compared to a tree.

A tree does not merely possess information about water. It takes water into itself. The water travels through its roots, trunk, branches, and leaves until what was outside the tree has become part of the tree. Eventually, almost invisibly, the water becomes fruit.

That is biblical meditation.

Scripture is received slowly enough that it begins to produce a life. The goal of meditation is not to finish a passage. It is to let the passage finish its work in us.

The Problem with Fast-Food Bible Reading

Most of us have been trained to read quickly.

We skim emails. We scroll social media. We scan headlines. We speed-read articles while deciding whether they are worth the three minutes required to finish them. We consume more words in a day than most people throughout history encountered in a month, yet we may actually attend to fewer of them.

Those habits follow us into Scripture.

We read to complete the chapter. We check the box on the reading plan. We preserve the streak on the Bible app. We search for a verse that can be detached from its paragraph and placed attractively over a mountain sunrise.

None of those things is necessarily bad. Reading plans can be enormously helpful. Broad reading helps us recognize the Bible’s larger story. And I am certainly not opposed to putting Scripture over a mountain sunrise. The mountains belong to God too.

But we can confuse coverage with nourishment.

We can consume four chapters and digest almost nothing.

We can finish our Bible reading without ever really beginning to listen.

We often want Scripture to function like fast food: familiar, predictable, quickly prepared, easily swallowed, and preferably served without any ingredients we cannot immediately identify.

But the Bible refuses to cooperate.

It gives us poetry, genealogy, lament, law, parable, narrative, proverb, prophecy, letters, visions, beasts, temples, sacrifices, talking animals, strange family histories, confusing battles, and a Messiah who conquers by being slaughtered.

God did not give us a book of flattened religious bullet points. He gave us a library of stories, images, poems, arguments, commands, genealogies, prayers, and apocalyptic visions.

The texture is part of the meal.

The Weirdness Makes Us Slow Down

This is one of the connections I keep seeing between Peterson’s vision of spiritual reading and the central argument of Let the Bible Be Weird.

The Bible does not need to be flattened in order to be trusted.

Its strangeness is not always an obstacle standing between us and spiritual formation. Sometimes the strangeness is one of the primary tools of our formation.

As I wrote in Let the Bible Be Weird:

“The Bible is not just strange because it comes from a different time. It is strange because it is trying to form a different kind of people.”

The Bible is forming people who love enemies, forgive repeatedly, resist empire, remain faithful in exile, welcome outsiders, relinquish status, carry crosses, and call a slaughtered Lamb victorious.

Of course that book feels strange to us. It is forming us for a world we would never create on our own.

The strange parts force us to slow down. They resist immediate mastery. They make us ask questions, search for echoes, explore context, and admit that perhaps we do not yet understand as much as we assumed.

Some passages are bones.

They are not soft. They are not quickly swallowed. There are things beneath the surface, but getting to them requires sustained attention.

A dog does not become offended because the bone has not been conveniently converted into a chicken nugget. He works on what he has been given.

Some of us want the Bible pre-chewed, deboned, reduced to five principles, and served with a discussion guide.

But sometimes the resistance is doing something in us.

Sometimes the text is training our patience before it answers our question.

Sometimes the passage is humbling us before it instructs us.

Sometimes we need to stop demanding that the Bible immediately enter our world and allow it to invite us into its world.

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Study Is Not the Enemy of Meditation

Talking about meditation can create a false contrast between careful study and spiritual reading.

We might imagine that study is academic and cold, while meditation is personal and warm. Study uses commentaries and lexicons; meditation uses candles and feelings.

Peterson refuses that division.

He famously writes that “exegesis is an act of love.”

To study a text carefully is to love God enough to listen closely. It is to resist making the Bible say whatever we already wanted it to say. Historical context, genre, grammar, literary structure, cultural background, and original-language study can all be practices of humility.

Exegesis protects meditation from becoming fantasy.

Meditation protects exegesis from becoming vanity.

We need both.

We need to ask what the words meant in their original context. We also need to ask what those words are doing to us now. We need to understand the world behind the text, but we also need to allow the world of the text to confront the world inside us.

The goal is not to master the Bible as though it were an object lying lifelessly on an examination table.

The Word of God is living and active. We do not merely examine it. It examines us.

Study helps us hear what Scripture actually says.

Meditation keeps us from running away once we have heard it.

Take and Eat

Peterson’s title comes from one of the Bible’s stranger recurring images: people eating words.

God tells Ezekiel:

“Son of man, eat whatever you find here. Eat this scroll, and go, speak to the house of Israel.”
—Ezekiel 3:1

Then God makes the image even more physical:

“Son of man, feed your belly with this scroll that I give you and fill your stomach with it.”
—Ezekiel 3:3

Ezekiel eats the scroll, and it tastes as sweet as honey.

Centuries later, John receives a similar command in Revelation:

“Take and eat it; it will make your stomach bitter, but in your mouth it will be sweet as honey.”
—Revelation 10:9

John eats the scroll. It is sweet in his mouth, but bitter in his stomach.

That is a far more honest picture of reading Scripture than the sentimental way we sometimes talk about it.

The Word is sweet.

It reveals the faithfulness of God. It announces forgiveness. It tells the story of resurrection and new creation. It assures us that the Lamb reigns, death will not have the final word, and God will dwell with His people.

But the Word can also be bitter.

It exposes our idols. It confronts our violence. It challenges our treatment of the poor. It refuses to baptize our greed, nationalism, pride, resentment, or self-righteousness. It commands us to forgive people we would rather punish and love people we have worked very hard to classify as enemies.

We enjoy verses that comfort us. We are less enthusiastic about verses that digest us.

But eating the book means receiving the whole meal. We do not only taste the honey. We allow the bitterness to reach our stomach.

Scripture is not seasoning sprinkled over a life we have already decided to live. It is food that becomes a new life within us.

Peterson says Christians do not merely learn or use Scripture. We receive it until it is “metabolized into acts of love.” He calls this “participatory reading.”

The Word becomes forgiveness offered, generosity practiced, truth spoken, enemies loved, strangers welcomed, feet washed, and crosses carried.

Reading has not reached its intended destination when we can explain the verse.

It reaches its destination when the verse begins to take flesh in us.

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Readers Become What They Read

One of Peterson’s shortest and most unsettling statements is this:

“Readers become what they read.”

That does not happen immediately. Formation is usually slower than information.

You can learn a fact in a few seconds. You can memorize a definition in a few minutes. You can hear one sermon and gain a clearer understanding of an entire biblical passage.

But becoming patient, humble, courageous, truthful, forgiving, and loving takes time.

Fruit grows slowly. Roots grow even more slowly.

This is why meditation returns to the same words. Day and night. Again and again. We bring the passage into different seasons, different wounds, different relationships, and different temptations. We discover that the words have not changed, but we have, and now they reach places in us we did not know were there.

James describes the Word as a mirror:

“But be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves.”
—James 1:22

The forgetful hearer glances into the mirror and walks away. The faithful reader “looks into the perfect law” and “perseveres.”

He stays.

He keeps looking long enough to see what is actually there.

And then he acts.

The danger is not merely that we might misunderstand the Bible. The danger is that we might understand it well enough to discuss it and still walk away unchanged.

We can know the stories, explain the theology, identify the genre, parse the verbs, spot the hyperlinks, and win the argument while remaining impatient, arrogant, fearful, unforgiving, and unlike Jesus.

As the resident Bible nerd, I say that with fear and trembling.

If my study of Scripture makes me more impressive but not more loving, I have not yet finished reading.

If the Bible gives me theological vocabulary without cruciform virtue, I may have swallowed the words without digesting them.

Worrying a Passage

So what might it look like to meditate on Scripture like Peterson’s dog with his bone? To worry1 a passage?

Begin with less.

Choose a paragraph, a verse, an image, or even a single phrase. There are times to read whole books and trace sweeping themes. But meditation often begins when we stop trying to cover ground and allow one patch of ground to hold our attention.

Read it aloud.

The command to Joshua was that the Book of the Law would not depart from his mouth. Scripture was written to be heard. Let your ears receive what your eyes have seen. Listen for repetition, rhythm, contrast, surprise, and words that seem to carry unusual weight.

Then turn the passage over.

Read it again in context. Ask what kind of writing it is. Notice what comes before and after. Look for Old Testament echoes, repeated images, surprising verbs, and connections to Jesus. Ask what the text reveals about God, what it exposes in us, and what kind of life it imagines.

Do not be afraid to mutter it.

Carry one phrase through the day. Repeat it while driving, walking, waiting, washing dishes, feeding animals, sitting in the school pickup line, or trying not to lose your sanctification in a committee meeting.

Pray the words back to God.

Turn promises into gratitude, commands into confession, laments into cries for help, and visions of God into worship. Meditation and prayer naturally flow into one another because attentive reading eventually becomes response.

And then obey what you have heard.

Joshua was told to meditate so that he would “be careful to do.” James tells us to become faithful doers rather than forgetful hearers. Biblical meditation does not terminate in an interesting thought. It moves toward faithful action.

You may not always receive a dramatic insight. That is fine.

The dog does not need the bone to become a different bone every morning. There is nourishment in returning.

Let the Strange Image Work

Consider one example from Revelation.

John hears that “the Lion of the tribe of Judah” has conquered. But when he turns to look, he does not see a lion tearing His enemies apart. He sees “a Lamb standing, as though it had been slain” (Revelation 5:5–6).

A hurried reader says, “Jesus wins,” and moves on. That statement is true. But meditation stays long enough to notice the strangeness.

John hears lion but sees Lamb.

He hears conquest but sees slaughter.

He hears victory but sees sacrifice.

The image is not merely telling us that Jesus wins. It is redefining what divine victory looks like.

The Lion conquers as the Lamb.

Power is revealed through self-giving love.

The throne is occupied by the Crucified One.

A meditating reader allows that image to begin interrogating our own definitions of strength, leadership, victory, and faithfulness. We ask not only, “What does the Lamb mean?” but also, “Where am I still trying to conquer like a beast?”

That is what the weirdness does.

It slows us down long enough for the Bible’s world to challenge ours.

Stay with the Text

Near the end of Let the Bible Be Weird, I offered this invitation:

“Stay with the text.
When it feels slow, stay.
When it feels strange, stay.
When it feels confusing, stay.
When it feels uncomfortable, stay.”

Peterson’s dog gives me another picture of that same invitation.

Stay with the bone.

Turn it over.

Work at the difficult places.

Enjoy what is sweet.

Do not immediately reject what is bitter.

Carry it away for a while. Bring it back tomorrow. Let your mouth repeat what your mind cannot yet fully explain. Trust that the Spirit is doing work beneath the surface, in places deeper than immediate comprehension.

There are books that give us information.

There are books that entertain us.

There are books that help us pass examinations, settle arguments, or sound more intelligent at Bible study.

But Scripture intends to do something more.

It intends to become interior to us. It intends to enter our imagination, rearrange our desires, expose our loyalties, and form us into the image of Jesus.

Paul writes:

“And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another.”
—2 Corinthians 3:18

We behold. We remain. We are transformed.

Layer by layer. Line by line. Moment by moment.

So open the Bible.

Take a passage. Perhaps a beautiful one. Perhaps a difficult one. Perhaps a strange one that you have been tempted to rush past.

Read it slowly.

Say it aloud.

Turn it over.

Ask questions.

Follow the echoes.

Pray the words.

Live what you hear.

Growl a little.

Eat this book.

Let the Bible be weird.

And stay with the Word long enough for the Word to become flesh in you.

Scripture quotations are from the ESV. You can read a chapter of Peterson’s book HERE in an article for Christianity Today or purchase wherever books are sold. Let The Bible Be Weird is available on Amazon HERE.

I love studying the Bible.

That probably does not surprise anyone who has spent more than seven minutes around me. Give me a difficult passage, an odd image, an obscure Old Testament echo, a Greek word with an interesting range of meaning, or a verse people have been confidently misusing for years, and I am a happy man. I genuinely enjoy the work of digging beneath the surface, tracing connections across Scripture, learning about the ancient world, and listening to scholars who have spent decades thinking carefully about texts I am only beginning to understand.

I believe all of that matters. Context matters. Genre matters. Language matters. Cultural background matters. The larger biblical story matters. We should ask careful questions. We should resist easy answers when the text is more complicated than we would like. We should be willing to admit that some of the Bible is strange, difficult, unsettling, or simply beyond our immediate understanding. In fact I wrote a book about it! (Let the Bible Be Weird)

But there is a danger hiding even in good Bible study.

We can learn to explain the seed while never becoming good soil.

That possibility sits near the heart of Jesus’ Parable of the Sower in Matthew 13. Jesus tells a familiar farming story about a sower who scatters seed across a field. Some seed lands on a hardened path and is eaten by birds. Some falls on shallow soil over rocky ground, springs up quickly, and then withers under the heat because it has no root. Some falls among thorns and begins to grow, only to be slowly crowded and choked. Some falls on good soil and produces an abundant harvest.

When Jesus later explains the parable, he identifies the seed as “the word of the kingdom.” The different soils represent different kinds of hearers and different responses to that kingdom word. Some hear but do not understand. Some receive the word quickly and joyfully but do not develop the roots necessary to endure. Some hear the word, but anxiety and the deceitful promises of wealth gradually choke its life. Some hear, understand, and bear fruit.

That final description caught my attention.

Jesus does not say the good soil is the person who hears the word and can repeat it accurately. He does not describe the best note-taker, the person who wins Bible trivia, the preacher with the cleverest outline, or the Bible nerd who can identify all the Greek vocabulary. The good soil hears the word, understands it, and bears fruit.

That sequence matters.

Hearing becomes understanding. Understanding becomes fruit.

Whatever Jesus means by “understanding,” it is clearly more than gathering information.

More Than “I Get It”

The Greek word translated “understand” in Matthew 13 is syniēmi. It can carry the sense of understanding, perceiving, discerning, comprehending, or grasping the significance of something. The word’s history includes the image of bringing things together or putting the pieces together. We should always be careful about building too much theology from the roots of a word, because words mean what they mean in their actual contexts. Still, that underlying image is helpful here.

To understand the word of the kingdom is to begin putting the pieces together. This is who Jesus is. This is what God is doing. This is what the kingdom means. This is what the good news reveals about the world. This is what it exposes in me. This is what Jesus is asking me to trust. This is what I need to surrender. This is the kind of life King Jesus is forming in those who follow him.

Understanding, in this sense, is not merely hearing Jesus and saying, “Yes, that makes sense.” It is grasping what he is saying deeply enough that we cannot remain untouched by it.

That is why Matthew connects understanding with fruit. The word is not fully understood when it has simply been defined. The word is understood when it has been received deeply enough to begin changing the person who hears it.

This does not make careful thinking unnecessary. It makes careful thinking part of something larger. Biblical understanding includes the mind, but it refuses to stop there.

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The Isaiah Problem

The verses between the telling of the parable and Jesus’ explanation are often skipped when this passage is read publicly, but they are essential to understanding what Jesus means. The disciples ask why he teaches in parables, and Jesus responds by quoting Isaiah 6:

“You will indeed hear but never understand,
and you will indeed see but never perceive.”

He continues:

“For this people’s heart has grown dull,
and with their ears they can barely hear,
and their eyes they have closed,
lest they should see with their eyes
and hear with their ears
and understand with their heart
and turn,
and I would heal them.”

The phrase that stands out is “understand with their heart.”

For many modern Western readers, that combination sounds odd. We often divide people into “head people” and “heart people.” The head is where thinking happens. The heart is where feelings live. We imagine the intellectual and emotional parts of a person operating as separate departments that occasionally send emails to one another.

The Bible does not divide the human person so neatly. In Scripture, the heart is not merely the home of emotion. It is the center of the person. The heart includes thought, desire, imagination, intention, loyalty, decision, and will. It is the place from which we determine what we love, whom we trust, and how we will live.

So when Isaiah and Jesus speak about understanding with the heart, they are not calling for something less thoughtful. They are describing something more complete. The word is heard by the ears, perceived by the mind, welcomed into the center of the person, and allowed to reshape the life.

Notice the movement in the Isaiah quotation. They see. They hear. They understand with the heart. They turn. They are healed.

Biblical understanding moves toward conversion.

That does not mean we earn healing through intellectual achievement. It means that genuine understanding is not content to stand at a safe distance from the truth. When the word is truly perceived, it exposes us, summons us, and calls us to turn.

That is uncomfortable for those of us who love Bible study. We can parse the verbs and resist the invitation. We can identify the Old Testament quotation and ignore the call to repentance. We can write pages about the kingdom while quietly refusing the reign of the King.

We can analyze the seed while refusing to become soil.

The Long Road to Understanding

Proverbs 2 gives us another helpful picture of biblical understanding. A father instructs his son:

“If you receive my words
and treasure up my commandments with you,
making your ear attentive to wisdom
and inclining your heart to understanding;
yes, if you call out for insight
and raise your voice for understanding,
if you seek it like silver
and search for it as for hidden treasures,
then you will understand the fear of the LORD
and find the knowledge of God.”

The order is once again worth carefully noting.

Understanding does not begin with mastery. It begins with reception. The student receives the words, treasures the commandments, turns the ear toward wisdom, inclines the heart, calls out for insight, seeks wisdom like silver, and searches for it like hidden treasure.

Then understanding comes.

This is a very different picture from casually collecting religious information. The posture is humble, attentive, hungry, and patient. The learner does not stand over the word as its judge. The learner bends an ear toward wisdom and inclines the heart toward understanding.

We live in a culture with nearly unlimited access to information and very little training in inclination. We can search a verse in seconds, compare translations, download commentaries, listen to lectures, find articles, watch videos, and ask AI to explain a Greek word before the coffee has finished brewing. That access can be an extraordinary gift. I use many of those tools constantly.

But access is not the same thing as understanding.

Information can fill the mind while leaving the heart unbent.

Proverbs gives us a slower and more demanding vision. Receive the words. Treasure them. Listen carefully. Seek wisdom. Search patiently. Let the truth become something you desire, not merely something you possess.

Then you will understand.

The goal is not simply to know more things about God. The goal is to know God, fear the Lord, walk in wisdom, and become the kind of person who recognizes the good way and lives within it.

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The Word of the Kingdom

Jesus identifies the seed as “the word of the kingdom.” That phrase keeps us from reducing this parable to generic advice about being more receptive or positive. Jesus is not scattering inspirational thoughts about becoming a better version of ourselves. He is announcing that the reign of God has drawn near.

The kingdom is arriving in and through Jesus. The blind see. The lame walk. The sick are healed. The unclean are restored. Sinners are called. The poor receive good news. Demonic powers are confronted. Outsiders are welcomed. The King is present.

To understand the word of the kingdom, then, is more than grasping a theological definition. It is recognizing what God is doing in Jesus and what that reality demands of us. Jesus is not simply offering ideas to consider. He is announcing a kingdom to enter, revealing a King to follow, and calling people into repentance, trust, obedience, and allegiance.

The word of the kingdom does not merely ask, “Do you agree with this?”

It asks, “Will you live beneath the reign of Jesus?”

That question reaches much deeper than intellectual agreement. A person can affirm Christian beliefs while remaining mostly untouched by the kingdom. We can believe Jesus is important without allowing him to become King. We can appreciate his teachings without learning his way. We can defend the authority of Scripture while resisting the parts that confront our habits, politics, relationships, spending, fears, or ambitions.

We can defend biblical values without bearing biblical fruit.

Jesus is looking for more than agreement. He is looking for good soil.

Every Soil Hears

One of the more unsettling details in the parable is that every soil hears.

The hardened path hears. The rocky soil hears. The thorny soil hears. The good soil hears.

The difference is not exposure. The difference is reception.

Some hear the word, but it remains on the surface. It never penetrates. Familiarity can do that. A person can grow up around Scripture, church, sermons, songs, prayer, and Christian language and still never allow the word to move beneath the surface.

That may be one of the great dangers for those of us who have spent much of our lives around the Bible. Familiar words can lose their sharpness. Familiar stories can stop surprising us. We can hear Jesus say, “Love your enemies,” and immediately move on because we already know that verse. We can hear, “Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth,” and begin explaining why Jesus surely does not mean anything too disruptive. We can hear the call to forgive, serve, repent, give, trust, welcome, and take up the cross without expecting any of it to require actual change.

The word falls. The rain comes. The surface gets wet. But nothing takes root.

Our church has a gravel parking lot. It can rain all afternoon, and every stone can be thoroughly soaked. But when the storm passes, the gravel has not become a garden. It has been surrounded by water without becoming fruitful soil.

The same can happen to us. We can be surrounded by Scripture without being shaped by Scripture. We can be around the word without being under the word.

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When Joy Has No Roots

Other seed falls on rocky ground. It springs up quickly because the soil is shallow, but it has nowhere to send roots. When the heat comes, the plant withers.

Jesus says this represents the person who hears the word and immediately receives it with joy but has no root. When tribulation or persecution comes because of the word, the initial response cannot endure.

The problem is not joy. Joy is good. Emotional responses are not shallow simply because they are emotional. God uses powerful moments. A week at camp, a retreat, a worship service, a sermon, a conversation, or a season of renewal can become the beginning of genuine transformation.

But an experience is not a root system.

Eventually the music stops. Eventually the emotions settle. Eventually camp ends. Eventually the ordinary routines return. Eventually obedience becomes difficult. Eventually following Jesus creates tension, costs approval, or requires faithfulness when we no longer feel inspired.

That is when roots matter.

Roots usually grow through ordinary practices that are rarely dramatic. Prayer when God feels near and prayer when he seems quiet. Scripture when the passage is exciting and Scripture when it is difficult. Worship when the music moves us and worship when we are tired. Christian community when people encourage us and when people disappoint us. Obedience when it feels natural and when it costs something.

Nobody applauds roots. Nobody posts pictures of roots. But when the heat comes, roots matter more than appearance.

Excitement is a beautiful beginning. But it is a terrible root system.

