I was six months old when my parents walked into Angel Guardian Home, a Catholic orphanage in Brooklyn, New York, and brought me home as their daughter.

For the first six months of my life, I had been cared for by nuns. I have no memory of that day, of course, but in one moment, everything about my life changed. I had a mother and father. I had a home. I had a family.

Eventually, I had a new name.

And I had done absolutely nothing to earn any of it.

As long as I can remember, I knew I was adopted. Yet I never remember feeling as though I wasn’t truly my parents’ daughter. While some adoptees grow up wrestling with feelings of abandonment, my parents went out of their way to make me feel loved, wanted, and chosen.

That doesn’t mean ours was a perfect family. We had our share of struggles—what family doesn’t? But whatever imperfections existed in our home, I never questioned whether I belonged there. I was their daughter.

My parents not only celebrated my birthday, they celebrated my adoption day—showering me with gifts on both occasions. They would often read me a sweet little book about how special I was because I had been chosen. So in some sense, rather than growing up feeling unwanted, I felt extra special.

I had been chosen.

Years later, when I came to Christ and began to understand the biblical theology of adoption, I would often say with a smile, “I’ve been adopted twice.”

Suddenly, something I had experienced all my life gave me a beautiful picture of something God had done for me spiritually.

I knew what it meant to be welcomed into a family I had not been born into. I knew what it meant to be given a new home and to be loved as a daughter. And now Scripture was telling me that through Christ, God had done something infinitely greater.

Paul writes:

“He chose us in him before the foundation of the world... In love he predestined us for adoption to himself as sons through Jesus Christ.”
—Ephesians 1:4–5

God doesn’t merely forgive us and send us on our way. He brings us into His family.

Paul describes it this way:

“You have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, ‘Abba! Father!’”
—Romans 8:15

That truth has become increasingly precious to me. Earthly families, even loving ones, are imperfect. Some people come from families marked by dysfunction, rejection, abandonment, or pain. But for those who are in Christ, our deepest identity is no longer determined by the family we came from or even by what has happened to us.

We are children of God.

And perhaps because of my own story, I understand why that truth means so much.

The Name That Connected Me to My Past

Although I had always known I was adopted, I never felt a strong need to search for my biological family. During my college years, I registered with ALMA, an organization that helped match adoptees with biological parents.

Through ALMA, I learned there was a way to discover the name I had been given at birth. By matching a number on my adoptive birth certificate with records connected to original birth certificates, I could search through a large directory at the New York Public Library.

My husband, Stuart—then my boyfriend—and I went to the library and started searching.

It took several hours.

And then we found it.

Stella Cestaro.

There was something about knowing that name that gave me a small connection to a past I knew almost nothing about. Somewhere, there were people who shared my blood, my ancestry, perhaps even my features.

And at least one mystery had been solved. Stella Cestaro couldn’t have been more Italian.

There was another sweet coincidence. My adoptive paternal grandmother’s name was Stella.

But I never pursued the search any further than that.

Years came and went. Eventually my adoptive parents passed, and I gave little thought to searching again.

Then, in 2019, a conversation with a neighbor in Florida changed that.

She told me how easily she had been able to find her biological mother. She explained that because she had been adopted through the Catholic archdiocese, she had been able to receive information about her adoption.

Not only had I been adopted through the Catholic archdiocese, I knew the exact name and location of the orphanage.

So I got to work.

I called Angel Guardian Home in Brooklyn and gave them my birth name. It didn’t take them long to locate my file.

I could hardly believe it. Somewhere in Brooklyn, NY, someone was holding a file containing pieces of my story that had been missing my entire life.

After sending a notarized letter with the requested information, I waited.

Then COVID hit.

Like so many other things during that strange season, my search was put on hold. Once things settled down, I contacted them again to check on the status of my case. By then, I learned that New York had changed its law, allowing adoptees access to their original birth certificates.

I quickly applied.

About a month later, a very official-looking envelope arrived from New York.

Opening it was surreal.

There was my biological mother’s name and the age at which she had given birth to me.

Her name was Jean Cestaro.

As we continued piecing together my biological family, I discovered something that would mean even more to me.

Jean’s mother’s name was Stella.

That discovery touched me in a way I hadn’t expected. The nineteen-year-old mother I would never have the opportunity to meet had given me her own mother’s name.

Somehow, that small detail gave me a connection to my biological mother I had never had before.

She had chosen a name for me that meant something to her.

Finding Jean

Once I had my mother’s name and knew how old she was when she gave birth to me, I realized she had probably married at some point and changed her last name. My son started searching through online archives and eventually found her:

Jean Cestaro Colosi.

I immediately went to Facebook.

And there she was.

Jean had already passed away, but strangely enough, her Facebook page was still active. I sat there scrolling through everything I could find—photos, family members, pieces of her life. For the first time, I was looking at the woman who had given birth to me.

Eventually, I came across her work history and decided to call the last place she had worked.

And then I did something a little strange.

I asked to speak with Jean Colosi, even though I already knew she had passed away.

I was so nervous. The woman who answered put me on hold, and after a while another woman came on the phone.

I asked again, “May I speak with Jean Colosi?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Jean Colosi is deceased.”

Without even thinking, I blurted out, “How did she die?”

Admittedly, not the most normal question to ask a complete stranger about her deceased former coworker.

There was a pause.

“Who is this, and what is this in reference to?”

And that’s when my nerves completely took over.

I started trying to explain that Jean was my biological mother, that I had been adopted as a baby, and that I had only recently discovered who she was. I was stuttering and stumbling over my words. Nothing seemed to be coming out coherently.

The woman was understandably taken aback.

Then she said something I never expected.

“Well, I knew Jean, and I know the entire family very well.”

I couldn’t believe it.

And then she added, “You won the lottery with this family.”

Of all the people who could have answered that phone, I had somehow reached someone who knew not only my mother, but my entire biological family.

I asked her not to contact them. I wanted to be the one to reach out and explain who I was. She agreed.

About an hour later, my phone rang.

She had told them.

Apparently, after hearing my story, she felt they needed to know. And now they wanted to speak with me.

They knew nothing about me, I mean nothing.

Their mother had never told them that when she was nineteen years old, she had given birth to a daughter and placed her for adoption. Suddenly, a complete stranger was claiming to be their sister.

Understandably, they were leery at first. They did some digging of their own, trying to determine whether this unbelievable story could possibly be true.

It was.

That first conversation with my siblings was every bit as surreal as the first time I would eventually meet them.

For my entire life, neither side knew the other existed.

And suddenly, we did.

Meeting My Family

That first meeting will be etched into my memory forever.

My husband and I pulled up to my sister’s home. There, waiting for us, was an entire family I hadn’t known existed—three siblings, Michelle, Nick and Phil and their spouses, extended family, and eight nieces and nephews.

I walked in and immediately noticed something strange.

Everyone was staring at me.

Not glancing.

Staring.

After an uncomfortably long time, I finally asked why everyone was looking at me that way.

Their answer came almost in unison:

“You look so much like Mom!”

My heart melted.

There were tears and hugs. My siblings presented me with a beautiful photo book tracing my family line. As I turned the pages, I could see the resemblance to my mother and recognize features I shared with others in the family.

I had never met my biological mother, Jean Cestaro Colosi. Yet suddenly, surrounded by this big, wonderful Italian family, I felt as though in some small way I was meeting her through them.

And something else struck me.

These people were my family.

I hadn’t done anything to become related to them. I hadn’t earned my way into their family. Our relationship wasn’t dependent upon whether I performed well enough or whether they approved of me.

The connection was simply there.

I belonged.

And once again, God used my earthly story to help me understand a much greater spiritual reality.

Born Into Another Family

Just as I contributed nothing to my physical birth, Scripture tells us that our spiritual birth originates not with us, but with God.

John writes:

“But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.”
—John 1:12–13

Those final words are remarkable:

But of God.

And that changes the way we live.

We no longer have to spend our lives trying to earn God’s love or prove that we deserve a place in His family. We obey Him not so that He will love us, but because in Christ, He already does.

A child who knows she belongs doesn’t have to spend every day wondering whether she has done enough to remain a daughter.

She lives from belonging—not for it.

A Name, a Family, an Identity

Looking back, I can see three beautiful threads running through my story.

Stella Cestaro connected me to the family I came from.

Donna Giuca connected me to the family who chose me, raised me, and loved me as their own.

But in Christ, I received an identity deeper than either one:

Child of God.

At six months old, I did nothing to make myself someone’s daughter. My parents came for me, brought me home, gave me their name, and loved me as their own.

Decades later, I would discover that my earthly adoption had been quietly giving me a picture of an even greater reality.

In Christ, God brought me into His family—not because I had earned a place there, but because of His grace.

I have been adopted twice.

But three times in my life, I have discovered what it means to belong. And each time, it changed everything.

Early in our marriage, my husband went out with his buddies and promised he’d be home by a certain hour.

That hour came and went. Then another. I wasn’t only angry; I was worried. Eventually, even the phone calls assuring me he was on his way home stopped.

By the time he finally walked through the door of our condominium, I was furious.

So I did what no marriage counselor would ever recommend.

I gave him a thrust kick to the abdomen.

I knew those karate skills would come in handy.

He doubled over and ran to the bathroom and vomited—although, in my defense (and there really is no defense), the drinking probably had something to do with that.

Obviously, this is not a recommended approach to resolving marital conflict.

We were kids. This was before we came to Christ, before we understood how to communicate our expectations, manage our emotions, or work through conflict in a healthy way. And while we can laugh about that ridiculous night today, there’s something about it that isn’t funny: our marriage could have gone in a very different direction.

Conflict came naturally. Learning how to handle it remotely well—did not.

We share that story in our premarital class today, usually to a room full of very wide-eyed couples. Thankfully, we’ve learned a few things about conflict since then.

In fact, how to deal with conflict is the part of our class that seems to get everyone’s attention. It’s consistently our most interactive session—and the one couples appreciate the most.

Maybe that’s because conflict is something every couple understands and experiences. You don’t have to be married very long—or sometimes married at all—to discover that loving someone doesn’t mean you will always agree with them.

The question isn’t whether you will have conflict. The question is what you will do when it comes.

Be prepared before the fire starts

Most families have a plan for what to do if there’s a fire in the house. We don’t wait until the smoke alarm is going off to decide where the exits are.

Conflict is another kind of fire worth preparing for.

Knowing that conflict will come, talk about how you want to handle it before you’re in the middle of it. What will you do when emotions begin to escalate? Will you agree to take a break rather than say something you’ll regret? Will you commit to coming back to the conversation? Will you pray before continuing? What are the lines you agree you simply won’t cross?

Having a plan doesn’t mean you’ll follow it perfectly. It means you’ve already decided how you want to respond when emotions run high.

One of the healthiest perspectives we’ve learned is to stop viewing conflict as:

“You against me.”

And begin seeing it as:

“You and me against the problem.”

Your spouse is no longer the enemy. The problem is the problem. Instead of trying to win the argument or prove your point, you begin asking a much better question:

How can we work through this together?

When the same conflicts keep reappearing

For most married couples, it’s not the occasional disagreement that causes the most trouble. It’s the recurring conflicts—those issues that keep reappearing.

Maybe it’s money. Parenting. Intimacy. In-laws. Work. How much time you spend together. Or why someone still hasn’t learned that the laundry hamper is located approximately three feet from the floor where the clothes were dropped.

Some conflicts can be resolved. Others require us to keep learning how to navigate them.

God can use even recurring conflict to sanctify us by exposing selfishness, teaching us patience, and helping us learn to love another person more sacrificially. But recurring conflict can also become dangerous when frustration begins changing the way we see—and treat—one another.

And sometimes understanding why a conflict keeps reappearing requires looking beyond the issue itself.

How the Past Quietly Finds Its Way Into Our Marriage

We don’t enter marriage as blank slates.

In her book Loving with the Brain in Mind: Neurobiology and Couple Therapy, clinical psychologist, Mona DeKoven Fishbane, reveals how early experiences and family relationships can shape the patterns and reactions we carry into our adult relationships. In her later work, Healing Intergenerational Wounds, she explores how unresolved wounds from our family of origin can become reactivated in our present relationships and affect our spouses, children, and even future generations.

In other words, we don’t walk into marriage empty-handed. We bring a lifetime of experiences with us.

Our family of origin is its own unique culture, and from that well of experiences, imprints begin to form. We carry learned habits, expectations, communication styles, ways of expressing emotion, and ways of handling conflict into our marriages.

One family avoids conflict; another hashes everything out—to a fault. One is soft-spoken; another is loud and boisterous. One rarely discusses emotions; another discusses every feeling and opinion.

Then we marry someone whose definition of normal may be completely different from ours.

And sometimes our past shows up in ways we don’t expect.

Perhaps you grew up with a parent whose harsh tone usually meant criticism was coming. Years later, your spouse uses a similar tone during a disagreement, and you find yourself reacting with an intensity the present situation doesn’t seem to warrant.

Or perhaps silence meant punishment in your childhood home. Your spouse becomes quiet because they need time to think, but you experience their silence very differently.

For some, those reactions may be connected to deeper wounds or trauma from the past. That doesn’t excuse an unhealthy response, nor does it mean every strong reaction can be traced back to childhood. But when our reaction seems unusually intense, it may be worth asking:

For the Christian, awareness is only the beginning. We don’t simply recognize the patterns we inherited; we learn to examine them in light of Christ and the truth of His Word.

The goal isn’t to blame our families. It’s to understand what shaped us so we can carry forward what was healthy and change what was not.

Our histories influence us, but they do not have to define us or our marriages.

Paul tells us to “take every thought captive to obey Christ” (2 Corinthians 10:5). We don’t have to unquestioningly repeat what we learned. In Christ, we can learn new ways of thinking, communicating, forgiving, loving, and responding.