When Good Things Grow Wild

Then Jesus describes seed that falls among thorns. The seed is not rejected. It begins to grow. But other things grow alongside it. The thorns compete for sunlight, water, nutrients, and space until the plant is slowly choked.

Jesus identifies the thorns as “the cares of the world and the deceitfulness of riches.”

This may be the soil that concerns me most, because the word is alive. The plant is growing. The danger is not obvious hostility. The danger is competition.

The thorns do not have to hate the seed. They only have to crowd it.

For many of us, the things crowding the word are not obviously wicked. They are good things grown wild. Family. Work. House. Land. Retirement. School schedules. Sports. Vacations. Community involvement. Church programs. Political concerns. Keeping everyone safe. Making ends meet.

Most of those are gifts or legitimate responsibilities. The problem is not that they exist. The problem begins when good things become ultimate things and start occupying the space that belongs to the kingdom.

For people like us, the word may not be choked by hatred of Jesus. It may be choked by a crowded life full of good things that were never meant to be king.

We may not reject Jesus. We may simply leave him no room.

Our calendars are full. Our minds are full. Our homes are full. Our schedules are full. Our feeds are full. Our children’s activities are full. Our worries are full. Somewhere in the middle of all that fullness, the word of the kingdom can begin struggling for air.

Family is a holy gift, but it makes a terrible lord. We can become so committed to giving our children every opportunity that we fail to give them roots. We can organize life around sports, activities, achievement, travel, success, and experience, then give Jesus whatever time remains. We can say we want our children to follow Christ while teaching them through our choices that nearly everything else receives priority.

The question is not whether family matters. The question is whether our families are ordered beneath King Jesus.

Are we raising successful children, or are we forming rooted disciples?

The same danger applies to politics. Political concern is not automatically wrong. The gospel has public implications. Justice matters. Leadership matters. Love of neighbor matters. But the word of the kingdom must be allowed to judge our politics rather than being recruited to endorse them.

If Jesus never confronts my politics, I may not be listening to Jesus. I may be using him as a mascot.

When the news cycle shapes our fears, hopes, enemies, and imagination more deeply than the teachings of Jesus, the thorns may already be growing.

The Lies Riches Tell

Jesus does not merely say riches are distracting. He calls them deceitful.

Riches lie.

They rarely introduce themselves by saying, “I am here to destroy your soul.” They usually whisper, “I am here to make you safe.”

A little more, and you will finally relax. A little more, and you will be secure. A little more, and you will gain control. A little more, and you will know that you matter. A little more, and you will no longer need to worry about the future.

But wealth deceives us by promising to be a shelter, then quietly becoming a master.

The problem is not simply possessing money. The problem is believing money’s promises. Most of us do not consider ourselves rich because “rich” is always someone else. Someone with a larger home, more land, a newer truck, a larger account, or more zeroes.

But Jesus does not reserve this warning for billionaires. He gives it to all hearers of the word.

Money does not have to make us wealthy to deceive us. It only has to convince us that life is found in what we can secure.

That deception grows slowly. The thorn may begin as a reasonable desire to provide, prepare, and protect. But somewhere along the way, security becomes control, stewardship becomes accumulation, and blessing becomes identity.

The word continues growing for a while.

Then the thorns tighten.

Understanding That Becomes Fruit

Finally, Jesus describes the good soil:

“This is the one who hears the word and understands it. He indeed bears fruit…”

There is the pattern again.

Hearing becomes understanding. Understanding becomes fruit.

Matthew has already prepared us for this connection. John the Baptist said, “Bear fruit in keeping with repentance.” Jesus said, “You will recognize them by their fruits.” Throughout Matthew, fruit is visible evidence that something real has happened beneath the surface.

Fruit is kingdom life becoming visible.

It is repentance that changes direction. Mercy that moves toward the hurting. Faithfulness that endures. Forgiveness that releases resentment. Generosity that loosens our grip. Humility that stops needing to win. Courage that remains faithful under pressure. Truthfulness that refuses manipulation. Enemy love that looks like Jesus. Compassion that sees people rather than categories. Allegiance that places King Jesus above every rival loyalty.

Fruit is what happens when the word does not merely inform us. It forms us.

The harvest varies. Some produce a hundredfold. Some sixty. Some thirty. Jesus does not demand identical lives, identical gifts, identical personalities, or identical visible outcomes. The point is not comparison.

The question is whether the word is producing fruit.

Is Jesus making me more merciful? More honest? More patient? More generous? More courageous? More faithful? More compassionate? More like him?

That is understanding.

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The Danger for Bible People

Those of us who love Scripture should receive both encouragement and warning from this.

Study matters. Language matters. History matters. Context matters. Good interpretation matters. We should never use the language of “transformation” as an excuse for careless reading. We cannot faithfully obey a passage that we continually misunderstand.

But careful interpretation is not the final destination.

The goal is not simply to master the text. The goal is to be mastered by the King revealed through the text.

The Bible is not only something we analyze. It analyzes us. It names the hardness we excuse. It exposes the shallowness we celebrate. It reveals the thorns we have allowed to grow. It confronts the false promises we have trusted. It calls us to receive the word deeply enough that roots grow and fruit appears.

That is why the question after reading Scripture cannot only be, “What does this mean?” That question matters deeply. But it must lead to others.

What does this reveal about God?

What does it show me about Jesus?

What does it expose in me?

What am I being called to trust?

What do I need to surrender?

What must change?

What kind of person is this word forming me to become?

Where should fruit begin to grow?

Understanding begins with meaning, but it moves toward formation.

Make Us Good Soil

The Parable of the Sower is not primarily an invitation to label everyone else. It is an invitation to allow Jesus to examine us.

Where has the word stayed on the surface? Where have we confused spiritual excitement with rooted discipleship? What good things have grown wild and crowded the kingdom? What are our worries choking? What is money promising us? Where has familiarity become hardness? Where has information replaced formation?

And where is fruit growing?

The prayer does not need to be complicated.

Lord, break up the hard ground. Drive the roots deeper. Pull the thorns. Make our hearts good soil.

The Sower still sows. The word of the kingdom is still good. Jesus is still speaking. And the question is not merely whether we have heard the word before.

The question is whether we understand it.

Not only with the mind, but with the heart. Deep enough to turn. Deep enough to take root. Deep enough to endure. Deep enough to heal. Deep enough to bear fruit.

Because biblical understanding is hearing that reaches the heart and comes out as fruit.

Most of us assume uncleanness is contagious.

And, to be fair, that assumption is not difficult to understand. Sickness spreads. Sin spreads. Fear spreads. Shame spreads. Death seems to spread its shadow over every room it enters. We learn very early in life that some messes do not stay neatly contained.

So we build boundaries. Some of them are wise. Some of them are necessary. Some of them are ways of loving our neighbors and protecting the vulnerable. But some of them become something else. Some boundaries become strategies of self-protection dressed up as holiness. We decide who is safe and who is complicated. Who is respectable and who is messy. Who belongs at the table and who probably needs to get their life together first.

Then Jesus walks through Matthew 9, and the whole direction of things begins to reverse.

Sinners do not contaminate his table. A suffering woman does not make him unclean. A dead girl does not defile his touch. Instead, mercy moves outward. Holiness moves outward. Healing moves outward. Life moves outward.

Matthew 9:9-13 and 9:18-26 are not merely a collection of inspiring Jesus stories. Matthew has arranged these episodes in a way that invites us to see something deeper about the kingdom Jesus brings. The kingdom is not God staying far away from everything broken until the broken things somehow fix themselves. The kingdom is the mercy of God arriving in person, sitting at the table, being touched by the unclean, taking death by the hand, and making all things new.

In Jesus, holiness is not fragile.

It is contagious.

Mercy at the Tax Booth

Matthew introduces his own calling with almost shocking simplicity.

“As Jesus passed on from there, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax booth, and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’ And he rose and followed him” (Matthew 9:9).

That is the whole story, at least as Matthew tells it. Jesus saw him. Jesus called him. Matthew rose and followed.

But the brevity should not fool us. This is not a small moment.

Matthew is sitting at the tax booth. That detail matters. He is not introduced in a neutral location. Matthew is not walking along the road praying the Psalms, feeding the poor, or pondering whether to enter vocational ministry. He is seated at the visible place of his compromise.

Tax collectors in the first-century Jewish world were not merely unpopular because people disliked paying taxes. That part, at least, has remained fairly consistent across history. Nobody gets misty-eyed about taxation. But tax collectors were viewed as collaborators with oppressive powers. They were associated with greed, exploitation, and betrayal. They profited from a system that burdened their own people. They were socially and religiously suspect.

So when Matthew says he was sitting at the tax booth, he is not giving us a throwaway detail. He is telling us where mercy found him.

Jesus does not wait for Matthew to leave the booth before calling him. Jesus does not say, “Clean up your reputation, disentangle yourself from this mess, prove your sincerity, and then come find me.” He simply says, “Follow me.”

That does not mean the call of Jesus leaves Matthew unchanged. This is not a sentimental picture of grace as a divine shrug. Matthew rises. Matthew follows. The tax booth is not affirmed, as though nothing about it matters. The tax booth is abandoned, because Jesus has called Matthew into a new allegiance.

The mercy of Jesus does not wait for Matthew to become respectable before calling him, but neither does it leave Matthew sitting where he was.

That is one of the first things we need to see. Grace is not a reward for the already cleaned up. But grace is also not permission to remain enslaved to the old life.

Grace is the voice of Jesus interrupting us where we are and calling us into the way of the kingdom.

Matthew the tax collector becomes Matthew the disciple.

The place of public shame becomes the place where Jesus says, “Follow me.”

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The Physician at the Table

The next scene widens the scandal.

“And as Jesus reclined at table in the house, behold, many tax collectors and sinners came and were reclining with Jesus and his disciples” (Matthew 9:10).

The call of Matthew turns into a meal with people like Matthew. That is important. Jesus does not merely rescue one individual from a bad crowd and then hurry him away before anyone gets the wrong idea. Jesus sits at the table with the wrong crowd.

In the ancient world, table fellowship mattered. Meals were not merely about calories. To share a table was to share social space. It was to recognize some kind of relationship. It said something about welcome, belonging, and association.

This is why the Pharisees ask, “Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?”

We should not flatten their question into cartoon villainy. They are asking a holiness question. If Jesus is a teacher of God’s ways, why is he reclining at table with people whose lives are so obviously out of step with those ways? Why is he so close to the morally compromised? Why is he sharing fellowship with sinners?

Jesus answers with one of the most important images in the passage.

“Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick” (Matthew 9:12).

That sentence protects us from two opposite mistakes.

On one side, we can misuse Jesus’ table fellowship as though Jesus did not care about sin. “Jesus ate with sinners,” we say, and sometimes we say it as if the whole point is that nothing in their lives needed to change. But the physician image does not allow that. Doctors do not deny sickness. They diagnose it. They treat it. They come near because something is wrong and needs to be made well.

On the other side, we can treat sin, shame, and brokenness as reasons to keep our distance. We can say, “They are sick,” and then act as though sick people should be avoided by the very one who has come to heal them. But the physician image does not allow that either. The sick need the physician. The diagnosis is not a reason for Jesus to stay away. It is the reason he has come near.

The Pharisees see contamination.

Jesus sees patients.

This is not mercy as moral indifference. This is mercy as the healing presence of God. Jesus does not say sin is harmless. He says sinners need him.

Then Jesus presses even deeper by quoting Hosea.

“Go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.’ For I came not to call the righteous, but sinners” (Matthew 9:13).

That phrase, “Go and learn,” has a bit of bite to it. These are Bible people. They know Hosea 6:6. Or at least, they know the words. But Jesus says they still need to learn what it means.

That is a deeply uncomfortable possibility for religious people. ( like me and you?) It is possible to know the verse and miss the meaning. It is possible to care about Scripture and still fail to recognize the heart of God when it is sitting at the table.

In Hosea, God is confronting people who still have religious activity but lack covenant faithfulness. They have sacrifice, but not mercy. Ritual, but not steadfast love. Religious language, but not the knowledge of God. God is not rejecting worship itself, as though sacrifice never mattered. He is rejecting worship severed from mercy.

Jesus takes that prophetic word and applies it directly to his own ministry. His table with sinners is not a compromise of God’s holiness. It is an expression of God’s heart.

The God who desires mercy has come in the flesh, and he is eating with sinners.

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When Jesus Rises and Follows

Then Matthew does something beautiful with the movement of the story.

Back in verse 9, Matthew says that when Jesus called him, “he rose and followed him.” Matthew rises and follows Jesus out of the tax booth.

Then, only a few verses later, a ruler comes to Jesus, kneels before him, and says, “My daughter has just died, but come and lay your hand on her, and she will live” (Matthew 9:18).

And Matthew writes, “And Jesus rose and followed him, with his disciples” (Matthew 9:19).

I do not want to overbuild a theology on one repeated English phrase, and the Greek wording is not exactly identical in every detail. But Matthew clearly gives us a striking narrative echo. First, Matthew rises and follows Jesus. Then Jesus rises and follows a grieving father.

Matthew follows Jesus into the way of mercy. But the merciful Jesus also follows the grieving into the place where death has taken hold.

That is worth lingering over.

We often think of discipleship as us following Jesus, and of course it is. “Follow me” is the call. Matthew has to get up. Matthew has to leave the booth. Matthew has to walk after the King. Discipleship is not a vague appreciation for Jesus. It is embodied allegiance to Jesus.

But the Jesus we follow is also the Jesus who follows a desperate father into grief. He is not a distant religious lecturer calling instructions down from the safety of heaven. He goes with people into the room no one wants to enter. He walks toward the place where everyone else says, “It is too late.”

The ruler’s request is astonishing. In Mark and Luke, the girl is near death when the ruler first comes. In Matthew’s compressed telling, she has already died. The father is not simply asking for healing. He is asking Jesus to bring life where death has already spoken.

“My daughter has just died, but come and lay your hand on her, and she will live.”

That is either desperation, faith, or some strange mixture of both. Which, if we are honest, is often what faith feels like when grief is in the room.

Jesus rises and follows him.

The way of Jesus moves toward death.

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Healing at the Edge

On the way to the ruler’s house, the story is interrupted. But, of course, in the Gospels, interruptions are often where we discover what Jesus’ mission really looks like.

“And behold, a woman who had suffered from a discharge of blood for twelve years came up behind him and touched the fringe of his garment” (Matthew 9:20).

Matthew is brief, but the detail is heavy.

Twelve years.

Twelve years of suffering. Twelve years of bodily weakness. Twelve years of awkward explanations. Twelve years of social complication. Twelve years of likely isolation and shame.

Her condition evokes Leviticus 15, where bodily discharges are associated with ritual uncleanness. That is important, but we need to be careful. Ritual impurity is not the same thing as personal sin. The woman is not morally guilty because she is bleeding. She is suffering. But in her world, this suffering carried social and religious consequences. It affected touch. It affected worship. It affected community. It affected how she moved through the world.

She comes from behind.

That feels true to the story. People who have carried shame for a long time often learn how to move quietly. They learn how to enter rooms without taking up space. They learn how to hope without making a scene. She does not stand in front of Jesus and make a speech. She reaches from behind for the fringe of his garment.

The word translated “fringe” is worth noticing. It refers to the edge, tassel, or fringe of a garment. In Israel’s Scriptures, tassels were a sign of covenant remembrance. Numbers 15 says the people of Israel were to wear tassels on the corners of their garments so that they would remember the commandments of the Lord and live as his holy people.

So this suffering woman reaches for the edge of the garment of the faithful Israelite. She reaches toward the one who embodies covenant faithfulness in flesh and blood.

There may also be a whisper of Malachi here. Malachi 4:2 says, “But for you who fear my name, the sun of righteousness shall rise with healing in its wings.” The word translated “wings” can also refer to the edge or corner of a garment. Matthew does not stop and say, “This fulfills Malachi,” so we should be careful not to pretend the allusion is beyond question. But for Bible readers whose imaginations have been trained by Israel’s Scriptures, the echo is hard to ignore.

Healing in his wings.

Healing at the edge.

Healing in the fringe of the righteous one.

The woman says to herself, “If I only touch his garment, I will be made well” (Matthew 9:21). The phrase “made well” comes from a word that can also mean saved, healed, rescued, or made whole. In this context, she is clearly seeking physical healing. But Matthew’s language allows the healing to resonate more deeply. (Like the first healing story in Matthew 9:1-8) She needs more than a medical cure. She needs restoration. She needs belonging. She needs her life back.

And this is where the direction of holiness reverses again.

Ordinarily, her touch would be understood as making another person unclean. But when she touches Jesus, uncleanness does not move from her to him. Healing moves from him to her.

She is made well.

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The Mercy of Being Seen

Jesus does not let her remain hidden.

That could sound terrifying, depending on how we imagine the scene. She has approached secretly. She has touched quietly. She has hoped to receive healing without being noticed. And then Jesus turns.

But Jesus does not expose her in order to shame her. He sees her in order to restore her.

“Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well” (Matthew 9:22).

There is so much mercy in that sentence.

Take heart.

Daughter.

Your faith has made you well.

Jesus does not call her “unclean.” He does not call her “interruption.” He does not call her “problem.” He does not reduce her to the condition that has defined her life for twelve years. He calls her daughter.

There is a kind of seeing that shames. There is a kind of seeing that objectifies. There is a kind of seeing that reduces a person to the worst thing they have done or the hardest thing they have endured. But Jesus’ seeing restores.

She came to Jesus hoping for a cure. Jesus gave her healing, courage, and a name.

That matters because the gospel is not only about guilt. It is about shame too. It is about isolation. It is about fear. It is about the ways suffering can make a person feel invisible and exposed at the same time.

Jesus does not merely stop the bleeding. He restores the daughterhood that suffering had buried.

That is the mercy of Jesus. He does not see less than the truth. He sees more than the crowd sees. He sees the whole person, and his seeing gives life.

When Death Becomes Sleep

Then Jesus arrives at the ruler’s house.

The scene is already full of death. Matthew mentions flute players and a crowd making a commotion. This is a mourning scene. The funeral machinery is already in motion. The house has accepted the verdict and is notifying the community. The girl is dead.

Jesus says, “Go away, for the girl is not dead but sleeping” (Matthew 9:24).

And they laugh at him.

That laughter is important. The crowd is not confused. They know what death looks like. They are not gullible. They are not wondering if maybe the girl is only taking a hard nap. Their laughter tells us that, from every human angle, Jesus’ words sound absurd.

But Jesus is not denying death. He is denying death’s finality in his presence.

Sleep becomes a way of speaking about death when resurrection is possible. Death is real, but it is not ultimate. Death is terrible, but it is not sovereign. Death speaks loudly, but it does not get the last word when Jesus is in the room.

Then Matthew writes, “But when the crowd had been put outside, he went in and took her by the hand, and the girl arose” (Matthew 9:25).

He took her by the hand.

Again, the touch matters. Contact with a corpse carried impurity. Death contaminates. Death spreads its shadow. Death makes everything feel unclean.

But not here.

When Jesus takes death by the hand, death does not spread to him. Life spreads from him.

Matthew says the girl “arose.” The word is resurrection-flavored. Matthew is not yet telling the story of Easter, but he is already teaching us how to recognize the one who will walk out of the grave. Jesus brings resurrection life into the story before we even arrive at the cross and empty tomb.

The girl rises.

The report spreads.

Of course it does. What else could happen when life interrupts a funeral?

The Direction of Mercy

Now step back and look at the movement of the whole passage.

Jesus sees Matthew at the tax booth and calls him. Matthew rises and follows.

Jesus sits at the table with tax collectors and sinners and says the sick need a physician.

Jesus tells the Bible nerds to go learn what Hosea means when God says, “I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.”

Jesus rises and follows a grieving father toward the house of death.

A woman reaches for the fringe of his garment and receives healing at the edge.

Jesus turns, sees her, and calls her daughter.

Jesus takes a dead girl by the hand, and she rises.

The pattern is not accidental. Matthew is showing us the way of Jesus.

Mercy moves toward the sinner.
Mercy moves toward the table.
Mercy moves toward the sick.
Mercy moves toward the shamed.
Mercy moves toward grief.
Mercy moves toward death.

And everywhere mercy goes, the old direction of contamination is reversed.

The sinner does not contaminate Jesus. Jesus calls the sinner.

The table does not compromise Jesus. Jesus turns the table into a place of healing.

The bleeding woman does not make Jesus unclean. Jesus makes her well.

The dead girl does not defile Jesus. Jesus raises her up.

This does not mean sin is harmless. Jesus uses sickness language because the sickness is real. It does not mean suffering is small. Twelve years is a long time to bleed. It does not mean death is pretend. The mourners laugh because the girl is truly dead.

Matthew 9 is not sentimental. It is not soft. It does not tell us that the world is less broken than we thought.

Matthew 9 tells us that Jesus is more merciful, more holy, and more alive than we imagined.

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The Church and the Way of Jesus

This is where the passage begins to press on us.

Because if this is the way of Jesus, then those who follow Jesus cannot define holiness as mere avoidance. We cannot build a whole vision of faithfulness around staying far enough away from sinners, sufferers, outsiders, and complicated people that their mess never touches us.

Of course, wisdom matters. Boundaries matter. There are situations where distance is necessary for safety, repentance, or protection. Mercy is not naivete. Jesus is not calling his people to pretend evil is harmless or to confuse compassion with enabling destruction.

But Matthew 9 still confronts something in us.

It confronts the instinct to protect our respectability more than practice mercy. It confronts the kind of religion that knows the right verses but has not learned what they mean. It confronts the version of holiness that is more concerned with who might contaminate us than with who needs the physician.

Jesus does not call us to be less holy. He shows us what holiness is.

Holiness looks like mercy at the table.

Holiness looks like courage near the sick.

Holiness looks like seeing the person shame has hidden.

Holiness looks like walking into grief.

Holiness looks like taking death by the hand in the confidence that resurrection belongs to God.

The church does not become holy by hiding from messy people. The church becomes holy by staying close to Jesus and learning to move in the direction his mercy moves.

That means we have to ask uncomfortable questions.

Who are the people we assume Jesus should avoid?