Listen to understand

James gives us remarkably practical advice:

“Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.”
—James 1:19

Many of us think we’re good listeners, even as we’re quietly preparing our rebuttal.

That’s not really listening.

Managing conflict is more than talking. It’s being understood.

One of the simplest tools we’ve found helpful is reflective listening. Before responding, tell your spouse what you believe you heard:

“What I hear you saying is…”

“It sounds like you felt…”

“Am I understanding you correctly?”

What might seem silly or unnecessary actually slows the conversation down and helps us hear the heart behind the other person’s words instead of merely waiting for our turn to speak. Often, what we hear when we really listen is something deeper than the words being spoken.

Proverbs tells us, “Let the wise hear and increase in learning” (Proverbs 1:5).

Conflict may actually give us an opportunity to understand not only what our spouse is feeling, but why.

Humility changes the conversation

Listening to understand requires humility.

You may enter an argument absolutely convinced that you are 100 percent right.

I’ve been there.

But Jesus’ warning about noticing the speck in someone else’s eye while overlooking the plank in our own should make us slower to assume the problem is entirely on the other side of the room (Matthew 7:3–5).

Paul writes:

“Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves.”
—Philippians 2:3

Humility says:

I value our relationship more than I value being right.

That doesn’t mean truth doesn’t matter or that we overlook serious problems. It means I’m willing to ask the Lord to show me my part before becoming consumed with proving yours.

Humility levels the playing field because two sinners are standing on it. It reminds us that the goal of conflict isn’t to win, but to understand and move forward together. Sometimes that means deciding the relationship matters more than being right.

Four warning signs that drive couples apart

Marriage researcher John Gottman identified four destructive communication patterns he famously called “The Four Horsemen”: criticism, contempt, defensiveness, and stonewalling.

If we’re honest, most of us will recognize ourselves somewhere in the list.

Criticism

Criticism attacks the person rather than addressing the problem.

Instead of, “I felt overwhelmed tonight and could really use more help,” it becomes, “You never help me around here.”

Scripture understood the power of our approach long before modern marriage research:

“A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.”
—Proverbs 15:1

How we begin a difficult conversation matters. Describe what happened, how you feel, and what you need rather than accusing or assigning motives.

Contempt

Contempt communicates disrespect or superiority through sarcasm, ridicule, eye-rolling, mockery, or belittling.

Paul writes:

“Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up…”
—Ephesians 4:29

Even in conflict, our words should build up the person standing across from us—not tear them down.

The antidote to contempt is kindness and respect—acknowledging the good, expressing appreciation and gratitude, and remembering that small things done often matter.

Defensiveness

Defensiveness explains, justifies, deflects, or immediately points out what the other person did wrong.

“Yes, but you…”

Most of us know that sentence.

The alternative requires humility: listen, empathize, and accept responsibility for whatever part belongs to you.

Sometimes a simple “You’re right about that” or “I can see how I contributed to this” can completely change the direction of an argument.

An apology doesn’t mean you were responsible for everything. It means you’re willing to take responsibility for what was yours.

Stonewalling

Stonewalling happens when one spouse shuts down, withdraws, or refuses to engage. Sometimes it’s a defense mechanism. When emotions become overwhelming, withdrawing may feel safer—especially if that’s how conflict was handled in your family growing up.

But taking a break is different from stonewalling.

Paul writes:

“Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger.”
—Ephesians 4:26

Scripture acknowledges that anger happens. The question is what we do with it.

Sometimes emotions become so intense that continuing the conversation isn’t productive.

“I’m too upset to talk about this well right now. Can we take a break and come back to it?”

That’s different from shutting someone out.

The difference is the commitment to come back.

A pause gives us time to settle, pray, and return to the conversation prepared to listen rather than react.

Peacemaking, not peacekeeping

Scripture doesn’t tell us simply to avoid conflict. It tells us to “seek peace and pursue it” (Psalm 34:14). Jesus calls us peacemakers (Matthew 5:9).

Peacekeeping tries to maintain harmony by avoiding difficult conversations. Peacemaking is willing to enter the conflict—with humility, honesty, grace, and love—in order to pursue genuine reconciliation.

That means apologizing when necessary, accepting responsibility, extending grace, and returning to difficult conversations rather than avoiding them.

Because the goal isn’t to win.

The goal is to understand each other, address the problem, and protect the relationship while we do it.

Your marriage is not on the table

Perhaps one of the greatest gifts we can give each other in conflict is the security of knowing:

We can talk about anything because our relationship is never on the table.

We may disagree.

We may become frustrated.

We may discover that something from our past is showing up in our present.

We may need to pause, pray, apologize, forgive, compromise, or come back tomorrow and try again.

But underneath the disagreement is a commitment that says:

I’m still here.

We’re still us.

And we’re going to work through this together.

Our histories may influence the way we enter conflict, but they don’t have to determine how we leave it.

And for Christian couples, there is something even more foundational than learning how to communicate well.

Keep Christ at the center of your marriage

Ecclesiastes reminds us, “A threefold cord is not quickly broken” (Ecclesiastes 4:12). Marriage will have seasons when our emotions run ragged and even our best efforts to handle conflict well fall short. We need something stronger than ourselves holding us together.

Good communication matters. Learning how to manage conflict matters.

But Christ is the foundation that keeps conflict from becoming the thing that defines—or destroys—our marriage.

As for my husband and me, karate moves are no longer on the table—and neither is our marriage.

Try to imagine Job sitting there.

The life he once knew is gone. His children are dead. His wealth has disappeared. His body is covered with painful sores. Even his friends who came to comfort him, ended up accusing him.

And now Job wants answers.

He wants to bring his case before God. He wants to ask why. He wants the opportunity to stand before the Judge of all the earth and plead his case.

But then Job seems to realize the impossibility of what he is asking.

How could a man possibly bring his case before the Almighty?

God created the heavens. Job sits in the dust.

God commands the sun. Job cannot command his next breath.

There is no courtroom large enough, no judge above God to whom Job can appeal, and no way for Job to simply stand before Him and argue his case.

And then Job says something remarkable:

“For he is not a man, as I am, that I might answer him, that we should come to trial together. There is no arbiter between us, who might lay his hand on us both.”
—Job 9:32–33

Job recognizes the problem.

He needs someone who can stand between them.

Someone who can reach toward God and reach toward man.

The Hebrew word translated “arbiter” is môkîaḥ, from a word meaning to judge, decide, or settle a dispute. Job isn’t simply longing for someone to speak for him—he longs for someone qualified to stand between two parties and bridge the seemingly impossible gap between them.

Later, Elihu describes a mediator pleading for a person to be spared from the pit, followed by the words, “I have found a ransom” (Job 33:23–24)..

Job could not have known where that longing would ultimately lead.

But we do.

This side of the cross, it’s hard not to see where Job’s longing ultimately points.

We need a mediator too.

And Christ is the only One who can fulfill that role. At the cross, He bridged the gulf we could never cross ourselves. When Jesus breathed His last breath, the temple curtain was torn in two, from top to bottom (Mark 15:37–38), opening the way into the presence of God. The ransom had been paid. And because He rose from the dead, He is not merely a mediator from long ago.

He is our forever Mediator, still interceding on our behalf.

“For there is one God, and there is one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus, who gave himself as a ransom for all.”
—1 Timothy 2:5–6

Thousands of years before the cross, Job cried out for someone to stand between God and man.

The gospel answers Job’s cry with a name: Jesus.

Rediscovering the beauty behind two of the most misunderstood words in marriage.

Every premarital class we teach has those moments when a passage makes everyone sit up a little straighter. For us, Ephesians 5 is one of them.

Perhaps no other passage we teach is more misunderstood—or creates more discomfort.

“Wives, submit to your own husbands…”

“For the husband is the head of the wife…”

Words like submission and headship can immediately make us uncomfortable. I know they did for me. As a former feminist, I struggled with this passage for years. To me, those words sounded like inequality, control, and one person having more value than the other.

But when we slow down and read the entire passage, we discover something very different—and far more beautiful.

Paul doesn’t begin with husbands or wives. He begins with all believers:

“Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ.”
—Ephesians 5:21

Before Paul ever addresses the distinct roles of husbands and wives, he calls Christians to an attitude of humility toward one another.

Then he turns to wives:

“Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord.”

What Does It Mean For Wives to Submit to Their Husbands?

First, we need to understand what it doesn’t mean.

Submission is not inferiority. It is not silence. It is not blind obedience. And it does not mean allowing any sort of abuse, manipulation, or control.

Men and women are equally created in the image of God, equally loved by God, equally redeemed by Christ, and equally valuable in His sight.

A wife is her husband’s corresponding counterpart—his ezer kenegdo from Genesis 2. Her husband should value and rely upon her wisdom, counsel, gifting, and areas of expertise. The Greek word translated submit is hypotassō, which carries the idea of placing or arranging oneself under an ordered relationship.

And perhaps one of the clearest ways to understand that submission does not mean inferiority is found in another passage from Paul:

“I want you to understand that the head of every man is Christ, the head of a wife is her husband, and the head of Christ is God.”
—1 Corinthians 11:3

Notice that Paul includes Christ Himself in this pattern.

Jesus willingly submitted to the will of His Father, yet He was not inferior in any way. Jesus declares, “I and the Father are one” (John 10:30). He is fully divine and equal in nature with the Father. In other words, submission does not mean inferiority.That distinction matters.

Submission does not determine worth. It describes a God-given pattern of relationship.

And there is a beautiful parallel here. Just as the Father and Son are one, Scripture tells us that in marriage a husband and wife become “one flesh.” They remain distinct, yet they are united. Neither is less valuable or less important than the other.

That helps us understand why Paul can speak of submission without implying inequality or inferiority.

But to fully understand submission in marriage, we also have to understand what Paul asks of husbands.

What Does It Mean for Husbands to be The Head of the Wife?

“For the husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church…”

The Greek word translated “head” is kephalē. It literally means head, but the question is what does Paul mean by this metaphor?

When we hear head, we may immediately think of the one who calls all the shots—the head honcho or the big boss. But nothing in the passage says that a husband’s headship means his wife is required to obey his directives.

In fact, Paul had a Greek word for obey—hypakouō—and he uses it immediately afterward when he tells children to obey their parents (6:1) and servants to obey their masters (6:5). But he does not use that word for wives. He tells wives to submit (hypotassō).

So when Paul says wives are to submit “in everything,” we shouldn’t read obey into submit and conclude that a wife is required to obey everything her husband directs her to do. And if Paul wanted to emphasize a husband’s authority to direct his wife, he had every opportunity to do so. Instead, he spends the next nine verses talking about love.

Paul tells husbands:

“Love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.”
—Ephesians 5:25

So how does Christ exercise His headship? (Colossians 1:18; 2:19; Ephesians 4:15–16; 5:23–29)

He loves.
He nourishes.
He protects.
He provides.
He equips.
He builds up.
And ultimately, He gives Himself up for His bride.

That’s the pattern for biblical headship—a husband expressing covenant love toward his bride.

And this command would have been astonishing in the first century. In a culture where women had far fewer rights and protections than women do today, Paul commanded Christian husbands to do something stunning: love their wives with the same sacrificial love Christ has for His Church.

That was radical.

And it still is.

A husband is called to reflect the same kind of love Christ demonstrated—to willingly sacrifice himself for his wife’s good. His desire is her flourishing. He encourages her growth, nourishes her spiritually, leads through prayer and God’s Word, and serves and protects his family.

Once we understand the sacrificial love and devotion of biblical headship, submission begins to look very different.

What wife wouldn’t want to willingly come alongside a husband who strives to love her like Christ?

Paul concludes:

“Let each one of you love his wife as himself, and let the wife see that she respects her husband.”

Here we see the beautiful harmony of God’s design.

A wife’s respect encourages her husband to embrace the role God has entrusted to him. At the same time, a husband’s sacrificial love makes it easier for his wife to trust his leadership.

Unfortunately, sin distorted that design.

Instead of covenant partnership, women can be tempted toward control and men toward domination. Marriage becomes a struggle for power.

But the Gospel restores what sin distorted.

It teaches husbands to serve rather than dominate and wives to respect rather than compete.

After forty years of marriage—and plenty of time to wrestle with what submission and headship look like in real life—one of the things I have come to appreciate most about my husband, Stuart, is the way he protects me, encourages me, and continually points me toward Christ. When big decisions need to be made, we talk them through and make them together. His leadership doesn’t diminish my voice; it values it. And that kind of leadership makes submission something I can willingly and joyfully embrace.

That is what biblical headship has looked like in our marriage.

It took me years to see what I couldn’t see before:

God’s design for marriage isn’t about who matters more. It’s about two people reflecting something greater than themselves.

Paul calls it a “profound mystery.”

Marriage was never intended merely to reflect a husband and wife.

It was designed to give the world a glimpse of Christ and His Church.

There is something incredibly special about walking alongside couples as they prepare—not just for a wedding day, but for a lifetime together. It’s one of the most meaningful ministries my husband, Stuart, and I get to share as we teach our church’s premarital class.

One of the very first questions we ask every engaged couple is this:

“What is marriage?”

Not, “What makes a good marriage?” or “How do you communicate better?” Those are important questions, but they come later.

Before we can understand how to build a strong marriage, we first have to understand what marriage actually is according to God.

Our culture often views marriage as a contract—an agreement that lasts as long as both people are happy, their needs are being met, or each person keeps up their end of the bargain. When those expectations are no longer met, the contract can simply be dissolved.

Sadly, this view of marriage has found its way into the Church as well. While studies have found that the divorce rate for Christian marriages in general is surprisingly similar to that of the broader culture, that statistic does not tell the whole story. Couples who actively practice their faith tend to have significantly healthier, more stable marriages. Perhaps that’s because they are more likely to understand—and live according to—God’s design for marriage.