Who are the people we are comfortable labeling but slow to love?

Who are the people we would rather discuss as issues than welcome as neighbors?

Who has been bleeding quietly for twelve years while everyone else learned not to notice?

Who is sitting at the tax booth, convinced that this compromised place is the end of the story?

Who is grieving in a house where everyone has already accepted death’s verdict?

And perhaps the hardest question: are we close enough to Jesus to carry his mercy toward them?

Because Matthew 9 is clear. The way of Jesus is not purity by avoidance. It is holiness moving toward the sick, the sinner, the shamed, and the dead.

The tax collector rises.

The woman is called daughter.

The dead girl rises.

Mercy moves toward the mess, and life spreads from Jesus.

That is the direction of the kingdom.

That is the way of Jesus.

Not because I haven’t been reading. Not because I haven’t been studying. Not because the wheels in my Bible-nerd brain have stopped turning. If anything, they have been turning loudly enough that I probably should apologize to the people who have had to stand near me while I process things out loud.

The last few weeks have just been full.

There was a preaching conference in Atlanta, a funeral when we got home, graduation, a graduation party, normal church life, sermon planning, camp preparation, missionary interview prep, promoting a new book, and beginning to work back into final edits on the next one.

That is not a complaint. It is just the honest shape of life lately.

And one thing I am learning is that deep study does not always happen in clean, uninterrupted blocks of time with a quiet desk, a perfect cup of coffee, and no one needing anything from you. That sounds lovely. I support that world. I would like to visit it someday.

But sometimes deep study happens while life is loud.

Sometimes you carry a biblical theme with you through airport terminals, hospice homes, graduation parties, hospital visits, sermon calendars, and church conversations. Sometimes you do not so much “sit down and study” as you drag a holy question around with you until it starts showing up everywhere.

So this is a bit of a brain dump. A collection of things I have been thinking about, praying through, and carrying around lately.

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Shepherds Are Not Sentimental

One theme that keeps grabbing me is shepherd language in the Bible.

We tend to make shepherd imagery soft and sweet. We imagine green hills, quiet streams, and maybe one emotionally needy sheep being gently carried around the shoulders of a smiling shepherd.

And yes, there is comfort there. Psalm 23 is not exactly subtle about that. “The Lord is my shepherd” is one of the great anchors of the life of faith.

But biblical shepherd language is not merely sentimental. It is deeply theological. It is often political. It is frequently confrontational.

In Ezekiel 34, the problem is not that Israel has no shepherds. The problem is that Israel’s shepherds have been feeding themselves instead of feeding the sheep. They have used the flock instead of tending the flock. They have enjoyed the benefits of leadership without carrying the burden of love.

That is terrifying if you are a pastor. It is also clarifying.

A bad shepherd does not always look like a wolf. Sometimes a bad shepherd looks like a leader who slowly begins to see people as resources for his own importance, instead of souls entrusted to his care.

Then God says the breathtaking thing: “I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep.”

Don’t picture just idyllic scenery. That is a divine intervention.

And then we get to Jesus, who sees the crowds as “harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” He does not respond with annoyance. He does not respond with branding strategy. He does not respond by saying, “Somebody should really do something about these people.”

He has compassion.

Then he sends his disciples.

That little movement matters. Jesus is the Shepherd, and then he forms shepherd-like people. People who move toward the weary. People who feed instead of consume. People who gather instead of scatter. People who protect rather than exploit.

That has been sitting heavily with me.

The Way of Jesus Is Not Vague Niceness

I am also preparing for a summer sermon series through portions of Matthew’s Gospel called The Way of Jesus. (This is in itself a frustration, since this was NOT the plan for the summer, but I think exactly where the Lord has led!)

That phrase can sound gentle and inspirational, and it is. But it is not vague.

We sometimes think of the way of Jesus as just “be kind” with a little religious seasoning sprinkled on top. But the way of Jesus is the actual pattern of life revealed in Jesus himself.

In Matthew, Jesus calls unlikely people. He eats with sinners. He touches the unclean. He heals the sick. He raises the dead. He confronts religious arrogance. He teaches with authority. He sends his followers into the harvest. He announces the kingdom. He carries mercy into places where respectable people often carried suspicion.

And eventually, of course, the way of Jesus leads to the cross.

So when we talk about “the way of Jesus,” we are not talking about a religious lifestyle brand. We are talking about the road of cruciform mercy, embodied allegiance, and kingdom-shaped faithfulness.

That means discipleship is not merely agreeing with Jesus’ ideas. It is learning to walk his road.

That sounds beautiful until Jesus’ road crosses my preferences, my comfort, my pride, my politics, my schedule, my resentments, and my need to be right.

Then it becomes formation.

And that is probably the point.

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Hebrews Is Strong Medicine

I have also been thinking ahead about Hebrews.

Hebrews is one of those books that can sound majestic from a distance and then start messing with you when you get up close.

Jesus is better. Jesus is greater. Jesus is the true high priest. Jesus is the once-for-all sacrifice. Jesus is the Son who reveals God. Jesus is the anchor of our hope. Jesus is the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. Hallelujah!

All of that is glorious.

But Hebrews is not a decorative coffee mug book. It is full of warning. Pay attention. Do not drift. Do not harden your heart. Hold fast. Do not throw away your confidence. Keep going.

Hebrews knows that weariness is dangerous.

That feels timely. Not just for me, but for many people I love.

The encouragement of Hebrews is not sentimental encouragement. It is not a soft little pat on the head. It is steel wrapped in mercy.

Hebrews does not say, “You are tired, so none of this matters.”

Hebrews says, “You are tired, so look again at Jesus.”

Look at the one who endured. Look at the one who sympathizes. Look at the one who has gone ahead of you. Look at the one who is not ashamed to call you brother or sister. Look at the one who opened the way.

That is survival, not merely shallow encouragement.

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Ezekiel Will Not Let the Bible Be Boring

Then there is Ezekiel.

Good grief, Ezekiel…..

If you ever start to think the Bible is tame, spend some time with Ezekiel. Wheels within wheels. Living creatures. The glory of God on the move. Strange prophetic sign-acts. False shepherds. Dry bones rattling back to life. A renewed temple. A river flowing out into dead places and making them live.

Ezekiel is weird in the best and holiest sense of the word.

But the weirdness is not random. It is not weird for weirdness’ sake. Ezekiel’s strangeness is doing theological work.

Ezekiel is speaking to people in exile. People whose world has collapsed. People who have lost the temple, the land, the monarchy, and the familiar symbols of stability. And into that trauma, Ezekiel sees the glory of God.

Not trapped in Jerusalem.

Not defeated by Babylon.

Not domesticated by anyone’s expectations.

The glory moves.

That is a word we still need.

God is not limited to the places where we first learned to recognize him. God is not defeated when our familiar structures shake. God is not absent just because life feels dislocated.

Ezekiel will not let us flatten the world. He keeps pulling back the curtain and saying, “There is more going on here than you think.”

That is one of the gifts of the weird parts of Scripture. They wake us up from the illusion that the world is merely ordinary.

Bible Translation Is a Kingdom Witness

This week I am also preparing for an interview-style conversation with a visiting missionary who has spent years working in Bible translation.

That has me thinking about the miracle of the Word becoming hearable.

Bible translation is easy to take for granted when you have a shelf full of Bibles, a phone full of Bible apps, and more access to Scripture than any generation in history.

But there are still people waiting to hear God speak in the language of their own heart.

That is staggering.

And it reminds me that the God of Scripture is not a vague, distant deity who demands that people climb up to him through elite religious language. The God of Scripture comes near. He speaks. He sends. He accommodates. He enters human language.

There is something deeply Pentecostal about Bible translation. At Pentecost, the mighty works of God are heard in many languages. The good news does not erase people’s tongues. It meets them there.

That should humble those of us who have had Scripture available to us our entire lives.

It should also make us ask whether we treat the Bible like treasure or like furniture.

Because if people around the world are still longing to hear the Word in their own language, those of us with constant access should be careful not to become casually bored with abundance.

Writing and Editing Are Spiritual Practices Too

In the middle of all this, I have also been promoting one book and beginning final edits on the next one.

That is a strange experience.

Writing a book feels, at times, like pouring out your soul. Editing a book feels like inviting someone to tell you where your soul used too many words.

Both are good for you.

Painful, but good.

There is a humility to editing that I probably need more of in the rest of life. You have to cut sentences you liked because they do not serve the whole. You have to clarify thoughts you assumed were obvious. You have to admit that what sounded brilliant at midnight may not have been touched by the same level of glory in the morning.

There is probably a sermon in there somewhere.

Maybe part of spiritual formation is letting the Lord edit us.

Not because he despises what is there, but because he loves what he is making. He cuts what does not serve love. He clarifies what has become muddled. He rearranges what is disordered. He refuses to let our first draft be the final version.

That is grace, even when it feels like revision.

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The Thread Running Through It All

So yes, life has been full. But underneath the fullness, there has been a thread.

The Shepherd who feeds his sheep.

The way of Jesus that forms our steps.

The high priest who helps weary believers hold fast.

The glory of God that moves with his people in exile.

The King who calls for allegiance.

The Word that crosses languages and cultures.

The Spirit who keeps editing us into the image of Christ.

I do not have all of that neatly tied together yet. This is a brain dump, after all. But maybe that is the point.

Sometimes the Word does not come to us as a perfectly organized outline. Sometimes it comes as a collection of holy interruptions. A phrase that will not leave us alone. A passage that follows us into the week. A theme that starts showing up in every conversation. A strange prophetic image that rattles around in the imagination. A funeral. A graduation. A missionary conversation. A sermon text. A manuscript page. A camp lesson.

And through all of it, Jesus keeps meeting us.

Not just when life gets quiet.

Sometimes especially when life gets loud.

Because the goal was never merely to have more Bible information in our heads. The goal is to become the kind of people who can recognize the voice of the Shepherd, walk in the way of Jesus, hold fast to our hope, and live with faithful allegiance to the King.

That is what I have been carrying around lately.

More to come.

A lot of people want to read the Bible.

I really believe that. Over the last few years, I’ve had more conversations with people who are interested in Scripture, curious about Christian faith, or trying to take Bible reading seriously than maybe at any other point in my ministry. Some are new to faith. Some are returning after years away. Some grew up around church but never really learned how to read the Bible for themselves. Some are simply spiritually curious and trying to figure out what they believe.

And honestly, I love that. I love when someone says they want to open the Bible, learn, ask questions, and see what God might have to say. But I also think we sometimes set people up for disaster without meaning to.

Someone says, “I want to start reading the Bible,” and our advice is often something like, “That’s great. Start reading. Maybe try a reading plan. Get up early. Find a quiet place. Highlight some verses. God bless.”

That sounds spiritual, and to be fair, it is not necessarily bad advice. Reading plans can be helpful. Quiet time can be good. Highlighting verses is not a sin, unless you use one of those highlighters that bleeds through six pages and ruins Leviticus. But that is a separate issue, and possibly a matter for church discipline.

The problem is that we often tell people to read the Bible without giving them many tools for what to do when the Bible starts acting like the Bible.

Because sooner or later, it will.

Genesis gets strange faster than people expect. Exodus is dramatic, but then you get tabernacle measurements. Leviticus arrives with sacrifices, skin diseases, clean and unclean animals, and bodily discharges. Numbers gives you census lists, wilderness rebellion, a talking donkey, and some passages that make you stare at the wall for a while. Ezekiel feels like biblical fantasy DLC. Revelation, well, does Revelation things.

And even the familiar parts can be harder than we admit. A parable sounds simple until Jesus refuses to explain it the way we want. A psalm comforts us one moment and prays something shocking the next. A proverb seems like a promise until life does not play out that cleanly. A story we heard in Sunday school turns out to be much more complicated than the flannelgraph version suggested.

At some point, a lot of readers quietly wonder, Am I bad at this? Maybe everyone else understands the Bible and I missed the class where they explained the wheels covered in eyes. Maybe I’m not spiritual enough. Maybe this is just for scholars, pastors, and people who know how to pronounce Habakkuk with confidence.

But I do not think that is the issue.

I think many people are not bad at reading the Bible. They just have not been given enough help for reading the Bible as the kind of book it actually is.

So here are five questions I have been encouraging people in our church to ask when Scripture feels confusing, strange, or different. They are not magic. They will not solve every interpretive problem. They will not make every hard passage easy. They are not a secret Bible code, which is good, because if your Bible reading method requires a corkboard, red yarn, and a suspicious amount of confidence, something has probably gone wrong.

These are simply five questions that can help us slow down, pay attention, and let the Bible speak in its own voice.

1. What kind of thing is this?

Before asking, “What does this mean for me?” it helps to ask, “What am I reading?”

That may sound obvious, but it changes more than we realize. The Bible is not one kind of book. It is a library of writings given across centuries, in different contexts, through different kinds of literature. It includes stories, poetry, wisdom, law, prophecy, letters, parables, visions, songs, genealogies, laments, and apocalyptic imagery.

Different kinds of writing communicate truth in different ways. You do not read poetry like instructions. You do not read a story like a checklist. You do not read a proverb like a guaranteed promise. You do not read Revelation like a newspaper report from the future.

A psalm may be expressing emotion and prayer, not giving step-by-step commands. A proverb may be giving wisdom about how life generally works, not promising that every situation will always turn out exactly that way. A parable may not be handing you a simple moral lesson; it may be drawing you in, exposing your assumptions, and forcing you to wrestle with the kingdom of God. A vision in Revelation may be using symbols and images to reveal what is true about God, evil, empire, worship, and faithfulness from heaven’s perspective.

When we ignore what kind of writing we are reading, we almost always flatten the text. We reduce poetry to statements. We turn wisdom into guarantees. We treat stories as formulas. We force symbols into literal categories. We rush toward application before we have listened.

So the first question is simple: What kind of thing is this?

Is it a story? A poem? Wisdom? Prophecy? A letter? A vision? A law? A lament? A parable?

This is not just an academic question. It is an act of love. Good listening pays attention to how someone is speaking, and good Bible reading starts there.

2. What is this doing? (Not just, what is it saying?)

This is one of the most helpful shifts we can make.

We often come to the Bible looking for information, and to be clear, the Bible does give us information. It tells us true things about God, humanity, sin, salvation, wisdom, worship, justice, mercy, and the world. But Scripture is not only trying to inform us. It is trying to form us.

So when we read, we should not only ask, “What does this passage say?” We should also ask, “What is this passage doing?”

Is it telling a story? Is it inviting reflection? Is it confronting something? Is it comforting someone? Is it warning us? Is it forming our perspective? Is it teaching us how to pray? Is it training our imagination? Is it slowing us down? Is it exposing something we would rather avoid?

God did not only give us bullet points. He gave us Scripture that works on us.

Take the parables of Jesus. If parables were simply illustrations to make everything easier, then we might expect everybody to understand them immediately. But that is not what happens. In Matthew 13, after Jesus tells the Parable of the Sower, the disciples ask Him why He speaks in parables. That question alone should slow us down.

Jesus’ parables are not merely simplifying truth. They are revealing truth and, at the same time, exposing the hearts of those who hear. The Parable of the Sower is not just a farming illustration with a religious point attached. It asks what kind of soil we are. Are we resistant? Shallow? Distracted? Fruitful? The story is doing something to the listener.

Or think about repetition in Scripture. A repeated phrase may not be wasted space. It may be pressing truth into memory. It may be training desire. It may be slowing us down long enough to notice what matters.

Or think about lament psalms. A lament is not necessarily giving you a neat doctrine of suffering in three points and a closing prayer. It may be giving you language to pray when life hurts and God feels distant.

That is significant because sometimes we get frustrated with Scripture because we want it to do something it is not trying to do. We want a quick answer, but the passage gives us a story. We want a clean principle, but the passage gives us poetry. We want a timeline, but the passage gives us a vision. We want immediate comfort, but the passage tells us the truth.

So ask: What is this doing?

That question helps us stop treating the Bible like raw material for whatever takeaway we already wanted. Scripture is not merely sitting there waiting for us to extract a useful thought and move on. It is speaking. It is shaping. It is forming. Our job is to listen.

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3. What is the main thing that’s clear?

This question is especially important when the Bible gets strange.

And it does get strange. There are beasts and horns and dragons and wheels within wheels. There are long genealogies, repeated laws, symbolic numbers, ancient rituals, difficult commands, and passages where you genuinely wonder whether you accidentally skipped a transition somewhere.

When we hit those places, one of our mistakes is that we zoom in too quickly. We get fixated on the smallest details before we have noticed the main movement of the passage. We obsess over a number, a symbol, a phrase, a creature, a measurement, or a question we cannot immediately answer. And sometimes, while chasing every detail, we miss the main thing.

So before panicking, ask: What is the main thing that’s clear?

What stands out? What is obvious? What is repeated? What is the passage clearly about? What is the big movement of the story, poem, vision, or argument?

This does not mean details do not matter. They do. Details can deepen and enrich the main point. But details make the most sense when we first understand the larger picture.

Take Revelation 5. There are a lot of details in that vision. There is a throne. There is a scroll. There is an elder. There is a Lion. There is a Lamb. There are living creatures and elders and bowls of incense and songs and angels and worship. You could spend a long time exploring all of that.

But the main thing is clear: the Lamb is worthy.

Jesus conquers as the slain Lamb. He is worthy to open the scroll. He is worthy of worship. He is worthy of allegiance. If we miss that, we can analyze a thousand details and still miss the vision.

The same is true in narrative. Sometimes we get hung up on a minor detail and miss the movement of the story. Sometimes we ask a question the passage is not trying to answer and miss the question it is pressing in front of us.

Think about David and Goliath. There are plenty of details we could chase in that story: the five smooth stones, Goliath’s height, Saul’s armor, the military setting, the insults, the sling, and the dramatic ending. Those details matter, but the main movement of the story is not hard to see. Israel is afraid. Saul, the king who looks impressive on the outside, is passive. David trusts the Lord, refuses to rely on Saul’s armor, and insists that “the battle is the Lord’s.” Before we turn the story into a motivational speech about facing our giants, we should notice the main thing that is clear: God saves His people through the unlikely faithful one when human strength has failed. Once we see that, the details start serving the story instead of distracting us from it.

This question keeps us grounded. It teaches us not to confuse uncertainty about one detail with total confusion about the whole passage. You may not understand everything in a passage. That is okay. Start with what is clear. What is repeated? What is central? What is the passage obviously pressing toward?

Sometimes that will be enough to keep you from getting lost.

4. Where have I seen this before?

This is where Bible reading starts to become especially beautiful.

The Bible is deeply connected. It is not a pile of isolated religious thoughts. It is a library, yes, but it is also one unfolding story, and many passages “link” to earlier ones.

So ask: Where have I seen this before?

Does this remind me of another part of the Bible? Are there repeated images, themes, phrases, places, or patterns? Have I heard this language somewhere else? Have I seen this kind of scene before?

This question trains us to let Scripture interpret Scripture. Revelation is full of images that echo Daniel, Exodus, Ezekiel, Isaiah, Zechariah, and the Psalms. The tree of life in Revelation 22 connects back to Genesis 2-3. Jesus in the wilderness echoes Israel in the wilderness. The new creation at the end of the Bible sends us back to the garden at the beginning.

When Jesus answers John the Baptist in Matthew 11 by saying the blind receive sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news preached to them, He is not merely giving John a ministry update. He is drawing from Isaiah’s vision of restoration in Isaiah 34-35. He is saying, in effect, “Look at what is happening. Isaiah’s hope is breaking into the world.”

Once you start noticing those connections, familiar passages become deeper. Not because we are inventing secret meanings, but because Scripture itself is woven together.

I experience this almost every morning in a much less holy way when I read the news. Most days, I start with a daily email digest. It gives short summaries of the biggest stories, just enough to know what is happening in the world without immediately drowning in the full chaos of the internet, which is a mercy.

But those summaries are filled with links. A short paragraph gives me the basic story, but then a phrase links to a fuller article. That article links to an earlier report. That earlier report links to a background explainer. The explainer links to an interview, a timeline, a government document, or another story from three months ago that suddenly matters more than I realized.

And if I follow those links, the story gets bigger. At first, I thought I was reading one isolated news item. But then I begin to see the background, the history, the related stories, the earlier developments, and the larger conversation surrounding it. One summary opens into a whole web of meaning.

That is often how the Bible works.

You may begin with one verse, one phrase, one image, or one story. But if you slow down and follow the links, you discover that what looked like one isolated moment is connected to something much larger. A phrase in the Gospels may carry Isaiah behind it. A scene in Revelation may echo Exodus, Daniel, Ezekiel, and the Psalms. A promise to Abraham may be quietly shaping the way Paul talks about the gospel centuries later.

You will not see every connection right away. Nobody does. But over time, this question changes the way you read. You begin to notice repeated words. You begin to recognize images. You begin to hear echoes. You begin to see Scripture talking to Scripture.

And when that happens, the Bible becomes less like a collection of isolated passages and more like a world you are learning to inhabit.

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5. How is this forming me into the way of Jesus?

This is where we cannot stop at understanding.

Understanding matters. Interpretation matters. Context matters. Genre matters. Original audience matters. All of that matters. But the goal of Scripture is not just information. It is formation.

So ask: How is this forming me into the way of Jesus?

What does this reveal about God? How does this point to Jesus? How might this reshape my thinking, desires, or actions? How is this passage training me to trust, love, obey, hope, forgive, endure, repent, worship, or bear witness? How is this inviting me to follow the Lamb?

This question matters because it is possible to know a lot of Bible and not look very much like Jesus.

That is not just a theoretical danger. It is painfully common. We can study Scripture and still be proud. We can quote Scripture and still be cruel. We can defend Scripture and still be unkind. We can win arguments about the Bible while resisting the very Spirit who inspired it.

So the final question is not optional. If our Bible reading does not make us more loving, more patient, more truthful, more humble, more courageous, more merciful, more faithful, and more like Christ, then something has gone wrong.

Seeing Jesus as the Lamb in Revelation 5 should reshape how we think about power. If Jesus conquers through sacrificial faithfulness, then we cannot define victory the same way the world does. Wisdom literature should train us to live skillfully, not just think correctly. The Psalms should teach us to pray, not merely give us lines to admire. The Gospels should call us to follow Jesus, not merely collect stories about Him. The letters should form communities whose life together bears witness to the gospel.

Faithful Bible reading does not end with, “I understand this passage.” It moves toward a life shaped by Jesus.

How to Use the Questions

When you read Scripture, slow down, read the passage carefully, and then ask the questions in order:

1. What kind of thing is this?

2. What is this doing? Not just, what is it saying?

3. What is the main thing that’s clear?

4. Where have I seen this before?

5. How is this forming me into the way of Jesus?

Do not rush to application before letting the text speak. Do not panic if you cannot answer every question fully. And please, do not turn this into a heavy checklist that makes Bible reading feel like homework assigned by a substitute teacher with something to prove.

Use it as an on-ramp.

Some days, one question will be enough. You may read a strange vision and only ask, “What is the main thing that’s clear?” That is still a win. You may read a psalm and notice one repeated phrase. That is a win. You may read a Gospel story and realize it reminds you of something from Isaiah. That is a win. You may read a passage and simply pray, “Lord, form me into the way of Jesus.” That is a win too.

The point is not to master the Bible immediately. The point is to become the kind of reader who stays with Scripture faithfully.

A Book-Shaped Invitation

This is the heart behind my new book, Let the Bible Be Weird: How to Read Scripture Without Flattening Its Strangeness.

I wrote it because I think a lot of people genuinely want to read the Bible, but they need better tools for the moments when Scripture feels strange, repetitive, ancient, symbolic, confusing, or even morally troubling. And those moments come often.

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The Bible does not need to be flattened in order to be trusted. You do not have to understand everything right away. You do not have to become an expert overnight. You do not have to pretend the weird parts are not weird.

You can slow down. You can ask better questions. You can stay with the text. And you can trust that even the strange parts are doing something important.

So open the Bible. Read the passage in front of you. Ask the next good question. Follow the Lamb one step farther.

And let the Bible be weird.

My son is home from his second year of Bible college, and that has been doing strange things to my soul. Not bad strange. Good strange. But strange.

He is attending my alma mater, Central Bible University, formerly Central Christian College of the Bible, which means he is walking some of the same halls I walked when I was young, eager, idealistic, overconfident, under-caffeinated, and convinced I understood ministry far better than I actually did. On top of that, our church is preparing to welcome a summer intern from the same school, so suddenly the beginning of ministry feels very close to me again. That is a strange feeling when you are twenty-three years into ministry.

I am not done. I am not coasting. I am not polishing my rocking chair and preparing to mutter about “kids these days.” At least not yet. But I am far enough down the road to know that I am no longer at the beginning. I am clearly into the second half of my ministry life, and that vantage point does something to you. It gives you enough distance to see patterns you could not see when you were younger. It gives you enough scars to know which lessons cost more than you expected. It gives you enough perspective to look back and say, “I was sincere there, but I was also immature. I was passionate there, but I was not always wise. I was eager to preach, but I did not yet understand all the ways preaching can expose the condition of your soul.”

So I have been thinking about what I would say to young preachers just getting started. Not as someone who has mastered ministry. Good grief, no. I am still learning, still repenting, still finding places where the Lord has to remind me that I am not nearly as clever, necessary, or strong as I sometimes imagine myself to be.

But maybe that is exactly why some of these reflections matter. These are not thoughts from a guru on a mountain. They are more like warnings from a brother who has slipped on a few patches of ice and would rather see you walk carefully than pretend the path is easier than it is.

A powerful moment is not always a faithful message

One of the first things I would want to say to young preachers is this: just because a line lands does not mean the sermon has been faithful.

That is a hard word for anyone who communicates regularly, especially in a world where almost everything can be measured. We can measure views, likes, shares, comments, attendance, engagement, giving, growth, retention, and whether that one line from Sunday became the thing people repeated back to us in the lobby. In that kind of environment, it becomes very easy to assume that response equals faithfulness. If the room laughed, if people nodded, if the clip got shared, if the quote landed, we can start to believe that the thing must have been good.

And it may have been good. There is nothing wrong with a memorable sentence. The book of Proverbs is filled with compressed wisdom that sticks in the mind. Jesus used images and turns of phrase that people could not easily forget. He spoke of logs in eyes, camels through needles, whitewashed tombs, lost sons, buried treasure, and houses built on sand. Paul could write with rhetorical force and careful persuasion. Peter knew how to preach in a way that cut people to the heart.

The problem is not craft. The problem is not clarity. The problem is not learning how to speak in a way people can understand and remember. The problem is when cleverness becomes king. The problem is when we become more committed to the line than to the text. The problem is when we fall in love with the sound of our own insight and start dragging Scripture behind us as supporting evidence.

Paul’s charge to Timothy is wonderfully simple and terrifyingly demanding: “Preach the word” (2 Timothy 4:2). Not “preach your best ideas.” Not “preach whatever makes the room move.” Not “preach what will make people think you are profound.” Preach the Word.

That means the preacher is not primarily a content creator. He is a steward. He has been entrusted with something that does not belong to him, and that should make every preacher tremble a little. The Bible is not raw material for our creativity. It is not a launching pad for our opinions. It is not a prop we use to give spiritual weight to whatever we already wanted to say.

Out-of-context preaching is just spiritualized opinion. It may sound biblical. It may use biblical vocabulary. It may even stir people emotionally. But if the message is not governed by what God has actually said, then we have not preached the Word. We have dressed up our thoughts in religious clothing and called it a sermon.

Young preacher, if the line is clever but the text does not say it, you do not need the line. If the illustration is powerful but it bends the passage out of shape, you do not need the illustration. If the application gets a reaction but does not arise faithfully from Scripture, you do not need the reaction.

Faithfulness is better than cleverness. Every time.

If You Preach for Applause, You Will Avoid Truth

Another danger comes when we become too hungry for approval.

Every preacher learns the room eventually. You learn what makes people laugh. You learn what makes them nod. You learn what topics create energy and which ones make the air feel heavy. You learn where the easy “amens” are hiding, and you learn which truths might make people stare at their shoes on the way out.

Some of that awareness is simply part of shepherding. A preacher should know his people. A pastor should know the flock. We are not preaching into abstract space. We are speaking to real people with histories, wounds, assumptions, temptations, fears, idols, and hopes. Good preaching is not less pastoral because it pays attention to the people in the room.

But there is a dangerous line between knowing your people and being controlled by their approval.

Paul asks the Galatians, “For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God?” Then he adds, “If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ” (Galatians 1:10). That verse can be abused, of course. Some preachers use it as an excuse to be abrasive, harsh, reckless, or needlessly combative, as if being disliked automatically proves they are courageous. It does not. Sometimes people are offended because the Word of God has confronted them. Sometimes people are offended because the preacher was a jerk. Those are not the same thing.

Still, Paul’s warning stands. If you preach for applause, you will eventually avoid truth.

You will learn to preach against the sins your people already dislike while avoiding the sins that sit comfortably in their own living rooms. You will learn to thunder against distant problems and whisper around local ones. You will soften the edges Scripture leaves sharp, and sharpen the edges Scripture leaves tender. You will become less of a herald and more of an audience manager.

That kind of preaching may preserve your popularity for a while, but it will not form people in the way of Jesus. The preacher is not called to chase applause. The preacher is called to faithfulness. Sometimes faithfulness comforts. Sometimes it confronts. Sometimes it binds up the brokenhearted, and sometimes it names the idol everyone has agreed not to mention.

The preacher does not get to decide ahead of time which work the Word is allowed to do.

So preach with love. Preach with tears when necessary. Preach with patience. Preach like you actually want people healed, not like you enjoy swinging the sword. But do not confuse faithfulness with being liked. Jesus was full of grace and truth, and they still crucified him.

Packaging Cannot Replace Power

I like good graphics. I like thoughtful visuals. I like creative communication, clean design, good lighting, solid sound, and a sermon series image that does not look like it was designed in 1998 on a church office computer that still has a clip art folder.

There is no special holiness in making things ugly on purpose.

But the modern church has to remember that packaging cannot replace power. A beautiful slide deck cannot resurrect a dead sermon. A compelling sermon graphic cannot make a neglected text come alive. A strong social media clip cannot turn weak preaching into faithful proclamation.

We live in an age where ministry can be packaged very well. Churches can look polished. Sermon series can be branded. Worship spaces can be immersive. Everything can be clipped, captioned, edited, uploaded, optimized, and pushed into the feeds of people who may never sit in the room.

Again, none of that is automatically wrong. I use plenty of those tools. I am grateful for them. But none of them are the power.

Paul told the Corinthians, “My speech and my message were not in plausible words of wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power, so that your faith might not rest in the wisdom of men but in the power of God” (1 Corinthians 2:4–5). Paul was not anti-intellectual. Romans, Ephesians, and Acts 17 should prevent us from imagining that careful thought and faithful preaching are enemies. But Paul understood that the preacher is not the power.

The Word is powerful. Christ is powerful. The Spirit is powerful. The gospel is “the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes” (Romans 1:16). The preacher is a servant, a witness, a herald, and, in Paul’s unforgettable image, a clay jar.

“We have this treasure in jars of clay,” Paul writes, “to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us” (2 Corinthians 4:7). That is humbling because it means we are not as impressive as we think we are. It is also freeing because it means we are not as necessary as we fear we are.

Young preacher, you do not have to be the power. In fact, you cannot be the power. Your calling is to faithfully carry the treasure.

Passion Without Preparation Is Often Just Performance

H.B. Charles has a line that has stuck with me: “The passion to preach without the discipline to prepare is just a desire to perform.”

That is one of those sentences that does not ask permission before stepping on your toes.

Preaching should involve passion. If a man can speak of Christ with no affection, no urgency, no weight, no joy, no ache, and no fire in his bones, something has gone wrong. Jeremiah described the Word as “a burning fire shut up in my bones” (Jeremiah 20:9). Paul said, “Woe to me if I do not preach the gospel!” (1 Corinthians 9:16). There is such a thing as a holy compulsion to preach.

But passion is not a substitute for preparation. The young preacher often wants the fire without the slow work of gathering wood.

Study is not unspiritual. Exegesis is not the enemy of dependence on the Spirit. Careful preparation does not quench the Spirit. Laziness does. Carelessness does. Using the phrase “the Lord laid this on my heart” to cover for the fact that you did not do the work does not make a sermon more spiritual.

Paul tells Timothy, “Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who has no need to be ashamed, rightly handling the word of truth” (2 Timothy 2:15). Rightly handling the Word takes work. It takes reading slowly. It takes asking better questions. It takes learning context, tracing arguments, noticing repeated words, paying attention to genre, observing Old Testament echoes, and being willing to abandon the point you loved because the passage does not actually teach it.

Much of preaching is formed in hidden hours. The congregation sees the sermon on Sunday, but the sermon is shaped in the quiet labor of the week. It is shaped when nobody is applauding, when the outline is not coming together, when the commentaries disagree, when the text resists easy answers, and when the preacher has to sit under the Word before he dares to stand behind a pulpit.

Young preacher, do not despise the hidden hours. They are not wasted. That is where God forms not only the sermon, but also the preacher.

Do Not Only Read the Bible for Other People

One of the sneakiest dangers in ministry is that you can spend your whole life reading the Bible and still slowly stop letting the Bible read you.

You read for sermons. You read for lessons. You read for counseling conversations. You read because someone in your church has a question about David’s census, Saul and the evil spirit, Revelation’s beasts, baptism, divorce, head coverings, predestination, or whether Ezekiel saw aliens. Hypothetically, of course.

Before long, Scripture can become a tool of your trade rather than the living Word of God addressed to your own soul. That is dangerous because the preacher can become professionally familiar with holy things while personally distant from the Holy One.

Before you are a preacher, you are a disciple. Before you are a shepherd, you are a sheep.

Psalm 23 is not first a leadership manual. It is a confession of dependence: “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want” (Psalm 23:1). Not, “The Lord is their shepherd, and I am his assistant manager.” The Lord is my shepherd. I need his guidance. I need his correction. I need his provision. I need him to restore my soul.

Jesus told Peter, “Feed my sheep” (John 21:17), but Peter could only shepherd faithfully as one who remained under the care of the Chief Shepherd (1 Peter 5:4). That order matters. Shepherd is your responsibility and vocation. Sheep is your identity.

Lose that, and ministry will deform you.

So read Scripture for your people, yes. Labor to feed them well. But do not only read the Word for other people. Read it to be corrected. Read it to be comforted. Read it to be humbled. Read it to be fed. Read it to be brought back when your own soul wanders.

A starving shepherd is eventually dangerous to the flock.

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If You Want to Preach, Be Ready to Submit

Preaching is public, but formation is often private. That creates one of ministry’s great dangers: the public gift can grow faster than the private character.

A person can become skilled in the pulpit while remaining immature in the soul. A preacher can learn how to move people with words before he has learned how to receive correction, confess sin, manage anger, love his family well, tell the truth, keep his promises, or submit to authority. That gap between giftedness and character is dangerous.

Young preachers need accountability. Not merely fans. Not merely followers. Not merely people who compliment sermons and say, “You really brought it today.” You need people who can ask hard questions and expect honest answers.

How is your soul? Are you praying? Are you loving your family? Are you telling the truth? Are you using people to build your ministry? Are you growing in patience, gentleness, humility, and self-control? Are you becoming more like Jesus, or only more skilled at talking about Jesus?

Hebrews tells believers to submit to leaders because “they are keeping watch over your souls” (Hebrews 13:17). That text is often applied to congregations, and rightly so, but preachers need soul-watchers too. We need people who can see us clearly. We need people who can tell us no. We need people who care more about our holiness than our platform.

If you cannot be corrected, you are not ready to lead. If you cannot submit, you are not ready to preach. If no one can tell you no, your ministry is already in trouble, even if it looks successful.

The preacher stands under the Word before he stands behind the pulpit.

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Ministry Is Not Just Preaching

This one may be hard for those of us who love preaching, but ministry is not just preaching.

Even if sometimes we wish it were.

There are hospital rooms, funerals, counseling conversations, leadership meetings, awkward phone calls, difficult emails, and conflicts that refuse to resolve themselves neatly in time for Sunday. There are people who need patience. There are widows to visit, young families to encourage, teenagers to notice, discouraged saints to strengthen, and stubborn sheep to love.

Paul tells Timothy to “preach the word,” but he also tells him to “be sober-minded, endure suffering, do the work of an evangelist, fulfill your ministry” (2 Timothy 4:5). Peter tells elders, “Shepherd the flock of God that is among you” (1 Peter 5:2). Not entertain the flock. Not impress the flock. Not use the flock as the backdrop for your gift. Shepherd the flock.

Preaching matters deeply. I am not trying to minimize it. The Word proclaimed forms the people of God. But preaching is part of pastoral ministry, not a replacement for it.

Some people will not remember your best sermon line. They will not remember your alliteration, your carefully crafted transition, or your brilliant explanation of the Greek verb. Tragic, I know. But they may remember that you showed up when their world fell apart. They may remember that you prayed with them in the hospital. They may remember that you noticed their kid. They may remember that you stayed.

That kind of ministry does not always make a good clip, but it looks a lot like Jesus.

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Find Your Voice Without Losing the Word

It is okay to have favorite preachers. It is okay to learn from people. It is okay to admire how someone handles a text, organizes a sermon, uses humor, presses application into the heart, or turns a phrase in a way that makes truth memorable.

We all learn by imitation before we learn by instinct. Early on, most preachers sound like some strange combination of every preacher they have ever admired. That is normal. A little cringey sometimes, but normal.

Eventually, though, you have to stop trying to sound like everyone else.

Not because originality is the goal. Faithfulness is the goal. But God did not call your favorite preacher to pastor your people. He called you. Your congregation does not need a discount version of someone famous. They need a preacher who has been shaped by the Word, filled with the Spirit, attentive to their actual lives, and willing to speak with a voice forged through prayer, study, weakness, repentance, and love.

Paul tells Timothy, “Practice these things, immerse yourself in them, so that all may see your progress” (1 Timothy 4:15). That is a gracious word because it assumes growth. You do not have to arrive fully formed. You are allowed to develop. Your preaching can mature. Your instincts can sharpen. Your voice can become clearer.

But that happens over time, not by copying the cadence, vocabulary, illustrations, or personality of someone else. Learn from faithful preachers, but do not hide behind them. Let the Word work deeply enough in you that, over time, your voice becomes less like an echo and more like a witness.

Chase Obedience Over Success

One of the great temptations in ministry is to let success become the scoreboard.

Numbers. Growth. Compliments. Invitations. Influence. Visible momentum. Full rooms. Increased giving. More followers. More opportunities.

None of those things are automatically bad. The book of Acts tells us that people were added to the church. The gospel spread. Churches were planted. People responded in large numbers. Growth can be a gift of God.

But success is a dangerous master because faithfulness does not always look successful in the moment. Sometimes obedience looks like Peter preaching at Pentecost and thousands being baptized. Sometimes obedience looks like Jeremiah preaching to people who refuse to listen. Sometimes obedience looks like Paul reasoning in synagogues and marketplaces. Sometimes it looks like Paul in prison, writing letters with chains around his wrists.

The preacher does not control the outcome. The preacher is called to faithfulness.

Paul writes, “This is how one should regard us, as servants of Christ and stewards of the mysteries of God. Moreover, it is required of stewards that they be found faithful” (1 Corinthians 4:1–2). Not famous. Not impressive. Not widely platformed. Faithful.

Young preacher, chase obedience over success. Preach the Word. Love the people. Tell the truth. Pray when no one sees. Study when no one applauds. Repent quickly. Stay humble. Do not confuse being heard with being faithful.

The goal is not for people to walk away saying, “What a preacher.” The goal is for people to be drawn toward Christ.

John the Baptist understood this when his influence began to decrease and people were going to Jesus instead. His response was not panic. It was worship: “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30).

That is not a branding strategy. That is the heart of ministry.

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The Treasure Was Never You

If I were sitting across from a young preacher, I think this is where I would want to land.

I hope you preach with passion. I hope you work hard at the craft. I hope you learn to communicate clearly. I hope you develop strong sermons, memorable lines, holy confidence, and deep joy in proclaiming Christ.

But more than that, I hope you become the kind of person who can be trusted with the Word of God and the people of God.

Do not let cleverness become king. Do not preach for applause. Do not use the Bible as a prop for your opinions. Do not mistake platform for power. Do not confuse passion with preparation. Do not read the Word only for other people. Do not run from accountability. Do not reduce ministry to preaching. Do not lose your voice trying to sound like someone else. Do not chase success when Jesus calls you to obedience.

And never forget this: you are not the Savior. You are not the power. You are not the point.

Christ is.

So preach him. Preach him crucified. Preach him risen. Preach him reigning. Preach him coming again. Preach him when the room is full and when the room feels painfully empty. Preach him when people applaud and when they avoid eye contact afterward. Preach him when you feel strong and when you feel like a clay jar with cracks showing.

Because the treasure was never you.

The treasure is Christ.

And somehow, in the mercy of God, he lets jars of clay carry it.

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It was a long walk, with swirling confusion filling their minds.

To say this day was perplexing, leaving more questions than answers, would be an understatement. First of all, the women’s report was strange… no body in the tomb? Peter and John had confirmed it. But this claim about two angels saying that Jesus had risen from the dead, how could anyone believe that?

And so they walked. What had happened at the tomb? And why had Jesus ended up there in the first place? They had started to believe that he truly was the Messiah they had been waiting for, the one generations of Israel had longed for. But the Messiah was supposed to sit on a throne in Jerusalem, not be killed by Roman crucifixion.

And so they walked. It was only a seven-mile journey from Jerusalem to Emmaus, and they hoped the distance would help clear their minds. But instead of clarity, they were met with even more confusion. So they walked and talked. Like two friends with the ambition to solve all the world’s problems and unravel the mysteries of the universe around a campfire, they tried to come up with theories and ideas to explain what was happening. But every explanation fell short. So they kept walking and talking.

A fellow traveler joined them on the road. His curiosity was evident when he asked what they were discussing. What else would they be talking about? They were talking about the only thing anyone was talking about in Jerusalem. Even visitors who had just arrived knew the buzz. But not this guy, apparently. After what might have been an eye roll and a snarky question, the two perplexed travelers caught this oblivious stranger up on the latest news from Jerusalem.

It was all about Jesus from Nazareth. He was clearly a prophet of God, speaking with an authority like no one before and performing miraculous signs and wonders for all to see. Of course, that stirred up very different reactions among people. Some, mostly the religious leaders in Jerusalem, saw him as a threat to their power, status, and control, labeling him a blasphemer aligned with Satan. But others, like these two disciples, had hoped that he was the one to come, the one who would bring redemption to Israel. After all, they had read the Holy Scriptures; they knew the promises. But from where they stood, those promises seemed unfulfilled since Jesus had been executed three days earlier.

They told the stranger about the strange story from the tomb, the women’s wild tale of angels and resurrection, and how other disciples had checked the tomb and found it empty, but no angels. What a mess. What confusion. What do we do now?

Thankfully the stranger stopped asking questions at this point. In fact he began to tell them that this is exactly what the prophets had predicted, that the suffering of the Christ had to happen. And like a great teacher of the Tanakh, the stranger began to show them what the scriptures actually say.

The story comes from Luke’s Gospel, but I would suggest to you that this was perhaps the moment that the apostles, and the church, began to read their scriptures with a brand new lens. A Christocentric Lens. Luke summarizes this unrecorded sermon by Jesus this way:

Luke 24:27 ESV “And beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, he interpreted to them in all the Scriptures the things concerning himself.”

I am more and more convinced that Jesus was teaching his disciples, starting right there on the road to Emmaus, that they needed to read their entire Old Testament with Him in mind. To look for Him on every page. But that’s not generally how we read our Old Testament today!