So How Does God Describe Marriage?

From the very beginning, He designed marriage to be a covenant.

We’ve discovered that before we can talk about communication, conflict, intimacy, or even love, couples first need to understand what God means by covenant.

We tell the couples to imagine their wedding day.

The doors open. You begin walking down the aisle toward one another. In just a few moments, standing before God and surrounded by family and friends, you’ll exchange vows—promising lifelong faithfulness to one another.

While our modern wedding ceremony isn’t a reenactment of an ancient covenant ceremony, it beautifully echoes a powerful biblical picture found in Genesis 15.

God asks Abraham to do something quite unusual. And if your wedding officiant asks you to do this, run! But here is what God tells him.

God instructs Abraham to slaughter several animals, likely lambs, divide and place the pieces opposite one another, creating a pathway between them.

In the ancient world, when two people entered into a covenant, they would walk together through that pathway. In essence, they were saying:

“May what happened to these animals happen to me if I prove unfaithful to this covenant.”

Covenants weren’t casual promises. They were life-binding commitments.

But then something extraordinary happened.

Abraham never walked through the pieces.

Instead, God caused Abraham to fall into a deep sleep, and God alone—represented by a smoking firepot and a flaming torch—passed between them.

The text doesn’t record God explaining His actions. It simply tells us that God alone walked the covenant path.

That is significant.

God was demonstrating that the fulfillment of His covenant would ultimately depend on His faithfulness, not Abraham’s.

And as the rest of Scripture unfolds, we discover just how far God was willing to go to keep that promise.

Centuries later, Jesus Christ—the Lamb of God—fulfilled God’s covenant promises by bearing the curse of sin on our behalf. The One who was perfectly faithful took upon Himself what covenant breakers deserved so that we could be brought into an everlasting covenant relationship with God.

That changes everything.

The same grace, faithfulness, mercy, and sacrificial love God has extended to us through Christ become the very qualities we are called to extend to one another in marriage.

His covenant faithfulness becomes both the model and the power for our covenant faithfulness.

And that is such good news because every married couple eventually discovers the same reality:

Neither spouse married a perfect person.

We disappoint one another. We fail each other. We hurt the very person we love.

That’s exactly why marriage was never designed to rest upon two perfect covenant keepers.

It rests upon two imperfect people trusting the perfect Covenant Keeper—Jesus Christ.

When we came to Christ, He didn’t promise to remain faithful only as long as we never failed Him. His love for us rests upon His faithfulness.

That’s covenant.

And that is the kind of love Christian marriage is meant to reflect.

It doesn’t mean marriage is easy. Conflict and disappointment are real. Repentance and forgiveness are necessary.

But in a healthy covenant marriage, one thing is never casually placed on the table:

The relationship itself.

By God’s grace, husband and wife keep moving toward one another rather than away from one another. They work through conflict, pursue reconciliation, and choose forgiveness.

Not because marriage is easy...

But because covenant is sacred.

Long before couples say, “I do,” they need to see those words for what they truly are—a covenant promise.

They are not simply making promises to each other. They are entering into a covenant meant to reflect the faithful love of the God who has never broken His promises—and never will.

Marriage was never intended to point merely to the love between a husband and wife. It was always intended to point beyond itself—to the covenant-keeping love of God for His people.

And perhaps that’s the greatest difference between a contract and a covenant:

A contract is sustained by performance.

A covenant is upheld by faithfulness.

The Father Who Pleaded

The story of the prodigal son doesn’t end with a celebration.

The father runs to protect his younger son, willingly bearing the shame that should have fallen on him. His shame is covered. A robe drapes over his shoulders, a ring rests on his finger, and sandals have been placed on his feet. Music fills the house as family and friends gather to celebrate and feast.

Most of us stop here.

But Jesus doesn’t.

The story isn’t over because another son is still outside.

While the younger brother was lost in reckless rebellion, the elder brother was lost in something far more difficult to recognize—his own self-righteousness. When he learns that his father has welcomed his younger brother home, he becomes angry and refuses to enter the celebration.

Once again, the father does something unexpected.

He leaves the feast to pursue his elder son.

Jesus tells us, “His father came out and pleaded with him” (Luke 15:28). That simple detail is easy to miss. The father who ran into shame to rescue the younger son now leaves his own celebration to pursue the elder son.

One son ran away.

The other never left home.

Yet both were lost.

In his excellent book The Prodigal God, Timothy Keller summarizes the difference between religion and the Gospel this way:

“Religion says, ‘I obey; therefore I’m accepted.’ The Gospel says, ‘I’m accepted; therefore I obey.’”

That was the elder brother’s mistake. His obedience had become transactional. He wasn’t delighting in his father; he was delighting in what his father had, believing it was already his by right. Like his younger brother, he wanted his father’s gifts more than he wanted his father. What fueled his resentment was the belief that his younger brother did not deserve the grace his father had so freely given. In his mind, grace should have been reserved for those who deserved it.

The Language of Entitlement

Listen carefully to his complaint:

“Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends.” (Luke 15:29)

His resentment exposed what had been hidden in his heart. Rather than rejoicing that his brother had been found, he compared his father’s generosity to what he believed he deserved.

Notice what fills his words:

“I...”

“Me...”

“My...”

The language of entitlement.

He believed his faithfulness entitled him to something his father had failed to give him.

The younger brother sought them through rebellion.

The elder brother sought them through obedience.

Neither understood grace.

The Temptation of Entitlement

Isn’t that still our temptation today?

We may never ask for our inheritance and leave home, but we can quietly begin believing that God owes us because of our faithfulness.

“I’ve served You.”

“I’ve obeyed You.”

“I’ve sacrificed for You.”

“I’ve remained faithful.”

So why did this happen?

Why didn’t You answer my prayer?

Why have You blessed someone else instead of me?

Those are honest questions. Scripture is full of them. But beneath them can sometimes lie another question:

Haven’t I earned better than this?

The younger brother returned home overwhelmed by his unworthiness.

The elder brother stood outside convinced of his worthiness.

The younger brother believed his sin had placed him beyond his father’s grace.

The elder brother believed his obedience had earned his father’s grace.

Both misunderstood the heart of their father.

One thought he could never be welcomed home.

The other thought he had earned the right to be there.

Both stood in need of the same grace.

The younger brother thought his sin had separated him forever from his father.

The elder brother thought his goodness entitled him to his father’s favor.

One needed to repent of his rebellion.

The other needed to repent of his entitlement.

The Father’s Invitation

The father loved them both too much to leave them where they were.

So he went out.

Again.

He ran toward one son.

He pleaded with the other.

Jesus leaves the ending unfinished. We never learn whether the elder brother entered the celebration. Perhaps that is because the final response belongs to us.

Who Do We Identify With Most?

The younger brother, whose rebellion left him broken and desperate for mercy?