A Dusty Museum

Many of us approach the Old Testament like it’s a dusty museum exhibit. We browse through it to find some intriguing history, an ancient parable, or perhaps a connection to archaeology. When we read it this way, it becomes more like a place to pick up a few interesting facts, something to satisfy our curiosity before moving on. It’s intellectually stimulating, sure, but it doesn’t feel life-changing.

This ‘museum’ approach to the Old Testament misses the richness and depth that these scriptures hold. It keeps the stories locked behind a glass case, fascinating but untouchable and belonging only to another time and place.

But what if we saw it differently? What if we approached the Old Testament as a living story, one that points us to the One who has the power to transform our lives today? Rather than merely uncovering historical facts or ancient customs, we might discover a God who speaks to us through its pages, inviting us into a deeper understanding of His nature and purposes.

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A Personal Trainer

Some of us approach the Old Testament like it’s a personal trainer. We turn to it to work on strengthening certain areas of our lives or to achieve a goal we’ve set for ourselves. In this view, the Old Testament becomes a collection of moral tales, teaching us what we should do. It becomes our Christian book of fairy tales for teaching lessons. We look at Joseph and learn how to resist temptation. We read Absalom’s story and conclude that we shouldn’t be rebellious or vain. We study Nehemiah and take lessons on how to run a building project for our church. We examine Moses and learn not to lose our temper. It’s like hitting the gym with our personal trainer, the Old Testament, as we try to pump up our spiritual life.

But this approach misses the point and purpose of the Old Testament. Not only that, but it also feeds our sinful, self-centered tendencies. Suddenly, we’ve made the Old Testament all about us, when its true purpose is not to direct us inward but to direct us outward, toward something (someone!) greater than ourselves. Jesus didn’t show the disciples on the road to Emmaus how all the Scriptures talked about them; He showed them how all the Scriptures pointed to Him!

A Vast Desert

Others read the Old Testament with less allegorizing and moralizing, focusing better on Christ, but they still treat it as a vast desert with a few prophetic oases. For them, the Old Testament is mostly long stretches of seemingly irrelevant details and genealogies, with an occasional Messianic prophecy appearing along the way. It’s like a long and tedious journey with a few road signs pointing toward Jesus. For these “desert readers” of the Old Testament, its primary value is apologetic, proving that Jesus fulfilled the approximately 300 direct Messianic prophecies. But beyond that, it feels like a dry and difficult terrain they just want to get through to reach what they see as the “good stuff”, i.e., the New Testament.

This approach fails us as well. There is gold in the boring details! Consider the intricate details of the sacrificial system in Leviticus, often dismissed as irrelevant today. Yet, those rituals reveal deep truths about the seriousness of sin, the need for atonement and the One who can accomplish it. Or take the genealogies, which many skip over. They aren’t just lists of names; they trace the faithfulness of God through generations, showing how He kept His promises even when His people were unfaithful.

If we only see the Old Testament as a tool for proving prophecies, we miss the opportunity to hear its invitation into a deeper story, one where God’s love and holiness are woven through every chapter. What if instead of rushing through the Old Testament, we paused to listen to the echoes of God’s voice that ring through its pages, telling us about Himself?

A Hyperlinked Text

Perhaps a better way to view the Old Testament, and the Bible as a whole, is as a hyperlinked text.

Although I fall at the upper end of the millennial generation, I definitely have something in common with my peers: I don’t watch the news. Instead, I read my news, and my favorite source is a condensed, hyperlinked digest that lands in my inbox daily. This digest contains brief summaries, sometimes just a single line, about the day’s notable stories. But within those summaries and headlines are links. These links take me to longer articles and news pieces, which themselves contain more links to other sources and stories. It keeps connecting, on and on.

I think the Bible functions similarly in many ways. Throughout its pages, there are links and connections that draw on earlier stories, ideas, and imagery. Scholars and theologians might call this intertextuality, but I think of them as hyperlinks, thanks in no small part to Dr. Tim Mackie and the Bible Project. What Matthew does, and really what the entire New Testament does, is hyperlink back to the Hebrew Scriptures as it proclaims the good news about Jesus.

Just as a single hyperlink can lead to a cascade of connections, a simple phrase or image in the Bible often opens up a world of meaning that ties back to earlier stories. For example, when Matthew mentions ‘out of Egypt I called my son,’ it’s more than just a reference to the Exodus story. It connects Jesus’s life to Israel’s story, inviting us to see Jesus as the true Israel, embodying and fulfilling Israel’s history in a new way.

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Consider another example: the theme of the suffering servant in Isaiah 53, which the New Testament writers use to describe Jesus’s sacrifice. Or think about the story of Jonah, referenced by Jesus when he speaks of the ‘sign of Jonah’ to explain his own death and resurrection. These aren’t isolated references, they are hyperlinks that invite us to explore the fuller story that God has been telling all along.

This way of reading also requires us to be active participants. Just like clicking on a hyperlink takes effort, finding these connections means reading with curiosity and a willingness to dig deeper. It’s about letting the Old Testament illuminate the New, and the New Testament shine light back on the Old. As we read, we ask, ‘How does this story echo something earlier? What deeper layers of meaning are hidden here?’

We need to remember that it’s all connected, and it’s all centered on Jesus. I believe Jesus wanted us to remember that too, as he taught the disciples on the road to Emmaus to look for him on every page of their Scriptures. We could write at the top of every page from Genesis to Malachi this question:

“How is Jesus speaking about himself to the church on this page?”

The story of Jesus on the road to Emmaus is especially significant here. Jesus didn’t give the disciples a new set of Scriptures, he gave them a new way to read the Scriptures they already had. He showed them how to see Him in the stories, laws, and prophecies they had known since childhood. (cf. 2 Timothy 3:15) This transformed their understanding, and it can transform ours too, making the Bible a living, interconnected story about Jesus rather than a collection of disconnected texts.

When the two disciples rushed back to Jerusalem to tell the twelve what happened, I am pretty sure one in particular was listening closely… Matthew, the tax collector turned disciple of the rabbi Jesus who will end up writing the gospel that bears his name to this day. I am pretty sure because that’s exactly how he seems to read his Old Testament.

Matthew, the Master Hyperlinker

Matthew, also known as Levi, was a tax collector for the Roman government, collecting taxes from his own people. Matthew’s background as a tax collector meant he was likely familiar with Roman and Jewish systems of governance. His role would have required precision, record-keeping, and an ability to navigate both Roman demands and Jewish customs. This background may have uniquely equipped him for writing a gospel that connects Jewish prophecies with the life of Jesus, bridging two cultures and helping both Jewish and Gentile believers understand the Messiah’s role.

Some scholars suggest that tax collectors were likely among the minority of the population who were literate. The reference to scribes in Matthew 13:52 could be Matthew’s subtle way of identifying with this role, suggesting that he saw himself as a kind of Christian scribe. This might mean he saw his task not just as a recorder of events but as a teacher, helping early believers connect the dots between their ancient Scriptures and the life of Jesus.

I’ll leave the discussions, and even some of the controversies, about the dating of Matthew’s gospel to those more knowledgeable than me. But I do want to consider this question: Why do we place Matthew first in our New Testament? Placing Matthew’s gospel first isn’t just about historical order, it’s about theological framing. Matthew begins with a genealogy that connects Jesus directly to Abraham and David, emphasizing Jesus’s rightful place in the story of Israel. This sets the tone for how the rest of the New Testament will relate to the Hebrew Scriptures. It’s as if Matthew is saying, ‘Before we move forward, let’s remember where we came from and how God’s promises are being fulfilled.’

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In fact, ‘fulfilled’ is one of Matthew’s favorite words, usually preceding a quote from the Old Testament. Matthew includes 55 direct quotes from the Old Testament! Considering there are only 65 such quotes in the other three canonical gospels combined, we begin to see why Matthew has held onto spot one in our New Testament table of contents!

For Gentile Christians in the early church, Matthew’s gospel would have been a key tool for understanding how Jesus fit into the broader story of God’s dealings with Israel. It would have helped them see that faith in Jesus wasn’t a departure from God’s story with Israel but rather its fulfillment and expansion to all nations. This made the gospel of Matthew a kind of gateway for understanding the continuity between the Old and New Testaments.

It seems that Matthew had his eyes opened (perhaps starting with the Emmaus disciples) to see how the rabbi he had followed out of the tax booth and into the kingdom was constantly fulfilling prophecies, living out biblical patterns, and expanding scriptural motifs in profound ways.

Matthew’s perspective as a writer was likely shaped by his own transformation. From a tax collector working for the occupying Roman forces, he became a follower of a Jewish rabbi who called him into a new way of life. This personal journey might explain his keen interest in showing how Jesus fulfilled the ancient hopes of Israel while opening the door for a global community of believers. Perhaps Matthew saw his own story mirrored in the broader story he was telling, a story of redemption and new beginnings.

Let’s look at a case study of this Jesus-centered interpretive lens in Matthew 2.

A Case Study In Matthean Interpretation

Matthew 2:13-15 (ESV) “Now when they had departed, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, ‘Rise, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you, for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.’ And he rose and took the child and his mother by night and departed to Egypt and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet, ‘Out of Egypt I called my son.’”

A homicidal king murdering infant boys. An escape to Egypt to save a family. A return to the Promised Land in safety. At first glance, the story in Matthew 2 might seem new, but it’s really a recapitulation of the exile pattern that repeats throughout Scripture. If you’re familiar with the Old Testament, you might even expect an exile and exodus once again.

We see the first exile in Scripture when Adam and Eve are expelled from the garden after their sin fractures not only their relationship with YHWH and each other, but also brings devastation to creation as a whole. Yet, buried within that exile is the promise of an exodus, brought forth by the serpent-crushing seed of Eve (Genesis 3:15).

In the very next chapter, the murderous Cain is exiled from the presence of the Lord. Abraham and Sarah leave their homeland, and later journey to Egypt. Joseph, of course, is exiled to Egypt after the betrayal of his brothers. Seeking refuge from famine, Jacob’s entire family ends up in Egypt. Naomi and her family also experience exile, fleeing to Moab. David, God’s chosen replacement for Saul, finds himself in exile in the wilderness for a time. And, of course, we see Israel exiled to Assyria and Babylon.

It’s no surprise, then, to see this pattern of exile and exodus repeated in the life of the new Adam, the new Moses, the new David— Jesus, who embodies Israel in one person. In Matthew 2, Joseph, Mary, and Jesus escape to Egypt in exile. Egypt, both literally and figuratively, is a place of exile, but also where exodus happens.

This won’t be the last time we see Jesus, the God-man, experience a kind of exile. When the new and greater Moses is enthroned on the cross, he will quote the first David: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (cf. Psalm 22:1, Matthew 27:46).

Jesus speaks these words in Aramaic, but the original text of Psalm 22 is in Hebrew. In Hebrew, we find another key to understanding the verse. The verb translated “forsake” is azab (עזב), a word loaded with exile connotations.

For example:

1. In Deuteronomy, God says that if his people forsake (azab) him by worshiping false gods, his anger will be kindled, and he will forsake (azab) them, hiding his face from them (Deuteronomy 31:16-17). The only other place in the Old Testament where this exact Hebrew verb form (azabtani) is used is in Deuteronomy 28:20, where God says curses (including exile) will come upon Israel because “you have forsaken me.”

2. In Jeremiah, God says he has forsaken (azab) his house, abandoned his inheritance, and given his beloved into the hands of her enemies. Israel will go into exile in Babylon (Jeremiah 12:7).

3. In 2 Chronicles, when Israel forsakes (azab) the Torah, God sends the prophet Shemaiah to warn them: “You have forsaken (azab) me, so I also have forsaken (azab) you to Shishak [the king of Egypt]” (2 Chronicles 12:1, 5).

In other words, when Israelites heard azab, they heard the familiar story of exile. And when they read Matthew’s account of Jesus, they saw him living out their exile and exodus over and over again. First, as an infant escaping to Egypt, then returning to the land of promise. Later, in his final act of exile, Jesus would descend to the land of death, only to return in a resurrection exodus. His return from exile in the resurrection would mean resurrection for all.

There’s a rabbinical phrase that is helpful here: “The deeds of the fathers are a sign for the sons.” This means the patterns of the patriarchs often became a sign for what would happen to their descendants. Jewish teachers expected these patterns to be repeated. We see this in the life of the Messiah, even as an infant, when Jesus is taken to Egypt, the land of exile, to escape the bloodthirsty Herod.

Herod’s paranoia and murderous rampage reflect the broader tension between Israel and its Roman oppressors. The land promised to Israel had become a place of foreign domination and exile. In this context, Egypt symbolized both physical refuge and spiritual exile, an ironic twist, as the land of past enslavement becomes a sanctuary for the Savior. The political and cultural oppression that Jesus’ family experienced mirrored the oppression Israel had faced for centuries, setting the stage for Jesus to inaugurate a new kingdom that would overturn the powers of the world.

Matthew, the master of biblical patterns, concludes by pointing out that this all happened “to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet: ‘Out of Egypt I called my son’” (Matthew 2:15, ESV).

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This is a direct quote from Hosea 11:1. However, if you read Hosea without Matthew’s Gospel in mind, you’ll likely conclude, as almost every scholar does, that Hosea 11:1 is a reference to Israel’s exodus from Egypt in the book of Exodus. Pure and simple. There’s no hint of Messianic prophecy here. In fact, Hosea 10 describes Israel’s early glory, which has been overshadowed by their current wickedness and sin. This happened even though God had loved them and rescued them from Egypt as his children, as Hosea 11:1 says.

Yet, Matthew reads Hosea in light of the life of Jesus and sees a prophetic pattern of exile and exodus being recapitulated and fulfilled. It’s also worth noting that Hosea 11:8-11 concludes with a reminder that God will not fully give his people up and will one day bring them back from exile. Matthew sees this hope fulfilled in Jesus’ return from Egypt.

Many scholars, like the great commentator R.T. France, call Matthew’s use of Hosea 11:1 typology. France defines typology as “the recognition of a correspondence between New and Old Testament events, based on a conviction of the unchanging character of the principles of God’s working” (France, The Gospel According to Matthew, TNTC, 1985, p. 40). This Christ-centered lens doesn’t require the Old Testament author to have originally intended the text to point forward to Jesus. For Matthew, the parallel between Israel’s deliverance from Egypt and Jesus’ exile to Egypt was too striking to be coincidental. Thus, Matthew rereads Hosea in a way that points to Jesus, inviting us to do the same.

The journey to Emmaus is more than just an ancient story, it’s an invitation for all of us today. Just as Jesus opened the eyes of the disciples to see Him in the Scriptures, Matthew’s Gospel extends the same invitation to us: to read the Bible with a Christ-centered lens. The Old Testament is not merely a collection of ancient stories or moral lessons, but a living, interconnected text that points us to the One who fulfills every promise.

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Matthew, the master hyperlinker, doesn’t just recount events; he invites us to trace the patterns of exile and exodus, to see how Jesus embodies the story of Israel and fulfills God’s redemptive plan. His Gospel challenges us to dig deeper, to read with curiosity and wonder, and to uncover the ways in which Jesus is present in every part of the biblical narrative.

So, as you open the pages of Scripture, ask yourself: Where is Jesus in this story? How is He speaking to me through this text? In doing so, you may find that the Bible becomes more than a record of the past, it becomes the living Word that transforms the way we see God, His purposes, and our own journey of faith.

Matthew’s Gospel, like Jesus’ teaching on the road to Emmaus, is a call to see the Scriptures come alive in the light of Christ. And as we do, we may find that the story of exile, suffering, and resurrection is not just His story, it’s ours as well.

Ecclesiastes, which I recently finished, is not one of those books.

If we’re being honest, if Ecclesiastes showed up as a guest speaker at your church, you might not invite it back. It doesn’t offer neat answers. It doesn’t resolve tension. It doesn’t land the plane the way we’d like. It sounds, at times, a little too close to the thoughts people have at 2:00 a.m. when life isn’t cooperating.

And yet… there it is. Right in the middle of our Bibles.

Which should probably tell us something.

Maybe Ecclesiastes isn’t a problem to solve.
Maybe it’s a voice we’ve been too quick to silence.

The Bible Gives Us Permission to Not Have It All Figured Out

Ecclesiastes introduces us to Qoheleth, “the Teacher.” (Many think this is an aged Solomon.) And within a few lines, he says what most of us have felt but would hesitate to say out loud:

“Vapor of vapors…everything is vapor.”

Not “everything is meaningless” in the sense of empty or worthless. That translation has done some damage. The Hebrew word is hevel, i.e., breath, mist, smoke. Something real, but impossible to hold onto.

Life, Qoheleth says, is like trying to grab smoke. And he doesn’t rush to fix that.

This is where Ecclesiastes starts to feel weird in the best possible way. Because most of us have been trained, implicitly or explicitly, that faithful people should have clarity, confidence, and clean answers. We’re supposed to be the ones who can explain how everything fits together.

Ecclesiastes just… doesn’t do that.

It names the tension. It sits in it. It refuses to resolve it too quickly.

And Scripture doesn’t correct him. It preserves him.

Which means this: the Bible makes room for a voice that doesn’t have everything figured out.

Not rebellious. Not cynical for the sake of being edgy. But deeply, honestly disoriented.

That should be incredibly freeing.

Vapor, Not Void

If you read Ecclesiastes as saying life is pointless, you’ll either reject it or spiral. But if you read it as saying life is ungraspable, something shifts.

You can work hard, and it still might not turn out the way you hoped.
You can be wise, and still suffer.
You can build something meaningful, and watch it slip through your fingers.

That’s not because life has no meaning.

It’s because life refuses to be controlled.

“You can’t shepherd vapor.”

Qoheleth isn’t trying to make you despair. He’s trying to dismantle the illusion that you can manage your life into something stable and permanent on your own terms.

And if we’re honest, that illusion is doing a lot of heavy lifting in how we approach faith.

We don’t just want God, we want predictability.
We don’t just want wisdom, we want outcomes.
We don’t just want meaning, we want control.

Ecclesiastes gently, and sometimes not so gently, takes all of that apart.

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When Wisdom Doesn’t Work Like It’s Supposed To

One of the most disorienting things Ecclesiastes does is mess with our expectations about wisdom.

Proverbs tells us that wisdom leads to life, flourishing, stability. And that’s generally true. Ecclesiastes doesn’t deny that.

But then Qoheleth looks around and notices something uncomfortable:

The wise die…just like the fool.

So what do you do with that?

Ecclesiastes is what happens when Proverbs meets reality. It doesn’t throw wisdom away. It just refuses to turn it into a formula. Because the moment wisdom becomes a guarantee, it stops being wisdom and starts becoming control in disguise. And Qoheleth will not let you get away with that.

A God You Can’t Systematize

God is not absent from Ecclesiastes. He shows up repeatedly. But not in the way we might prefer.

“God has made everything appropriate in its time… yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.”

That’s not the kind of verse we put on a coffee mug. It affirms God’s sovereignty… and immediately limits our ability to understand it.

Ecclesiastes doesn’t deny that God is at work. It denies that you can map that work with precision. And that’s where this book starts to press on something deeper.

We don’t just struggle with mystery. We resist it.

We want a God we can explain.
A plan we can trace.
A life we can predict.

Ecclesiastes looks at all of that and says: you don’t get that. Not because God is absent, but because He’s God.

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Eat, Drink, Rejoice Anyway

And then, right in the middle of all this tension, Qoheleth says something surprising:

Eat your food.
Drink your wine.
Enjoy your work.

At first glance, it feels like a pivot. Like maybe he’s finally offering a solution. But it’s not a solution. It’s a posture.

Qoheleth isn’t saying, “Enjoy life because everything works out.”

He’s saying, “Enjoy life even though it doesn’t.”

That’s a very different kind of joy.

It’s not built on control.
It’s not dependent on outcomes.
It’s received, moment by moment, as a gift.

There’s something almost sacramental about it.

Daily bread.
Shared meals.
Ordinary work.

Not as guarantees of meaning, but as glimpses of grace in the middle of a world that doesn’t always make sense.

Joy, in Ecclesiastes, is not naïve optimism. It’s quiet defiance.

Fear God… But Not in a Tidy Way

At the end of the book, we finally get something that sounds familiar:

“Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the duty of all mankind.”

But after everything Qoheleth has said, that line lands differently. This isn’t a neat moral summary that ties everything together with a bow. It’s a grounded response to a world you can’t control.

Fear God… not because you’ve figured everything out, but because you haven’t.

Trust Him… not because life is predictable, but because it isn’t.

Obey Him… not because it guarantees outcomes, but because He’s still worthy.

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Let Ecclesiastes Be Weird

We don’t struggle with Ecclesiastes because it’s unclear. We struggle with it because it’s too honest.

It names the things we try to smooth over.
It exposes the assumptions we build our lives on.
It refuses to let us turn faith into a system we can manage.

And maybe that’s exactly why we need it.

Ecclesiastes won’t give you control.
It won’t give you certainty.
It won’t give you a formula.

But it will give you perspective. And if you let it, it might do something even better:

It might teach you how to trust God in a world that still feels like vapor.

So don’t rush past it.
Don’t try to fix it.

Let Ecclesiastes be weird.

You might find that it understands your life better than you expected.

People avoid it. People weaponize it. People build entire systems around it. People turn it into timelines, charts, coded predictions, political speculation, and Christian anxiety fuel. It is the book of beasts and horns and dragons and bowls and lampstands and cosmic warfare, and for a lot of Christians, it has become less a revelation and more a riddle. And that is part of the tragedy.

Because Revelation is weird. It really is. It is strange, symbolic, excessive, vivid, overwhelming, and at times disorienting. But its weirdness is not a problem to be solved. Its weirdness is part of how it tells the truth. And when we flatten that weirdness into modern literalism, or into newspaper-style speculation, or into one giant prediction chart, we do not make the book clearer. We make it smaller.

That matters because Revelation is not a side quest in the Bible. It is not an appendix for prophecy nerds. It is not a codebook for curious Christians with enough time and a whiteboard. It is holy Scripture. Which means it was given not merely to satisfy curiosity, but to shape faithfulness.

And in my experience, one of the most common ways people miss the point of Revelation is by refusing to let it be what it is.

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Revelation is not a newspaper from the future

One of the most common modern instincts is to approach Revelation as if it were basically a sanctified forecast. The real question becomes: what event is this predicting, what nation is that symbol, which modern leader fits this description, and how close are we to the end of the sequence?

That approach feels serious. It feels like taking the Bible literally. It feels like doing the hard interpretive work. But it often ends up doing something much less faithful:

It shrinks the book.

It turns a theological unveiling into a prediction chart. It turns symbolic visions into coded headlines. It turns a call to endurance, worship, discernment, and allegiance into a puzzle-solving exercise. And once that happens, the reader can spend enormous energy trying to figure out what happens when while almost entirely missing what the book is trying to do to them now.

That is a bad trade.

Because Revelation does not present itself as a newspaper from the future. It presents itself as an apocalypse. An unveiling. A pulling back of the curtain. It is not mainly handing you tomorrow’s headlines. It is showing you what is true about the world, what is true about power, what is true about worship, what is true about evil, and what is true about the victory of God.

That is a very different thing.

And once you realize that, the book starts to feel less like a code to crack and more like a set of Spirit-given images meant to retrain your imagination.

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The problem is not that Revelation is symbolic

A lot of Christians get nervous when you say that Revelation is symbolic, because somewhere along the line they learned to hear “symbolic” as “less real” or “less true.” But that is exactly backwards.

In Scripture, symbols are often not weaker than literal statements. They are stronger. They say more, not less. They communicate in ways that straightforward prose often cannot. They expose the character of things.

When Revelation portrays empire as a beast, it is not dodging clarity. It is saying something painfully direct. It is telling you that power can become monstrous. That kingdoms can become dehumanized and dehumanizing. That political systems can demand the kind of allegiance that belongs only to God. That what appears impressive, orderly, and invincible from one angle may actually be distorted, hungry, and beastly from another.

That is not vague. That is prophetic.

And it is part of why Revelation becomes so dangerous when it gets flattened into literalism. Because once you assume the beast must simply equal one specific end-times individual, you may never stop to ask the more uncomfortable question: where do I see beastly power at work now? And perhaps even worse, where have I learned to admire it or pursue it?

That is one of the great ironies of bad Revelation reading. People become so busy trying to identify the beast that they never notice how often they are tempted to cheer for him or ally with him.

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Revelation is a deeply biblical book

Another reason Revelation gets mishandled is because people try to read it as if it dropped out of the sky all by itself. It didn’t.

Revelation is one of the most Bible-saturated books in the Bible. Its images are not random acts of religious imagination. They are constantly drawing on Daniel, Ezekiel, Isaiah, Zechariah, Exodus, the Psalms, Genesis, and more. Revelation is weird, yes, but it is biblical weird. It lives inside the symbolic world of the rest of Scripture.

That means if you try to interpret Revelation without looking backward, you are almost guaranteed to flatten it.

The book does not usually stop and explain its imagery because it expects readers to recognize the world it is inhabiting. It assumes you have seen beasts before. Thrones before. Cosmic language before. Plagues before. Prophetic denunciations of arrogant cities before. Temple imagery before. Eden imagery before.

In other words, Revelation is not inventing a strange new universe. It is gathering up the imagery of Scripture and intensifying it.

This is one of the reasons I (and many others!) like to describe the Bible as a hyperlinked text. Revelation is one of the clearest examples of that. It is constantly sending you somewhere else. A phrase opens a door. An image points backward. A vision lights up earlier Scriptures. And if you insist on reading only the surface of the passage in front of you, you will miss the deeper world the text is inviting you into.

That is not a design flaw. That is the design.

If you flatten Revelation, you usually flatten Jesus too

This may be the most important thing I can say about this final book in our Bibles:

The biggest problem with a flattened reading of Revelation is not just that it mishandles symbols. It is that it often mishandles Jesus.

Because the central question in Revelation is not finally, “What is going to happen next?” The central question is, “Who is worthy?” Who is worthy of worship? Who is worthy of trust? Who is worthy of allegiance? What kind of king actually rules the world? And how does that king win?

Revelation answers that question in one of the strangest and most important moments in the whole Bible.

John hears that the Lion of the tribe of Judah has conquered. That sounds like the kind of victory we understand. Strength. Force. Triumph. The kind of king people naturally expect.

But when John turns to look, he does not see a lion. He sees a Lamb standing as though it had been slain. That is not a weird little detail for Bible trivia. That is the interpretive center of the book.

Jesus conquers as the Lamb.

Jesus reigns as the slain one. Jesus reveals divine victory through sacrificial faithfulness.

And that means Revelation is not simply interested in telling you that God wins in the end. It is interested in showing you what the victory of God looks like. It looks like the Lamb. It looks like the cross. It looks like a kind of power that does not become beastly in order to triumph over beasts.

That matters because many flattened readings of Revelation quietly trade the Lamb for a different kind of hero. They turn the book into a fantasy of domination, a Christianized version of power longing, or a coded promise that our side will finally crush their side in the most visible way possible.

But that is not what Revelation is doing.

Revelation does not let you admire brute force without asking whether it is beastly. It does not let you define victory without passing through the Lamb. It does not let you celebrate conquest while ignoring the shape of Christ.

And that is one reason some people misread it so badly. The actual Jesus of Revelation is not nearly as useful to our instincts as the one we sometimes try to build from the book.

Babylon is not just “out there”

The same thing happens with Babylon.

Bad readings of Revelation love to ask, “Who is Babylon?” Which nation? Which city? Which government? Which cultural enemy?

Now, to be fair, there are historical realities behind the imagery. John was not writing into a vacuum. Empire was real. Historic Babylon was an ancient enemy of Israel. Rome was real. The seductions and violences of imperial power were real.

But Revelation’s portrayal of Babylon is bigger than a single location pin on a map.

Babylon is a pattern. A way of organizing desire. A culture of luxury, self-exaltation, violence, and spiritual seduction. Babylon does not merely persecute. It also enchants. It offers comfort, wealth, status, safety, and the illusion that compromise is not really compromise.

Which means Babylon is not only a threat when it is frightening.

It is also a threat when it is attractive.

And that is where Revelation gets pastorally dangerous in the best way. Because once you stop reducing Babylon to “the bad guys over there,” you have to start asking where Babylon’s logic has discipled YOU. What you admire. What you excuse. What you fear losing. What kind of world you’ve learned to call normal.

That is much harder than identifying a villain.

It is also much closer to what Revelation is trying to do.

Revelation was given to form faithfulness in the present

This is the point I keep coming back to. That I want to communicate most clearly as Preacher.

Revelation was not given to satisfy your curiosity about the future. It was given to form your faithfulness in the present.

It was written to real churches facing real pressure. Churches tempted by fear, compromise, accommodation, false worship, and the seductions of power. Churches that needed not merely information, but vision. They needed to see reality from heaven’s perspective so they could endure on earth with faithfulness.

That is why the book is full of worship scenes. That is why it keeps lifting your eyes to the throne. That is why it shows you the Lamb. That is why it unmasks empire as beastly and Babylon as seductive. That is why it promises judgment, vindication, and new creation. It is not trying to make you clever. It is trying to make you faithful.

That is a very different goal.

If you read Revelation primarily as a curiosity machine, you can spend years in the book becoming more certain and less formed. More speculative and less holy. More obsessed with symbols and less attentive to worship, witness, endurance, and allegiance. In fact, I have seen this kind of obsessive speculation lead to a deadly kind of pride, one that turns interpretive certainty into a dividing line, to the point that Christians distance themselves from family members and fellow believers who simply don’t agree with their conclusions.

That is not because the book failed. It is because we used it badly.

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Let Revelation be weird

So yes, let Revelation be weird.

Let it be full of monsters and lamps and bowls and witnesses and dragons and cities and cosmic warfare. Let it be excessive. Let it be symbolic. Let it echo the prophets. Let it stretch your imagination. Let it refuse to fit inside a neat modern chart.

Because its weirdness is part of its power.

The beasts are weird because evil really is grotesque when you stop flattering it.

The Lamb is weird because divine victory really does look different than we expect.

Babylon is weird because seduction and violence really do belong together more often than we want to admit.

The New Jerusalem is weird because hope has to be bigger than our tired political fantasies and smaller ambitions.

Revelation is weird because reality is deeper than surface appearances, and because God loves His church enough to unveil that reality in images that can wake us up.

And maybe that is the most pastorally provocative thing I can say about the book:

A lot of Christians do not need to become less interested in Revelation. They need to become less confident in the flattened version of it they were handed.

They need to stop treating it like a chart.

They need to stop using it like a weapon.

They need to stop mining it for speculation while ignoring its call to worship, witness, endurance, holiness, and allegiance to the Lamb.

Because the goal of Revelation is not merely that you would know what beastly power is.

It is that you would refuse to bow to it.

The goal is not merely that you would identify Babylon.

It is that you would come out of her.

The goal is not merely that you would admire the Lamb.

It is that you would follow Him.

And if that is true, then maybe the first faithful step in reading Revelation is not trying to make it less strange.

Maybe it is letting it be strange enough to finally do its work.

I am doing a read through the Bible in a year plan in 2026. If you’ve ever tried to read through the Bible straight, you probably know THE moment.

Genesis pulls you in with story. Creation, fall, flood, Abraham, Jacob, Joseph. It moves. It feels alive. Exodus builds on that momentum with drama and conflict with Pharaoh, plagues, the Red Sea, Mount Sinai wrapped in fire and thunder.

And then you turn the page into Leviticus.

Suddenly the pace changes. The categories shift. The story seems to stop. Instead of narrative, you find yourself reading about sacrifices, priestly procedures, skin diseases, bodily discharges, dietary laws, holy days, and repeated instructions about what is clean, what is unclean, and what can or cannot come near the presence of God.

It feels like you’ve stepped into a completely different book.

And if you’re honest, this is often the moment where the enthusiasm fades. The reading slows. The skimming begins. Or the whole plan quietly falls apart.

It’s not that people say, “This is false.” It’s more subtle than that.

They say, “This must not matter as much.”

But what if Leviticus is not the problem? What if Leviticus is revealing a problem in how we’ve learned to read the Bible?

Leviticus Feels Strange Because It Cares About Things We Don’t

Part of the reason Leviticus feels so foreign is that it is deeply concerned with categories that modern readers tend to ignore.

It cares about blood. About bodies. About boundaries. About holiness. About contamination. About sacrifice. About sacred space.

Those are not categories most of us think about on a regular basis. We are much more accustomed to thinking in terms of moral decisions, personal spirituality, or practical application. We ask questions like: What should I do? What should I believe? How does this help my life?

Leviticus is asking a different set of questions.

It is concerned with the difference between life and death, between holy and common, between clean and unclean, between what can enter the presence of God and what must remain at a distance.

Those are not the same categories, and when we try to read Leviticus using only our categories, it will feel confusing, excessive, or even arbitrary. But that does not mean the text is arbitrary. It means we are encountering a world we do not yet understand.

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Leviticus Is Not Mainly About Being Religious

One of the most common assumptions about Leviticus is that it is a book about religion: more rules, more rituals, more ways to stay on God’s good side.

But that is not the central concern of the book. Leviticus is not primarily asking, “How do we become more religious?” It is asking something far more serious: How can a sinful, mortal people live in the presence of a holy God? That question sits underneath everything in the book.

Because by the time we arrive at Leviticus, something remarkable has already happened. God has not simply delivered Israel from Egypt and sent them on their way. He has chosen to dwell among them. The tabernacle has been constructed, and the glory of the Lord has filled it.

God is near.

That is good news.

But it also creates a tension that Leviticus is trying to address. God’s presence is not casual. It is not something that can be approached thoughtlessly or treated as ordinary. His presence is life-giving, but it is also holy in a way that is not easily contained within human categories.

Leviticus is not trying to burden Israel with unnecessary rules. It is trying to teach them how to live in a reality where God is present in their midst. That is a very different kind of project.

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Holiness Is Not a Casual Idea

Part of what makes Leviticus feel strange is that we tend to have a very flattened understanding of holiness.

For many of us, “holy” simply means morally good or spiritually serious. It is a category we use to describe people, habits, or attitudes that are especially devoted.

But in the biblical imagination, holiness is something deeper and more expansive than that. It has to do with God’s otherness, His purity, His life-giving presence, and His utter uniqueness. It is not just a moral category. It is a reality that shapes everything around it.

To say that God is holy is to say that He is not common, not casual, and not manageable.

Leviticus takes that seriously in a way that can feel uncomfortable to modern readers. It insists that God’s presence cannot simply be approached on our terms. It insists that worship matters, that boundaries matter, and that the difference between what is holy and what is common is not trivial.

If that feels excessive, it may be because we have become accustomed to thinking about God in ways that are far more casual than Scripture does.

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Clean and Unclean Are Not What We Think

One of the most important shifts a reader needs to make when approaching Leviticus is understanding that “clean” and “unclean” do not map neatly onto our categories of “good” and “bad.”

In our minds, to call something unclean sounds like a moral judgment. It sounds like condemnation. It sounds like a statement about guilt.

But in Leviticus, many things that make a person unclean are not sinful at all. They are ordinary aspects of human life: childbirth, menstruation, certain illnesses, contact with death. These are not moral failures. They are realities connected to the fragile boundary between life and death.

A better way to understand this is to say that “unclean” often means something like “not currently fit to enter holy space.” It is about proximity. About whether a person or object is in a state that can safely and appropriately come near the presence of God.

Once you begin to see that, the categories of Leviticus start to feel less like moral micromanagement and more like a symbolic system that is teaching Israel to take seriously the realities of life, death, and divine presence.

Leviticus Is Teaching a Way of Seeing

This is where Leviticus begins to make more sense, and also where it begins to challenge us. Because the book is not just giving instructions. It is shaping perception. It is teaching Israel how to see the world.

Through repeated rituals, practices, and categories, it is training them to recognize that life is sacred, that death is not neutral, that sin disrupts more than behavior, and that God’s presence is both a gift and a weighty reality.

In other words, Leviticus is not primarily about information. It is about formation. It is shaping a people who will live differently because they understand the world differently.

That kind of formation is not fast. It does not happen through a few clear statements or easily memorized principles. It happens through repetition, through embodied practice, and through immersion in a symbolic world that gradually reshapes how a person thinks and responds.

That is part of why Leviticus feels slow. Formation usually is.

The Sacrificial System Is Not Random

The sacrificial system is often the part of Leviticus that feels most foreign to modern readers. The repetition, the procedures, the emphasis on blood and offering can seem excessive or even unsettling. It is easy to dismiss it as a primitive attempt to deal with guilt or to appease a deity. But that reading is far too thin.

The sacrificial system is dealing with something real. It is addressing sin, brokenness, and the disruption of relationship between God and His people. It is providing a means of cleansing, restoration, and continued access to the presence of God.

It is also teaching, in a tangible way, that sin and death are not trivial realities. They have weight. They have cost. They affect not only individuals but the community and the space in which God dwells.

The sacrifices are not random acts of violence. They are part of a larger symbolic system that communicates something about the seriousness of sin and the grace of God in making a way for His people to remain in relationship with Him.

That does not make the system immediately comfortable to modern readers. But it does mean it deserves more than dismissal.

And Then Jesus Steps Into That World

As with all of the Hebrew Bible, the significance of Leviticus becomes clearer when we see the world it is creating and then watch what happens when Jesus enters that world.

The Gospels are not happening in a vacuum. They are unfolding in a context shaped by categories like holiness, cleanness, uncleanness, sacrifice, and sacred space. And within that context, Jesus does things that are both compassionate and theologically profound. He touches lepers. He allows a woman with a flow of blood to touch Him. He touches the dead. He moves toward what the system would mark as unclean.

And instead of becoming defiled, He brings cleansing.

This is not a minor detail. It is a reversal of expectation.

In the symbolic world of Leviticus, impurity spreads outward. It contaminates. It restricts access. It creates distance.

But in Jesus, something new is happening. Holiness moves outward. Life moves outward. Cleansing moves outward.

Jesus is not ignoring the categories of Leviticus. He is fulfilling them in a way that reveals their deepest meaning.

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Leviticus Begins to Glow

At this point, something important shifts.

Leviticus no longer looks like an irrelevant detour in the story of Scripture. It begins to look like preparation.

The categories it introduces, i.e., holiness, sacrifice, priesthood, cleansing, access, etc., become the very language the New Testament uses to describe what Jesus accomplishes. He is the true sacrifice. The true priest. The true meeting place between God and humanity.

That does not mean every law in Leviticus applies directly to Christians in the same way it did to Israel. But it does mean the book still matters. It gives depth to the gospel. It provides the framework within which the work of Christ can be more fully understood.

Without Leviticus, the cross still has meaning. With Leviticus, it has more layers.

So What Do You Do With Leviticus?

Practically speaking, this raises an important question.

What do you do when you are reading the Bible and you find yourself in Leviticus?

The answer is not to force immediate application out of every verse. And it is not to skip ahead to something more familiar.

It is to slow down and ask better questions.

What does this reveal about God’s holiness?
What does this teach about life and death?
What kind of world is this text assuming?
How might this be shaping the reader’s imagination?
How might this prepare the way for understanding Jesus?

Those are not quick questions. But they are the kinds of questions that move you from frustration to insight.

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Maybe Leviticus Isn’t the Problem

At the end of the day, Leviticus confronts us with a choice. We can treat it as a problem to solve or a section to endure. Or we can receive it as part of the Bible’s larger project of forming us into people who take God seriously.

People who recognize that holiness is not casual.

People who understand that life, death, sin, and grace are not light matters.

People who are prepared, when they encounter Jesus, to see not just a teacher or a helper, but the One who fulfills everything the Scriptures have been pointing toward.

Maybe Leviticus isn’t the problem.

Maybe it is one of the clearest places where the Bible refuses to shrink down to our expectations. And if we are willing to stay with it, even when it feels strange, we may find that it is not pushing us away.

It is inviting us into a deeper understanding of God than we were expecting.

And ultimately, Leviticus is preparing us for a King we would not have expected. Not a king who keeps His distance from impurity, but one who moves toward it. Not a king who preserves His own holiness by avoiding the unclean, but one who reveals His holiness by cleansing them. Not a king who demands sacrifice from a safe distance, but one who becomes the sacrifice Himself.

The world of Leviticus trains us to take holiness seriously. Jesus shows us what that holiness looks like when it puts on flesh. It looks like self-giving love. It looks like costly grace. It looks like a cross.

And if that is the kind of King the Scriptures have been pointing toward all along, then even Leviticus is not just teaching us how to understand the Bible. It is teaching us how to recognize Him… and, ultimately, how to become like Him.

Some passages in the Gospels feel immediately warm and inviting. They are the passages Christians quote in devotionals, print on coffee mugs, and post over soft backgrounds online. Matthew 5 is one of those passages. Jesus goes up on the mountain, opens his mouth, and begins with blessing: “Blessed are the poor in spirit… Blessed are the merciful… Blessed are the peacemakers…” (Matt. 5:3, 7, 9 ESV). It feels like the front porch of the kingdom.

Matthew 23 does not feel like the front porch of anything. It feels like the moment the screen door slams.

There, during Holy Week, Jesus turns toward the scribes and Pharisees and says, over and over again, “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!” (Matt. 23:13 ESV). It is one of the most confrontational chapters in the entire Gospel. Many Christians are comfortable with gentle Jesus in Matthew 5 and a little less comfortable with fiery Jesus in Matthew 23. But the more I sit with Matthew, the more convinced I am that these two chapters belong together.

In fact, I think Matthew 23 is not a random eruption of anger from Jesus. It is the moral and spiritual reverse image of Matthew 5.

The Beatitudes and the Woes are not unrelated. They are not merely “Jesus being nice” in one chapter and “Jesus being harsh” in another. They are two mountain-top manifestos set against each other. One describes the kind of life that belongs to the kingdom of heaven. The other exposes the kind of religion that can stand in the very presence of the kingdom and still resist it. One reveals the shape of true righteousness. The other reveals the shell of false righteousness.

And that contrast matters, because Matthew’s Gospel is deeply concerned with one central question:

What does real righteousness actually look like?

That is not just a first-century question. It is very much a 21st century church question. It is a preacher question. It is a ministry leader question. It is a “what kind of Christian am I becoming?” question.

Two ways of being religious

When Jesus gives the Beatitudes, he is not handing out a vague list of admirable traits. He is not saying, “Here are some generally pleasant personality types.” He is describing the kind of people God’s reign creates. The poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers—these are not disconnected virtues.

They are facets of a whole life reoriented around the kingdom of God.

By the time we arrive at Matthew 23, however, Jesus is confronting leaders whose lives embody the opposite spiritual trajectory. They are deeply religious, publicly moral, and scripturally literate. They know the law, teach the law, and carry the social authority of spiritual leadership. Yet Jesus sees in them something rotten beneath the polished exterior. He sees a form of religion that has become obsessed with appearance, control, prestige, and image management.

That is why Matthew 23 hits so hard. Jesus is not confronting paganism. He is confronting religion that has learned how to wear the clothes of righteousness without actually becoming righteous.

And that, of course, is much more dangerous.

Because open rebellion is usually easier to spot than spiritual performance.

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“Blessed are the poor in spirit” vs. spiritual self-importance

The first Beatitude sets the tone for all the rest: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 5:3 ESV). To be poor in spirit is not to have low self-esteem or a gloomy personality. It is to recognize that before God, you are not spiritually wealthy. You do not come with a résumé. You do not arrive carrying your own moral credentials. The poor in spirit know that they are needy before God, and that the kingdom begins not with self-congratulation but with surrender.

That is why the atmosphere of Matthew 23 feels so different. Jesus says of the scribes and Pharisees, “They do all their deeds to be seen by others” (Matt. 23:5 ESV). They love places of honor, public greetings, and titles that reinforce their importance (Matt. 23:6-7). Their spirituality has become entangled with visibility. They want to be regarded as weighty, authoritative, and impressive.