Or the elder brother, whose obedience quietly gave way to entitlement, comparison, and resentment?

That’s the danger of this parable.

The younger brother is easy to spot.

The elder brother is much harder to recognize—especially in ourselves.

Whether we have wandered into open rebellion or quietly slipped into self-righteousness, the invitation is the same.

Come home.

In the end, both sons stood in need of the same thing:

A Father whose extravagant love can never be earned and whose grace can only be received.

That is the heart of the Gospel.

That is the heart of the Father.

This article concludes “The Heart of the Father”, a three-part series inspired by themes explored in my book, When Hope Comes. While Parts 1 and 2 were adapted from the book, Part 3 expands on the parable with additional reflections.

The Robe, the Ring, and the Sandals

In Part 1, we considered the scandal of the running father. Before the village could publicly shame his rebellious son, the father ran to him, embraced him, and willingly absorbed the disgrace his son deserved.

But the story doesn’t end with an embrace.

After bearing his son’s shame, the father does something equally astonishing. He calls for a robe, a ring, and a pair of sandals. None of these gifts are accidental. Each reveals something profound about the grace of God.

The son had rehearsed a speech on his journey home.

“Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Make me like one of your hired servants.” (Luke 15:18–19)

He believed he could somehow work his way back into his father’s household. He expected to earn a servant’s wage.

But grace interrupted his plan.

Before the son could finish his carefully rehearsed speech, the father called for his servants.

“Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet.” (Luke 15:22)

The father never responds to the son’s request to become a servant because, in his eyes, his son never stopped being a son.

The Robe

The first gift was the best robe.

The son returned covered in the filth of the pigpen, carrying the shame of his rebellion. The father covered him before anyone else could see him.

Throughout Scripture, clothing often symbolizes righteousness, acceptance, and restored relationship. Just as God clothed Adam and Eve after the Fall, the father now covers his son’s shame.

So it is with us.

We do not stand before God clothed in our own goodness. Christ covers our shame and clothes us with His righteousness. Our guilt is replaced by His forgiveness.

How many of us still wear the shame Christ has already covered?

We replay our failures, define ourselves by our past, and wonder whether God could truly receive us. Yet the Father answered that question at the cross. Our shame no longer defines us. We are welcomed into His presence—not because of what we have done, but because of what Christ has done for us.

The Ring

Next came the ring.

In the ancient world, a signet ring represented authority, identity, and belonging. It granted the bearer the authority to act on behalf of the family.

The father was doing far more than forgiving his son.

He was restoring him.

The son who believed he deserved only a servant’s place was publicly declared an heir once again.

The image echoes an earlier story in Scripture. When Pharaoh elevated Joseph, he removed his own signet ring and placed it on Joseph’s hand, entrusting him with authority to rule over Egypt on his behalf (Genesis 41:42). In much the same way, the father places his ring on his son’s hand, restoring his identity in the family and inviting him once again to participate as an heir.

The Gospel does the same for us.

When we repent and place our faith in Christ, we are not merely forgiven sinners. We are adopted as sons and daughters of God. Like the prodigal son, we are welcomed back into the Father’s family and restored as fellow heirs with Christ (Romans 8:17).

With that restored identity comes a new purpose. Just as the father’s ring entrusted his son to once again represent the family, God entrusts us with the privilege of representing His kingdom as Christ’s ambassadors (2 Corinthians 5:20), proclaiming the message of reconciliation to a world in need of His grace.

Our identity is no longer defined by our failures but by our Father’s love.

That identity is not something we earn.

It is something we receive by grace.

The Sandals

Finally, the father ordered sandals to be placed on his son’s feet.

This simple detail is easily overlooked, but it may be one of the most beautiful pictures in the entire parable.

Servants commonly went barefoot. Sons wore sandals.

The son expected a servant’s life.

The father restored a son’s freedom.

New Testament scholar Kenneth E. Bailey beautifully observes that the sandals publicly declared what the father had already settled in his heart: “You are no servant in this house.”

Can you imagine the son standing there?

Moments earlier, he had rehearsed a speech rooted in guilt and unworthiness. Now he found himself clothed with honor, entrusted with a ring, and walking in sandals reserved for sons.

Everything had changed—not because of anything he had done, but because of the extravagant grace and love of his father.

The sandals remind us that the father did not merely forgive his son; he restored him. The son no longer had to live as a hired servant trying to earn his place in the family. He could now walk in his father’s house with the freedom, security, and confidence of one who belonged.

So it is with us.

How many of us still approach God like servants, living under the weight of shame and guilt, when the Father has already welcomed us as sons and daughters?

Like the prodigal, we often believe we must prove ourselves worthy before God can fully accept us. But the Father has already welcomed us into His family. Through Christ, we no longer strive to earn a place in His house. We are free to walk each day as beloved sons and daughters, secure in the Father’s love and forever changed by His grace.

The Heart of the Gospel

Isn’t that the Gospel?

Jesus paid the ultimate price to redeem us. He bore our shame so that we might receive His righteousness. Paul reminds us:

“But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved” (Ephesians 2:4–5).

Only after receiving his father’s grace does the son truly understand his unworthiness.

The father never restored his son because the son proved himself worthy.

He restored him because he loved him.

The same is true for us. Our good works do not earn God’s acceptance; they flow from it. We do not obey in order to become sons and daughters of God. We obey because, through Christ, we already are.

Paul therefore urges believers to “walk in a manner worthy of the Lord” (Colossians 1:10). Paul is not calling us to earn God's favor but to live in a way that reflects the new identity the Father has already given us through Christ.

The robe, the ring, and the sandals remind us that the Father does far more than forgive repentant sinners.

He covers their shame.

He restores their identity.

He welcomes them home as beloved sons and daughters.

That is the message of the Gospel.

That is the heart of the Father.

This article is adapted from my book, When Hope Comes: Discovering God’s Character and Our True Identity Through the Book of Ruth.

We often read the parable of the prodigal son as the story of a repentant son. Yet when we look more closely, Jesus tells a far more astonishing story—one about a father who willingly embraces shame to rescue his son.

New Testament scholar Kenneth E. Bailey suggests that when this parable is read alongside the parables of the lost sheep and the lost coin, the emphasis shifts. Together, they reveal not merely the repentance of what was lost, but the relentless compassion of the One who seeks, welcomes, and restores.

Jesus’ original audience would have understood something most modern readers miss.

The story begins with an unthinkable request. In first-century Jewish culture, a son who asked for his inheritance while his father was still living was essentially saying, “I wish you were dead.” It was a profound insult, bringing shame not only upon his father but upon the entire family. Yet the father does the unimaginable—he grants his request.

After squandering his inheritance among the Gentiles, the son is left destitute. Hungry and desperate, he decides to return home. But his plan is not one of confidence in his father’s mercy. He rehearses a speech, hoping to convince his father to hire him as a servant. He still believes he can somehow earn his way back into the family.

Many Middle Eastern scholars suggest that a disgraced son returning home could face a public rejection ceremony known as the kezazah, where the village symbolically declared him cut off from the community.

Jesus says the father saw his son “while he was still a long way off” and ran to him.

That detail would have stunned His listeners.

Respectable Middle Eastern patriarchs did not run. They walked with dignity. To run meant hiking up his robe, exposing his bare legs, and willingly accepting public humiliation. Yet this father ran anyway.

Why?

Because he was determined to reach his son before the village could.

Instead of allowing his son to bear the disgrace he deserved, the father bore it himself.

Before the son could present his carefully rehearsed plan to become a hired servant, the father wrapped him in his arms, kissed him, and publicly identified himself with the one everyone else believed deserved rejection.

Only then does the son begin to understand the depth of his father’s grace. He came home hoping to earn a servant’s place. Instead, he is welcomed home as a son. His father’s grace—not his own efforts—becomes the turning point.

That is the scandal.

And that is the Gospel.

The Heart of the Gospel

Isn’t that exactly what Christ has done for us?

At the cross, Jesus took upon Himself the shame we deserved so that we could be welcomed home. He was mocked, stripped, rejected, and crucified outside the city gates so that sinners could be restored to the Father’s family.

Like the prodigal son, we often believe we must somehow earn our way back to God. We imagine that if we work hard enough, clean ourselves up, or prove our sincerity, perhaps He will receive us as servants. But the Gospel tells a different story. Although we deserve judgment and separation from God, He extends His mercy and grace—not because we are worthy, but precisely because we are not. Christ bore our shame so we could receive what we never could have earned: forgiveness, restoration, and the joy of being called sons and daughters of God

.

Different cultures. Different denominations. Different theological traditions.

Yet all three stories raised a similar question:

That was the question I found myself wrestling with in seminary—and one that resurfaced as I recently completed my four-part series, Have We Misunderstood Paul?

As I revisited my research, I was reminded of three very different stories that have stayed with me for years.

The Middle East: Faithfulness Amid Resistance

One of the most fascinating studies I encountered was Raphael Picon’s examination of women’s ordination in the Middle East Evangelical Church.

In 2010, the Fellowship of the Middle East Evangelical Church ordained women, a historic milestone in a region where women often face tremendous social, political, and religious obstacles.

Picon argues that women in the Middle East face challenges that many Western Christians can scarcely imagine. Deeply rooted patriarchal structures, political unrest, violence, and religious fundamentalism create an environment where women are frequently expected to submit to male authority and remain outside positions of leadership.

Yet it was often that very environment that required every willing and able servant to participate in the work of the Gospel. As churches ministered to hurting communities amid instability and conflict, the pressing needs of the people often overshadowed traditional debates about roles and titles. Women stepped forward alongside their brothers to disciple believers, care for the vulnerable, strengthen the church, and meet both spiritual and practical needs.

While church leaders initially rejected women’s ordination, often citing biblical passages they believed prohibited it, something began to change over time. As women faithfully ministered, taught, organized, and shepherded others, their leadership gifts became increasingly visible. Leadership emerged naturally and organically from their ministry.

Eventually, the question was no longer whether women possessed leadership gifts, but whether the church could continue denying what had become evident to everyone around them.

The Catholic Question

The second article examined the role of women deacons in several historic Christian traditions, including the Armenian Apostolic Church, the Orthodox Church of Greece, and portions of the Old Catholic Church.

What I found most interesting was not the debate itself, but what the debate revealed. Throughout church history, women have often served in significant ministry roles—caring for the vulnerable, discipling believers, assisting church leaders, and strengthening the life of the church.

The discussion surrounding women deacons ultimately raises a larger question: How should the church respond when history reveals women faithfully serving and exercising meaningful ministry leadership?

While church traditions have answered that question differently, the historical record makes one thing clear: women have never been absent from the work of ministry. Their contributions have often been substantial, even when they were not always formally recognized.

Whether one agrees with every conclusion drawn from this history or not, the evidence highlights a reality that cannot easily be ignored. Women have long played an important role in the life and mission of the church.

A Baptist Woman Who Changed History

Yet it was the story of Angelina Buensuceso that remained with me.

Buensuceso became the first woman ordained by the Convention of Philippine Baptist Churches in 1980.

What struck me most was that she did not seem focused on making history.

She was focused on serving Jesus.

Like many women throughout church history, she was often steered toward more traditional ministry roles. Yet she continued to follow God’s call wherever He led, serving faithfully despite obstacles and opposition.

She did not set out to challenge tradition.

She set out to obey God.

As the years passed, her ministry expanded. Her leadership gifts became increasingly visible. Her influence grew. The fruit of her labor became undeniable.

Eventually, church leaders found themselves confronting a difficult reality.

The woman they had once limited was already functioning as a shepherd, leader, and minister to God’s people.

Her life raised a question that could no longer be ignored.

As one supporter famously asked:

“Aren’t her years of service enough to vouch for her qualifications?”

That question has stayed with me.

The Common Thread

What connected all three stories was not a denomination or even a particular theological conclusion.

It was faithful service.

In Lebanon, women ministered despite enormous cultural resistance.

In historic Christian traditions, women faithfully served in meaningful ministry roles throughout church history.

In the Philippines, a woman’s decades of fruitful ministry became impossible to overlook.

Whether we are men or women, perhaps our primary calling is not to spend our lives fighting for a position, but to faithfully steward the gifts God has entrusted to us. Not by demanding recognition, but by humbly serving wherever God places us and faithfully proclaiming the truth of the Gospel.

Sometimes the most powerful challenge to a long-held assumption is not an argument, but a life so evidently marked by God’s calling that it compels others to reconsider what they once believed was impossible—or even unbiblical.

Of course, stories alone do not determine what is biblical. Scripture must always remain our final authority. Yet stories like these have a way of forcing us back to the text. They invite us to revisit familiar passages, examine the historical and cultural context more carefully, and ask whether we have understood them correctly.

At the very least, they remind us that when faithful, gifted believers consistently bear fruit in ministry, their lives deserve more than a passing glance. They deserve our careful attention, our humility, and our willingness to look again.

Throughout this series, we’ve explored the world Paul inherited and the women he commended throughout his ministry. We’ve considered the cultural assumptions surrounding women in the ancient world and examined the women Paul trusted, partnered with, and appointed in the work of the gospel.

But all along, we’ve been moving toward one passage.

The passage that launched my seminary thesis project.

The passage that has shaped church practice for centuries.

The passage that started it all.

If I’m honest, this was also a passage I had largely avoided for years.

Having come to Christ out of a worldview heavily influenced by feminism, I knew how easy it would be to approach these verses with an agenda. At the same time, I was afraid of what I might find if I examined them too closely.

Questions surrounding women in ministry, leadership, and even marriage felt weighty. I wasn’t interested in explaining away difficult passages, but neither did I want to force the text to say something it didn’t.

It wasn’t until this seminary thesis project that I finally felt it was time to look carefully and honestly at the evidence.