And that contrast should make us uneasy.

Because religious pride almost never introduces itself as pride. It usually shows up wearing nicer clothes than that. It often appears as seriousness, discernment, standards, theological rigor, or concern for truth. And to be clear, truth matters deeply. But truth in the hands of an unbroken ego can become a weapon rather than a light.

The kingdom of heaven belongs to those who know they need mercy. Hypocrisy begins when we start needing to be seen as impressive.

“Blessed are those who mourn” vs. religion without grief

Jesus next says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted” (Matt. 5:4 ESV). In context, this is more than generic sadness. It is the sorrow of people who see the world rightly. They mourn sin, exile, death, injustice, and the wreckage of human rebellion. They are not emotionally detached from the brokenness around them or within them.

Kingdom people do not merely identify what is wrong; they grieve it.

That is one of the reasons Matthew 23 is so devastating. The religious leaders Jesus confronts are not portrayed as grieved over their spiritual condition. They are precise, careful, and externally disciplined, but not broken. Jesus says, “For you tithe mint and dill and cumin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faithfulness” (Matt. 23:23 ESV). That is one of the most haunting lines in the chapter, because it means you can become incredibly meticulous about religion while still being profoundly misaligned with the heart of God.

You can become the kind of person who notices every doctrinal splinter in someone else’s eye while remaining emotionally untouched by the log in your own soul.

That kind of religion is alive and well. It loves denunciation more than repentance, correction more than contrition, and being right more than being remade. It is possible to become very skilled at identifying error while becoming increasingly unacquainted with godly sorrow.

The blessed mourn. The hypocrite manages appearances.

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“Blessed are the meek” vs. spiritual control

Meekness is one of the most misunderstood words in the Beatitudes. In modern ears, it can sound like timidity, passivity, or weakness. But biblically, meekness is strength under submission. It is the refusal to dominate, grasp, or force your way into power. It is not the absence of conviction; it is conviction that has been surrendered to God rather than weaponized for self-advancement.

That is why Matthew 23 exposes something so opposite to kingdom meekness. Jesus says of the scribes and Pharisees, “They tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on people’s shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to move them with their finger” (Matt. 23:4 ESV). That is not merely legalism. It is a form of spiritual control. It is the use of religion to weigh other people down while protecting yourself from the cost of what you demand.

And this remains one of the most dangerous temptations in church life. It is possible to use God-language, Bible verses, and moral seriousness to create a culture that is technically “serious about holiness” while being profoundly unlike Jesus. Holiness matters. Obedience matters. But when religious authority becomes a way of burdening people in order to preserve your own image or control, it has ceased to look like the kingdom.

Jesus is not anti-obedience. He is anti-oppression in religious dress.

The meek do not need to dominate in order to feel secure. They do not need to make everyone else carry the weight of their own insecurity. They are strong enough to be gentle because they know they are under the reign of God.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness” vs. curating the outside

One of the clearest connections between Matthew 5 and Matthew 23 appears in Jesus’ language about inward and outward righteousness. In the Beatitudes, Jesus says, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied” (Matt. 5:6 ESV). This is not a hunger for optics. It is not a hunger to be regarded as righteous. It is a deep ache for what is truly right before God.

That longing stands in direct contrast to the religious performance Jesus condemns later. “You clean the outside of the cup and the plate,” he says, “but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence” (Matt. 23:25 ESV). A few verses later he adds, “You are like whitewashed tombs, which outwardly appear beautiful, but within are full of dead people’s bones and all uncleanness” (Matt. 23:27 ESV).

That is vivid and intentionally disturbing. Jesus is exposing a religion that has become obsessed with presentation. The outside is polished. The branding is clean. The image is intact. But inside there is decay.

And if that sounds uncomfortably contemporary, it should.

We live in an age of curation. We know how to manage our appearance. We know how to project seriousness, depth, stability, and faithfulness. We know how to build a public spiritual persona. And churches are not immune to this. Neither are preachers. Neither are “Bible people.” It is entirely possible to become highly practiced at the aesthetics of righteousness while quietly starving the soul.

The Beatitudes call us to be whole. The Woes expose the horror of becoming curated instead.

“Blessed are the merciful” vs. precision without compassion

Jesus says, “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy” (Matt. 5:7 ESV). Mercy is not moral compromise. It is not indifference to sin. Mercy is what holiness looks like when it is animated by the heart of God. It is truth with tears in its eyes. It is justice without cruelty. It is moral clarity without self-exaltation.

That is why Jesus’ indictment in Matthew 23:23 lands so forcefully: the Pharisees have neglected “the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faithfulness” (ESV). Notice that Jesus does not accuse them of caring too much about obedience. He accuses them of caring about obedience in a way that has become detached from God’s own priorities.

This is where many church communities quietly go off the rails. They become communities of precision but not compassion. They know how to define, defend, and debate. But they do not know how to carry burdens, restore gently, or embody the mercy they themselves have received. They become sharp-edged without becoming holy-hearted.

“Blessed are the pure in heart” vs. performative holiness

If there is one Beatitude that may sit at the center of this whole contrast, it is this one: “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God” (Matt. 5:8 ESV). Purity of heart is not sinless perfection. It is not a state of flawless internal serenity. It is integrity. It is wholeness. It is a life in which the inner person and outer person are moving in the same direction.

That is exactly what hypocrisy destroys.

In Matthew 23, Jesus repeatedly calls the scribes and Pharisees “hypocrites.” The word originally carried theatrical overtones. A hypocrite was, in a sense, a stage-player, someone acting behind a mask. That does not mean the Pharisees were cartoon villains twirling mustaches in the temple courts. It means they had become skilled in the art of religious masking. They had learned how to appear spiritually healthy without actually being spiritually whole.

That danger remains one of the most subtle and deadly threats in the life of the church. Open rebellion is easier to confront than respectable duplicity. It is easier to notice a dramatic collapse than a carefully maintained spiritual façade. But Jesus is not fooled by liturgical fluency, theological vocabulary, or curated moral seriousness. He is after the heart.

The pure in heart are not those who never struggle. They are those who stop trying to build a life with God with concealment.

And that is one reason the Beatitudes are so dangerous, in the best way. They do not merely call us to act better. They call us to become the kind of people who no longer need to live behind the mask.

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“Blessed are the peacemakers” vs. standing in the doorway

Jesus says, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God” (Matt. 5:9 ESV). In Matthew’s Gospel, that cannot be reduced to “people who keep things calm.” Peacemaking is not conflict avoidance. It is participation in God’s reconciling work. It is the work of those who live under the reign of the One who will make peace not by crushing his enemies but by bearing evil and overcoming it through self-giving love.

That makes Jesus’ language in Matthew 23 even more sobering. “But woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you shut the kingdom of heaven in people’s faces” (Matt. 23:13 ESV). That is one of the most chilling statements in the chapter. These are not merely flawed teachers. They are functioning as obstacles. They are standing in the doorway of the kingdom and making entrance harder.

And that possibility should sober every Christian leader.

Because it is entirely possible to become so wrapped up in religious systems, tribal instincts, image maintenance, and secondary battles that we start making Jesus harder to see. We can pile our own anxieties, culture-war baggage, personal preferences, and performative seriousness on top of discipleship until people can barely see the kingdom through the clutter.

The Beatitudes show us what it looks like to help people move toward the reign of God. The Woes show us what it looks like to stand in the way while still claiming to represent him.

That is not just a Pharisee problem. That is a church problem whenever we are not careful.

“Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake” vs. honoring dead prophets and resisting living truth

The final Beatitude closes with a warning and a promise: “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 5:10 ESV). Jesus assumes that genuine righteousness will often be resisted. In a world out of joint, faithfulness will not always be applauded. Sometimes it will be costly.

That theme resurfaces powerfully in Matthew 23 when Jesus says, “Woe to you… for you build the tombs of the prophets and decorate the monuments of the righteous” (Matt. 23:29 ESV). The irony is devastating. These leaders honor the dead prophets while standing in continuity with the same spiritual posture that rejected them. They admire righteousness once it is safely in the past. They celebrate prophetic courage after it can no longer disrupt their present loyalties.

And that is still one of the easiest traps in the world to fall into.

We can love the prophets, reformers, martyrs, and saints of yesterday while quietly resisting the uncomfortable truth God is pressing on us today. We can quote Jeremiah, praise Bonhoeffer, admire the apostles, and post C. S. Lewis memes while still resisting the living call of Christ in the present.

The blessed are willing to suffer for truth. Hypocrisy often prefers to praise truth once it has been safely memorialized.

Two kinds of righteousness

If we step back from the details, the deeper connection between Matthew 5 and Matthew 23 becomes clear. These chapters are not merely about attitudes or leadership failures. They are about two fundamentally different kinds of righteousness.

This has been one of Matthew’s concerns all along. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says, “Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 5:20 ESV). That does not mean Jesus wants more rule-keeping than the Pharisees. It means he wants a different kind of righteousness altogether. He wants righteousness that is not merely external, visible, and performative, but inward, integrated, and rooted in the transforming reign of God.

By the time we reach Matthew 23, the mask is fully off. The scribes and Pharisees represent not merely “bad examples,” but a tragic parody of righteousness. They are religious, but not kingdom-shaped. Serious, but not surrendered. Scriptural, but not softened. Visible, but not whole.

The Beatitudes, then, are not soft little sayings for decorative Christianity. They are the death of the false self. They describe the kind of person who can actually receive the kingdom because they are no longer trying to secure themselves through image, control, or performance.

And the Woes are not Jesus having a bad day.

They are His mercy refusing to leave counterfeit righteousness unexposed.

A Holy Week warning for religious people

If we are going to read Matthew 23 faithfully, we need to resist the easiest mistake of all: using it as a chapter to diagnose “those people.”

That is already a Pharisee move.

The point is not simply to say, “Wow, those religious leaders were really awful.” The point is to ask where the seeds of the same disease still live in us. Where am I tempted to love image more than integrity? Where have I confused being admired with being faithful? Where do I want to be seen as right more than I want to become righteous? Where have I become more polished than pure? More heavy than holy? More impressive than humble?

That is the real sting of putting Matthew 5 and Matthew 23 side by side.

The Beatitudes are not just a beautiful Christian vision. They are also a diagnostic. They show us what kingdom life looks like. And the Woes show us what happens when religion hardens into performance.

So maybe Holy Week confronts us with a deeply uncomfortable but deeply necessary question:

Are we becoming the kind of people Jesus blesses in Matthew 5, or the kind of people he warns in Matthew 23?

Because one path leads into the kingdom.

And the other can wear church clothes all the way to ruin.

The truly dangerous thing about hypocrisy is that it can sing worship songs, carry a Bible, and still resist the kingdom. That is why Matthew 23 should not just make us think of “them.” It should make us tremble a little about ourselves. But the good news is that Jesus still does for sinners what religious performance never can. He still welcomes the lowly, the honest, the hungry, and the undone. He still tears down the false self so he can raise up something real. And that means the call of Holy Week is not to look impressive in the presence of Jesus. It is to tell the truth in the presence of Jesus, and be changed.

Palm Sunday is one of those church calendar moments that can get domesticated really quickly. We picture kids waving palm branches, a smiling Sunday School version of Jesus, a cheerful little parade into Jerusalem, and maybe one central takeaway: Jesus rode a donkey because He is humble.

That’s not wrong. It’s just not enough.

Because Palm Sunday is stranger, sharper, and more politically explosive than we usually let it be. Jesus is not simply entering Jerusalem in a sweet and symbolic way. He is staging a public, prophetic, royal sign-act. He is not merely saying, “Look how gentle I am.” He is saying something much bigger: I really am the King. And at the exact same time, He is also saying: I am not the kind of king you expect.

That, in many ways, is Palm Sunday in a sentence.

And honestly, it is still one of the hardest truths for us to accept. Because we do not just struggle to believe Jesus is King. We struggle to accept the kind of kingship He actually brings.

This Is Not Random Transportation

Matthew goes out of his way to make sure we understand that Jesus’ choice of ride is not accidental:

“This took place to fulfill what was spoken by the prophet…”
(Matthew 21:4)

That line matters. Matthew is not saying, “Wow, what a neat coincidence.” He is saying that Jesus is deliberately embodying Scripture. This is not Jesus wandering into Jerusalem thinking, “Anybody got a spare farm animal?” This is intentional.

Palm Sunday is not just travel logistics. It is a public royal sign-act. Jesus is acting out prophecy in front of everyone. That means the triumphal entry is not just about what the crowd thinks is happening. It is also about what Jesus knows He is doing. And what He is doing is loaded.

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The Donkey Is Not Just About Humility

Matthew quotes Zechariah 9:9:

“Behold, your king is coming to you,
humble, and mounted on a donkey…”

Most of us stop there. We hear, “See? Jesus is humble.” And yes, absolutely. But if that is all we see, we flatten the text.

Because Zechariah 9 is not just about a nice, gentle king. It is about the arrival of Zion’s true king: a ruler who brings peace, ends war, and establishes righteous rule. The very next verse says:

“I will cut off the chariot from Ephraim
and the war horse from Jerusalem…
he shall speak peace to the nations…”
(Zechariah 9:10)

That changes the picture.

The donkey is not just a symbol of humility in the abstract. It is also a contrast to war horses, battle imagery, and imperial forms of power. In other words, Jesus is not arriving as a warlord. But He is absolutely arriving as King.

That is important, because Palm Sunday is not anti-kingship. It is anti-worldly kingship. Jesus is not saying, “I’m not really royal.” He is saying, “I am royal, but I do not come the way empires come.”

And that is still a hard word for us. Because we still instinctively assume that power must look like force, visibility, control, domination, and winning. Jesus rides into Jerusalem and says, in effect, “You are going to have to rethink power if you are going to understand Me.”

The Donkey Wasn’t Necessarily “Un-Royal” Either

This is where the Bible nerd lane gets especially fun. Modern readers hear “donkey” and often assume it must mean “least kingly animal available.” But in the Old Testament, donkeys and mules could actually carry royal associations, especially in peaceful settings.

One of the clearest examples is 1 Kings 1, where Solomon is publicly installed as king. David commands:

“Have Solomon my son ride on my own mule…”
(1 Kings 1:33)

That is not humiliation. That is royal procession language.

So when Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey, He is not saying, “I’m not really a king.” He is saying, “I am the rightful King, but not the kind who rules by worldly violence.” That is a very different claim. Not less king. A different kind of king.

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“Hosanna” Does Not Mean “Yay Jesus”

This is another place where Palm Sunday gets flattened. When the crowd shouts, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” we often hear it like, “Woo! Go Jesus!”

But “Hosanna” is much more loaded than that. It comes from the language of Psalm 118, and it means something more like “Save us, please!” or “Lord, rescue us!”

So Palm Sunday is not just a celebration. It is a salvation cry.

The crowd is not wrong to recognize their need for deliverance, and Jesus as the one who brings deliverance. But they almost certainly misunderstand how that deliverance will come. They likely want political liberation, national restoration, visible victory, and a king who defeats enemies in familiar ways.

And Jesus says, in effect, “I really am here to save, but not in the way you think.”

That is still one of the hardest things about following Him. Because we also want Jesus to save us, but preferably according to our script. We want relief, vindication, comfort, protection, and—if we are being honest—maybe a little sanctified revenge. Palm Sunday pushes back on all of that. Yes, Jesus saves. But He will not be reduced to our preferred version of salvation.

Palm Sunday Is Already Haunted by Good Friday

One of the reasons I love pairing Palm Sunday with Isaiah 50 is because Palm Sunday can feel so triumphal that we forget: Jesus knows exactly where this road is headed.

Isaiah 50 gives us the voice of the obedient Servant:

“I gave my back to those who strike…”
(Isaiah 50:6)

And then:

“I have set my face like a flint…”
(Isaiah 50:7)

That is not passive resignation. That is determined obedience.

Jesus is not caught up in the hype of the crowd. He is not enjoying a nice little PR moment before things unexpectedly go sideways. He knows. He knows where this week leads. He knows the crowd will not hold. He knows praise will turn to mockery. He knows the road into Jerusalem is also the road toward the cross.

And He keeps going.

That means Palm Sunday is not just about kingship. It is about resolved obedience. The King who comes is also the Servant who suffers. If you miss that, you miss the emotional and theological weight of the day.

Palm Sunday is not just, “Yay, the King is here!” It is also, “The King is riding toward His death.” And He knows it.

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Philippians 2 Explains the Whole Thing

If Matthew 21 gives us the scene, Philippians 2 gives us the theology.

Paul says Jesus was “in the form of God,” yet did not treat equality with God as something to exploit. Instead, He “emptied himself,” took “the form of a servant,” and humbled Himself “to the point of death, even death on a cross.”

That is the shape of Jesus’ kingship.

Not grasping. Not posturing. Not domination. Not coercion. But self-giving obedience.

This is one of the reasons Michael Gorman’s work has been so helpful to me over the years. He repeatedly emphasizes the cruciform shape of the Christian life and the mission of Jesus. “Cruciform” simply means cross-shaped.

And Palm Sunday is already cruciform.

The donkey is not just a humility prop. It is an early sign that Jesus is not coming to rule by the logic of empire. He is coming to reign through self-giving love. And that is not a detour from kingship. That is what His kingship actually looks like.

Adam May Be Hiding in Philippians 2

Here is a fun extra nerd layer. A lot of scholars think Philippians 2 may intentionally echo Adam. The contrast works something like this:

Adam is made in God’s image, reaches upward, grasps at being “like God,” and falls through disobedience.

Jesus, by contrast, is truly in the form of God, yet does not grasp. He moves downward in obedience and remains faithful all the way to death.

That matters because Jesus is not just the humble King. He is also the faithful human, the One who succeeds where humanity failed. The One who shows us what true humanity actually looks like.

So Palm Sunday is not just about kingship. It is also about the kind of human life Jesus reveals: humble, obedient, surrendered, faithful, and completely aligned with the Father.

Which means Palm Sunday is not only revealing who Jesus is. It is also quietly revealing what discipleship is going to look like for everyone who follows Him.

And that is where things get uncomfortably practical.

Because most of us are fine with admiring Jesus. We are less thrilled when we realize His kingdom runs on surrender, enemy love, obedience, humility, and cross-bearing.

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Palm Sunday Is More Political Than We Usually Admit

Here is one more nerd lane worth mentioning: Palm Sunday is not just “spiritual.” It has a very real counter-imperial edge.

In the Roman world, imperial entries and victory processions were a thing. Victorious rulers entered cities with military power, visible dominance, public spectacle, and displays of conquest.

Now compare that with Jesus.

He enters not on a war horse, not with military force, not with imperial pageantry, but on a donkey.

That does not make Palm Sunday “less political.” If anything, it makes it more politically disruptive. Jesus is presenting a direct challenge to the way empires define peace, rule, power, and glory.

Palm Sunday quietly but unmistakably says: Caesar is not Lord. Jesus is.

But the kind of Lord He is will not fit neatly inside our instincts for domination and control. And if we are honest, that is still one of the hardest parts of discipleship. Because we do not just need Jesus to forgive our sins. We need Him to retrain our imagination about greatness, leadership, power, and victory.

Palm Sunday Still Asks the Same Question

Matthew says the city asks:

“Who is this?”
(Matthew 21:10)

That is not just a first-century question. It is still the question.

And Holy Week answers it slowly and powerfully.

He is the promised King, the suffering Servant, the obedient Son, the crucified Lord, and the exalted Christ.

Palm Sunday is the moment Jesus publicly reveals that He really is the King, just not the kind of king the world expects.

And thank God for that.

Because if Jesus were the kind of king we usually expect, He might have crushed His enemies. Instead, He came in humility, peace, obedience, and love. He came all the way to the cross.

And because He did, He is exactly the kind of King we desperately need.

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Final Thought

Maybe the most important Holy Week question is not:

“Will I wave a branch for Jesus?”

But:

Will I receive Him as He really is?

Don’t rush from palms to Easter.

Walk with the King.

Not because it’s confusing for the sake of confusion, but because its strangeness is often part of how it teaches us. The Bible does not always behave like a tidy devotional handbook. It tells the truth through story, symbol, repetition, poetry, and sometimes through things that feel… unsettling.

And if you want a case study for that idea, you don’t have to look much further than the book of Job.

Because Job is weird. Not just a little weird. Deeply, structurally, theologically weird. And if we’re honest, it’s not just confusing. It can be frustrating.

Job does not behave the way we want it to

A lot of us come to Job with a simple expectation. We assume it’s going to answer the question of suffering. Why do bad things happen to good people? That’s the question, right?

So we open the book, expecting clarity. And instead, we get something like this:

• A heavenly courtroom scene where “the accuser” shows up and talks with God

• A righteous man who loses everything in a cascade of disasters

• Long cycles of speeches where Job’s friends say things that sound spiritual… but are mostly wrong

• Job pushing back, lamenting, questioning, and refusing easy answers

• And then, at the end, God shows up… and does not actually answer the question the way we expected

If you’re reading it like a modern reader looking for a clean explanation, Job can feel like a letdown. It doesn’t give you a neat, satisfying answer. It gives you something stranger.

The weirdness starts immediately

The opening chapters of Job are some of the most unique in all of Scripture.

We are pulled behind the curtain into a heavenly scene. God is there. The accuser is there. There is a conversation about Job’s righteousness, his faithfulness, and whether it will hold under pressure. That alone should stop us in our tracks.

The book is telling us something right away: There is more going on in the world than you can see.

Suffering is not always explained at the level where we experience it. There is a cosmic dimension to reality that we are not privy to. That is not a neat answer. That is a disruption.

And then, before we can get comfortable, Job loses everything. Not because he sinned. Not because he failed. But in the context of a reality we cannot fully see or understand.

Already, the book is refusing to play by the rules we prefer.

Job’s friends sound right… until they don’t

Then come the speeches. If you’ve read Job recently, you know what I mean. Chapters and chapters of dialogue. Job’s friends show up, and at first, they do something beautiful. They sit with him in silence. Blessed silence.

And then they start talking. And once they start talking, something goes wrong. Because what they say often sounds right.

They say things like:

• God is just

• God punishes the wicked

• God rewards the righteous

• You must have done something

If you pulled some of their lines out of context, they might even sound like something you’d hear in a sermon.

That’s part of what makes this section so strange. The problem is not that everything they say is technically false. The problem is that it is misapplied, overconfident, and ultimately wrong about Job.

They are trying to make the world make sense. They are trying to protect a system. They are trying to defend God in a way that actually misrepresents Him.

And the book lets them talk. For a long time. Like obnoxiously long. Which, again, feels weird.

Why not just correct them immediately? Why let all this back-and-forth go on? Because the book is doing something deeper than giving quick answers. It is exposing a way of thinking. A way of thinking that is still very alive today.

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Job refuses easy answers

Job, for his part, refuses to accept their framework. He knows he has not done what they are accusing him of.

So he laments. He questions. He pushes back. He says things that make us uncomfortable. He wants an audience with God. He wants an explanation.

And here’s where it gets even more strange. The book does not shut Job down for asking hard questions. It lets him speak. It gives space to his grief, his confusion, his frustration.

That alone should reshape how we think about faith. Apparently, faithfulness is not the same thing as pretending everything makes sense.

And then God shows up…

After all the speeches, all the arguments, all the tension, God finally speaks.

This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. Surely now we will get the answer. Surely now everything will be explained.

And then God says… something very different.

Instead of explaining Job’s suffering, God asks questions.

• Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?

• Have you commanded the morning?

• Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades?

• Can you tame Leviathan?

In other words:

God does not give Job a step-by-step explanation. He gives Job a revelation of who He is. And that feels… unsatisfying, if we’re honest.

At least at first.

Because we want answers. God gives perspective.

We want explanation. God gives Himself.

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This is where we’re tempted to “fix” the book

At this point, a lot of readers (and especially us preachers) feel the urge to clean things up.

To say:
“Well, what God really means is…”

Or:
“The lesson is simply…”

Or:
“Here’s the takeaway…”

And while there are certainly things we can learn from Job, there’s a danger here. We can rush past the strangeness. We can force the book into a neat summary. We can turn a deeply complex, unsettling, beautiful piece of Scripture into a few tidy principles. And in doing so, we may lose what the book is actually doing.

Let Job be weird

What if the point of Job is not to give us a clean answer to suffering? What if the point is to challenge our assumption that we should have one? What if the point is to expose how quickly we reach for explanations that are too small?

What if the point is to show us that:

• The world is more complex than we think

• God is more mysterious than we are comfortable with

• Our systems for explaining suffering are often insufficient

• Faithfulness includes trust even when understanding is partial

In other words, what if Job is not failing to answer the question…but redefining the conversation?

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Jesus Doesn’t Answer the Question Either

What’s interesting is that Job is not the only place in Scripture where this question comes up. Jesus runs into it too.

In John 9, there’s a man born blind. And the disciples ask a very familiar question:

“Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

That question should sound familiar. It’s basically Job’s friends in a different setting. Someone is suffering. So there must be a clear explanation. Someone must be at fault. That’s how the system works.

But Jesus refuses the system. He answers:

“Neither this man nor his parents sinned… but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him.”

Now, that answer has its own layers and questions. We don’t want to rush past that either. But notice what Jesus does.

• He does not give a detailed explanation of suffering.

• He does not trace a neat cause-and-effect line.

• He does not satisfy the disciples’ curiosity in the way they expect.

Instead, he redirects their attention.

From:
“Who is to blame?”

To:
“What is God doing here?”

That’s a very different question.

And then, and this is crucial, Jesus doesn’t just talk. He acts. He heals the man.

Which means the “answer” is not just an explanation. It’s a revelation. It’s restoration. It’s the breaking in of God’s kingdom right in the middle of human suffering.

In Job, God answers with a revelation of His greatness.

In John 9, Jesus answers with a revelation of His kingdom.

Neither one gives the kind of neat, philosophical explanation we often want. But both pull us into something deeper.

Job shows us that our understanding is limited and God is greater than we imagined.

Jesus shows us that God is not distant from suffering, He steps into it and begins to undo it. That doesn’t remove all the tension. But it reframes it. The question shifts from:

“Can I explain this?”

To:

“Can I trust God here… and watch for what He might do?”

And maybe that’s part of what it means to let the Bible be weird: not demanding that every question be answered on our terms, but learning to follow the story as it leads us… all the way to Jesus.

The Bible is not afraid to leave things unresolved

This may be one of the hardest things for modern readers to accept. We want closure. We want resolution. We want everything tied up neatly.

Job does not do that.

• Yes, Job is restored.

• Yes, God rebukes the friends.

• Yes, there is a kind of resolution.

But the central “why” question is never answered in the way we expected.

And the Bible seems okay with that. That’s weird.

But maybe it’s also honest. Because if we’re paying attention, that’s often how life feels too.

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Why this is actually good news

At first glance, Job’s weirdness can feel frustrating. I know it has often been for me. But I think it’s actually one of the reasons the book is so powerful.

Because a simpler book would:

• give easy answers

• flatten suffering

• pretend everything can be explained

• offer comfort without depth

Job refuses to do that.

Instead, it:

• takes suffering seriously

• refuses shallow explanations

• allows space for lament

• points us to a God who is present, powerful, and beyond our full comprehension

That kind of book is harder to read. But it’s also more trustworthy. Because it sounds more like the world we actually live in.

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One final thought

If you’re reading the Bible and you come to Job and think:

“This is strange. This is unsettling. This doesn’t answer my questions the way I hoped.”

You’re not doing it wrong. You may actually be reading it well.

Job is one of those places where we have to resist the urge to make the Bible behave. We have to resist the urge to simplify too quickly. We have to let the tension sit. We have to let the questions breathe. We have to let God be God.

So maybe the invitation of Job is not:

“Here is the explanation you were looking for.”

Maybe the invitation is:

“Trust me, even here.”

And maybe that only works… if we let the Bible be weird.

Before you go, someone asked me the other day if “Let the Bible Be Weird” is turning into a series. I think it might be. Job alone gives us more than enough to keep going. I’ve even started outlining a short book around this idea. But I’d love to hear from you: what parts of the Bible have made you stop and think, “What do I even do with this?” There’s a good chance those are exactly the places we should go next.

A lot of us say we want to read the Bible more.

What we often mean, though, is that we want the Bible to act normal.

We want it to be clean, clear, immediately practical, and easy to explain. Give us a principle. Give us a takeaway. Give us a verse to underline, post online, or slap onto a coffee mug. Give us something comforting, inspiring, and preferably short enough to survive the internet.

Then we actually start reading.

And suddenly we are knee-deep in cherubim stitched into curtains, heavenly courtroom scenes, beasts from the sea, priests wearing pomegranates on their clothes, wheels full of eyes, symbolic numbers, talking accusers, and a Lamb who somehow rules the world precisely because he was slain.

In other words, the Bible refuses to act normal.

And I want to suggest that this is not bad news. It is very good news.

The Bible is not weird because it is broken. It is weird because it is ancient, inspired, and bigger than our modern categories. Its strangeness is not an embarrassment to hide or a speed bump to get past on the way to “the real point.” In many cases, the strange stuff is part of the point.

We do not need to rescue the Bible from its weirdness.

We want a manageable Bible

A lot of modern Christians, without meaning any harm by it, have been trained to approach Scripture like it is mainly a devotional handbook with occasional odd interruptions.

We want the Bible to give us:
a clear lesson,
a practical application,
a spiritual encouragement,
and maybe three easy steps before breakfast.

Now, I am a preacher. I believe in practical application. I spend a good part of my life trying to help people connect the text to real life. The Bible absolutely teaches, comforts, corrects, warns, and guides.

But many of us have quietly reduced “good Bible reading” to whatever gets quickly to the point.

What is the lesson?
What is the principle?
What do I do with this today?

Those are not bad questions. They are just not the only questions.

Because the Bible is not merely a container of useful ideas. It is a world we are invited to enter. It gives us history, law, poetry, parable, vision, apocalypse, genealogy, lament, prophecy, song, symbol, and story. It is not arranged around our modern demand for speed, clarity, and immediate relevance.

Frankly, the Bible does not seem especially interested in becoming easier to skim.

And maybe that is one reason people get frustrated.

I think some Christians quietly drift from serious Bible reading not because they stopped believing the Bible, but because they were told it would always feel simple, obvious, and instantly applicable. Then they actually read it.

And the Bible turned out to be gloriously, stubbornly, wonderfully strange.

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The strange parts are not the filler

Take Job. (Where I am currently wading through in my daily Bible reading.)

A lot of us know the broad outline: Job suffers, Job wrestles, Job endures. Fine. But the book does not begin with a neat little moral lesson about perseverance. It opens in a heavenly council scene. The accuser appears. God speaks. Cosmic realities stand behind earthly suffering. Right away, Job reminds us that the world is bigger and stranger than our tidy explanations allow.

Job is not mainly interested in giving us a clean answer key to suffering. It is more interested in blowing up our confidence that we understand suffering all that well.

Or take Exodus.

You are cruising along through drama, plagues, deliverance, Red Sea, manna, covenant… and then all of a sudden the book slows way down and starts talking, at length, (LOOOOONG, REPETITIVE LENGTH) about curtains, clasps, lampstands, priestly garments, wood, gold, loops, linen, and pomegranates.

If you’ve ever done a yearly Bible reading plan, you know the temptation here. This is the point where saints become skimmers.

You start reading with the energy of, “I’m sure this mattered to somebody.”

But maybe it should matter to us that God gives this much attention to sacred space, beauty, holiness, order, and presence. Maybe the detailed oddness is doing theology. Maybe the tabernacle is not random religious décor. Maybe Scripture is training us to see that worship is not casual, presence is not common, and holiness is not thin.

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The same thing happens in the prophets.

Isaiah sees the Lord high and lifted up while seraphim cry “Holy, holy, holy,” and the thresholds shake. Ezekiel sees wheels, fire, creatures, and glory in a scene that sounds less like a neat outline and more like someone trying to describe the indescribable. Daniel sees beasts rising from the sea, kingdoms rendered as monsters, and the Ancient of Days seated in judgment.

And then Revelation, of course, goes fully pedal-to-the-floor with dragons, beasts, lampstands, bowls, scrolls, horsemen, a harlot called Babylon, and a city coming down out of heaven.

At the center of that strange and blazing book is one of the most powerful images in all Scripture: John hears about the Lion of Judah, but when he turns, he sees a Lamb standing as though it had been slain.

That is not decorative weirdness.

That is theology by shock.

Jesus conquers, but not the way the nations conquer. Jesus reigns, but his victory looks like sacrifice. Jesus is revealed as King in the form of the slain Lamb.

That image does not make truth less true because it is symbolic.

It makes it more piercing.

Symbolic does not mean less true. Often it means truth too large for bare prose.

Our problem may not be the Bible

A lot of times, when people say the Bible is confusing, what they really mean is that the Bible is not speaking in the format they prefer.

We have been trained by modern life to expect language that is fast, flat, direct, and instantly explainable. We want bullet points, headlines, summaries, charts, and content that can be processed while half-looking at our phones.

The Bible often refuses.

Not because God is unclear, but because God is doing more than transferring information.

Scripture is not merely trying to stuff our heads with facts. It is trying to form a people.

And people are not formed only by explanation. We are formed by stories, songs, symbols, rituals, images, patterns, poetry, memory, repetition, and wonder.

Some passages inform us. Others rearrange our imagination.

That is one reason the weird parts matter. They slow us down. They make us pay attention. They humble us. They keep us from acting like we have mastered the text in one quick sitting with a study Bible and a caffeine buzz.

There is a heavenly dimension to earthly life. There are powers and principalities. There is a battle over worship. There is such a thing as glory. There is such a thing as a holy presence that cannot be treated casually. There is such a thing as evil so dehumanizing and distorted that beasts and dragons become fitting images for it.

And there is redemption so world-remaking that the only language big enough for it is new creation.

The Bible’s strangeness is not a flaw in the system. It is one of the ways Scripture tells the truth about a world that is far more charged with meaning than our flattened secular habits can recognize.

God did not only speak in bullet points

That line has been rattling around in my head lately as I’ve been working through daily reading, sermon prep, Bible studies, and all the other Bible-nerd rabbit trails I tend to wander into.

Some mornings you open your reading plan and get Job’s heavenly courtroom.

Some mornings you get tabernacle curtains and lampstands in Exodus.

Some mornings you get Paul body-slamming Corinthian arrogance in 1 Corinthians.

Some mornings you get a beast in Daniel or a Lamb in Revelation.

And if you come to the text asking only, “What is the quick takeaway?” you can miss the deeper gift.

Because sometimes the point of a passage is not merely to hand you a principle.

Sometimes the point is to expand your categories.

Sometimes the point is to disrupt your shallow certainties.

Sometimes the point is to make you stand there for a minute and say, “Well... that is bigger than I thought.”

Honestly, that has been one of the quiet joys of staying in a daily rhythm of reading. Not that every text instantly opens up and hands over its secrets. Not that every chapter becomes sermon material by breakfast. But that Scripture keeps refusing

to become small. It keeps surprising me. It keeps reminding me that the Bible is not a stack of inspirational captions with the occasional difficult page wedged in there to make us feel guilty.

It is a living, ancient, blazing witness to the living God.

And living things do not always sit still long enough for us to turn them into neat little systems.

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Weird does not mean meaningless

Now, I should say this clearly, because once you start praising biblical weirdness in a long form article like this one, somebody will think you are encouraging interpretive chaos.

I am not.

Weird is not the same thing as nonsense.
Mystery is not the same thing as confusion.
Symbolism is not the same thing as “it can mean whatever you want.”

In fact, the Bible’s strangeness should make us better readers, not lazier ones.

It should push us to ask:
What kind of literature is this?
What Old Testament echoes are happening here?
Why this image?
Why this pattern?
What would an ancient reader have recognized that I’m missing?

A poem can be clear without being simplistic.
A vision can be clear in force even when not every detail is easy to decode.
A symbol can communicate with frightening precision.

When Revelation portrays empire as beastly, it is not being vague. It is being devastatingly clear in the way apocalyptic literature tells the truth. When Paul says the word of the cross is foolishness to the world but the power of God to those being saved, he is not tossing out a nice churchy phrase. He is announcing that God has overturned the world’s categories of wisdom, power, glory, and victory.

The issue is not always that the Bible is unclear.

Sometimes the issue is that we have only been trained to recognize one kind of clarity.

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We need a bigger Bible

Maybe that is the real point.

We do not need a tamer Bible.
We do not need a less awkward Bible.
We do not need a Bible scrubbed clean for modern tastes, internet attention spans, and content-friendly religion.

We need a bigger Bible.

A Bible big enough to confront us.
A Bible big enough to humble us.
A Bible big enough to pull us out of our thin little visions of reality.
A Bible big enough to show us that the world is charged with glory, shadowed by rebellion, and moving toward the reign of the slain and risen Lamb.

I suspect this matters especially right now.

We are living in an age of quick takes, hot takes, recycled takes, and shallow certainty. Everything must be instantly digestible. Everything must fit in a caption. Everything must be smoothed out for speed, platform, branding, and frictionless consumption.

We are becoming people who can react quickly but struggle to contemplate deeply.

A strange Bible is a gift to people like us.

It teaches us to linger.
To wonder.
To wrestle.
To read again.
To admit that we do not instantly understand everything.
To resist the arrogance of assuming that whatever feels unfamiliar must therefore be unimportant.

A Bible that never unsettles you may be a Bible you have shrunk.

A Bible that never surprises you may be a Bible you have over-domesticated.

A Bible that always sounds like your preferred tribe, your favorite podcast, or your own first instincts may not be the Bible speaking in its own voice at all.

But the actual Bible still resists our attempts to shrink it.

It still startles.
It still confuses at times.
It still confronts our assumptions.
It still expands our imagination.
It still reminds us that God is bigger, holier, stranger, and more beautiful than our tidy categories can hold.

And that is mercy.

Because a Bible small enough to fit neatly inside all our modern assumptions would also be too small to reveal the living God.

So no, we do not need to rescue the Bible from its weirdness.

We need to let the Bible be weird enough to do its work on us.

The weirdness is not a bug.

It is often part of the design.

And honestly, that kind of Bible may be harder to skim.

But it is much better to live inside

.

If you’ve noticed that Deep Word Thoughts has been a little quieter lately, you’re not wrong.

I’ve still been reading, studying, writing, and thinking. In fact, I may be doing more of those things than usual. But lately the work has been scattered across several projects at once, and most of it hasn’t quite been in “publishable article” form yet.

So today I thought I’d just give you a little brain dump from the study. Consider this a quick look at what’s been filling my notebooks, Google Docs, and coffee-fueled early mornings lately.

A Workbook in Progress

One of the biggest things taking shape right now is a sermons series and its companion workbook project called Faith That Shows Up, which is a 15 week study based in the book of James.

The basic idea is simple: faith in the New Testament is never just an internal belief. It’s allegiance. It’s loyalty. It’s embodied trust that shows up in how we live.

James says faith without works is dead.

Paul says faith works through love.

Jesus says you know a tree by its fruit.

In other words, biblical faith is not a private opinion about God. It’s a life oriented toward King Jesus.

The series and workbook is meant to help people move from abstract belief to lived allegiance. It’s still messy, still being refined, but I’m excited about where it’s heading.

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John 3 and John 4

At church we’ve been walking through the Gospel of John, and I’ve been living inside chapters 3 and 4 for a while. Those two stories sit right next to each other for a reason.

Nicodemus:
• Male
• Religious elite
• Educated teacher of Israel
• Comes to Jesus at night

The Samaritan woman:
• Female
• Social outsider
• Religious background outsiders looked down on
• Meets Jesus at noon

Two different worlds.

But both need the same thing: new life from above.

John’s Gospel is constantly doing this kind of storytelling. It sets people side by side so we can see that the kingdom of God breaks through every boundary we tend to build.

Revelation Keeps Sneaking Back In

Even though my Revelation book and sermon series is finished, Revelation refuses to leave me alone.

The more time I spend with that book, the more convinced I am that it is not primarily about predicting the future. It’s about revealing reality. And its absolutely needed for this moment in the Church’s life.

It pulls back the curtain and shows us:

• What’s really happening when the church worships.

• What’s really happening when empires demand allegiance.

• What’s really happening when the Lamb wins by suffering love.

I’ve been sketching out more articles on that theme. Some will probably show up here eventually.

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A Conversation About the Church and the Marketplace

Recently I agreed to be interviewed by a student who is researching how cultural pressures shape the church.

One of his topics was the way American churches sometimes adopt business models as their primary framework.

That question has been sitting with me.

Efficiency isn’t bad. Organization isn’t bad.

But the church is not a corporation.

The church is a people called into the life of the crucified and risen King.

Whenever we forget that, things get weird pretty fast.

A New Song (Just a Teaser)

Some of you know I occasionally work on writing worship songs with DCC’s worship leader.

There’s a new one in progress that’s built around a simple idea:

The gospel is the announcement that Jesus is King.

Not just that Jesus saves me personally, but that the crucified and risen Jesus now rules the world. It’s still very much a work in progress, but I’m excited about the direction it’s taking.

More on that later.

Late Night Theology Conversations

A friend and I recently found ourselves deep in one of those classic conversations about the problem of pain.

Why does suffering exist?

Why doesn’t God intervene more often?

The conversation reminded me of something I’ve come to believe more strongly over time.

Christian faith doesn’t give us neat philosophical answers to suffering.

Instead, it gives us a crucified God.

The cross does not explain pain. But it tells us God has entered into it.

And the resurrection tells us pain will not have the final word.

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Nerding Out in 1 Timothy

Another ongoing project has been preparing materials for our men’s Bible study in 1 Timothy.

Paul’s instructions in that letter are fascinating when you slow down and examine them in their historical context.

• The household language.

• The role of elders.

• The surprising phrase “elect angels.”

• The way Paul describes visible godliness.

There’s a lot going on beneath the surface of those short paragraphs.

So that study has turned into one of those rabbit holes where every verse leads to three more books on the shelf.

Which is my natural habitat anyway.

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So Why the Silence?

All of this is to say that the writing hasn’t stopped. It’s just been happening in half-finished sermon notes, study guides, song drafts, and messy outlines.

But a lot of those ideas will eventually make their way here.

Because that’s really what Deep Word Thoughts is meant to be.

A place where we slow down.

Think deeply about Scripture.

Follow rabbit trails into theology.

And keep asking what it means to live faithfully under the reign of King Jesus.

More soon.

My notebook is getting full again. Tell me what is filling yours right now in a comment below!

- Billy

“Is this it???”

“Is the battle of Armageddon about to happen?”

“Maybe this war is part of advancing Christ’s agenda!”

Quick Bible nerd note from Revelation:

There isn’t actually a battle of Armageddon.

Seriously. I know that might mess up your end times chart, but it's true.

Revelation 16 says the nations gather at a place called Armageddon.But when the story reaches its climax in Revelation 19…Jesus shows up. And the fight is basically over immediately.

Also, small (but HUGE) detail:

Jesus’ robe is already dipped in blood before the battle starts.

Which would be a weird fashion choice if the blood belonged to his enemies.

But it makes perfect sense if it’s his own blood. Because Revelation keeps insisting on something we don’t always like to hear:

The Lion conquers as the Lamb who was slain.

And when Jesus defeats evil he doesn’t do it with tanks, missiles, or armies. He doesn't even swing a sword.

He defeats evil with a sword coming out of his mouth: a symbol for the power of his word.

Meanwhile the people of God win the same way they always have: “By the blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony.”

In other words:

Christians don’t win by starting wars. We win by faithful witness to the crucified King.

So if your end-times theology has you cheering for war because you think it speeds up Jesus’ plan… You may want to reread the book of Revelation.

Because the hero of that story isn’t a war machine.

He’s a Lamb.

And we will follow the Lamb wherever He goes. (Rev 14:4)