A Church in Crisis

Although this letter was addressed to Timothy, it was not merely personal correspondence. Paul was addressing matters that affected the life and order of the church. Yet acknowledging that reality does not eliminate the need to understand the specific circumstances Timothy was facing in Ephesus. The question is not whether Paul was concerned with church order—he clearly was. The question is how his instructions in this particular passage should be understood within that context.

Paul’s letter opens with a warning about false teachers who were promoting myths, speculation, and distorted doctrine. As the letter unfolds, he repeatedly returns to the same concern. Some had wandered into fruitless discussion. Others desired to be teachers even though they did not understand what they were teaching. Still others had departed from the faith altogether.

The more I studied the letter, the more I noticed how often Paul returned to the themes of deception, error, and sound doctrine.

He was addressing a crisis.

The church in Ephesus was struggling with false teaching, and Timothy had been left there to restore order and sound instruction.

That context does not solve every interpretive question, but it does provide the backdrop against which the passage must be understood.

And once I began reading 1 Timothy through that lens, one statement immediately stood out.

The Most Overlooked Command

Perhaps the most overlooked words in the entire passage are the first four:

“Let a woman learn...”

Modern readers often rush past those words because we assume education is a given. In the first century, it was not. Throughout much of the ancient world, women were frequently excluded from formal theological instruction. Yet Paul’s response to error was not exclusion but education.

He does not say, “Women must not learn.”

He says, “Let a woman learn.”

That detail is easy to miss, but it raises an important question. If Paul’s concern was that women must never teach under any circumstance, it becomes difficult to explain why his solution begins with learning. A permanent prohibition would not require education. Unless Paul’s instruction assumes growth, discipleship, and increasing understanding.

What About Corinth?

Many Christians point to 1 Corinthians 14:34–35 as evidence that Paul universally prohibited women from speaking in church. Yet, once again, the broader context suggests something more specific. Earlier in the same letter, Paul assumes women are praying and prophesying in public worship (1 Corinthians 11:5). Whatever Paul means by “remain silent” in chapter 14, he cannot be forbidding all forms of speech.

The immediate context is also important. Throughout 1 Corinthians 14, Paul is addressing disorder in the gathered church. He instructs those speaking in tongues to remain silent if there is no interpreter (v. 28), and prophets to remain silent when another receives a revelation (v. 30). He then addresses women who wished to learn, instructing them to ask their questions at home rather than during the gathering (vv. 34–35). The entire chapter is concerned with maintaining order so that the church may be built up.

Paul’s additional instruction that they should ask their questions at home suggests that some form of disruptive questioning or interruption may have been occurring during the gathering. While scholars debate the precise details, the larger point remains clear: Paul’s concern was maintaining order and promoting proper learning within the church.

The question, therefore, is not whether women could ever speak in church. Paul had already acknowledged that they did. The question is what specific disruption Paul was addressing in Corinth and how that situation relates to the circumstances he addresses in Ephesus.

The more I reflected on both passages, the more significant Paul’s instruction became.

If some women in Ephesus had been influenced by false teaching—as the letter repeatedly suggests—Paul’s solution was not permanent silence but proper discipleship.

His remedy for deception was truth.

His remedy for error was instruction.

And that realization began to reshape the way I read everything that followed.

The Word that Changes Everything

The next phrase introduces one of the most debated words in the entire discussion.

Most English translations render Paul’s statement:

“I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man.”

The difficulty lies in the Greek word translated “exercise authority.”

The word is authentein.

The challenge is not that scholars do not know what the word means. Nor is the question whether authentein had meaning in Paul’s day. It clearly did. Paul understood the word, and so did Timothy.

The challenge is that surviving examples of authentein from around Paul’s era are relatively rare, and the evidence closest to the first century does not consistently support the meaning many modern readers automatically assume.

Did you catch that?

The evidence for what authentein meant in Paul's day does not fully align with the meaning many people assume it carries today.

Words can develop over time. Consider the English word gay. A century ago it commonly meant cheerful or carefree. Today it carries a very different meaning. The word itself has not changed, but its usage and associations have.

In much the same way, the meaning most familiar to modern readers—ordinary or legitimate authority—appears more clearly in later centuries, same word, different meaning. Yet the earliest evidence of the meaning of this word often points toward a more negative nuance, including ideas such as domineering, usurping, or assuming or seizing authority for oneself.

This distinction matters.

The more I studied the evidence, the more compelling I found the argument that Paul was not prohibiting authority itself; rather, he was prohibiting someone from assuming authority that had not been delegated to them.

Think of someone walking into an organization and beginning to direct people, make decisions, and act as a leader—even though no one has given them that role. The issue is not leadership itself; the issue is assuming authority that was never entrusted to them.

What makes this interpretation particularly interesting is that it fits a pattern already present in the letter.

At the very beginning of 1 Timothy, Paul warns about individuals who desired to be teachers of the law even though they did not understand what they were teaching (1 Timothy 1:7). The problem was not teaching itself. The problem was people assuming the role of teacher while lacking the understanding and credibility necessary to fulfill it faithfully.

While this does not prove the meaning of authentein, it does suggest that concerns about improperly assumed authority and false teaching were already part of the broader context Paul was addressing.

The problem isn’t authority.

The problem is unauthorized authority.

Why This Section Became So Important

Long before I began this study, I was aware of the tension.

I knew how Jesus treated women. I knew Paul partnered with women in ministry and spoke highly of many of them. Yet I also knew that for centuries the church had largely understood 1 Timothy 2 as a universal restriction on women teaching and exercising authority over men.

What I had never done was carefully work through the passage itself. That is what made this section of my research so significant.

The more I studied the historical context, the linguistic evidence, and Paul’s broader concerns throughout the letter, the more I found myself viewing the passage through a different lens.

What surprised me most was not that an alternative interpretation existed. What surprised me was how much of the evidence seemed to point in that direction.

At this point, I found myself asking a different set of questions.

And how did such a prohibition fit with the women he trusted, commended, and partnered with throughout his ministry?

Individually, none of these questions settled the matter. Collectively, they became increasingly difficult for me to ignore.

Adam, Eve, and Deception

Paul then turns to Adam and Eve.

At first glance, Paul’s reference to Adam being formed first may appear to settle the matter. Yet throughout Scripture, being first does not automatically establish the theological point an author intends to make. While Adam was formed first, creation order alone does not necessarily tell us what conclusion Paul intends his readers to draw.

Yet Paul does not stop with creation order. He immediately continues: “…and Adam was not deceived, but the woman was deceived and became a transgressor.”

That connection is significant.

Elsewhere, Paul clearly holds Adam responsible for humanity’s fall. In Romans 5, it is Adam—not Eve—who serves as the representative through whom sin entered the world. For that reason, it seems unlikely that Paul is attempting to exonerate Adam or place permanent blame on women.

After all, both Adam and Eve fell. Eve's deception led to her transgression, while Adam knowingly joined in the rebellion. The result was the same: both violated God's command and both experienced the consequences of the Fall.

Rather, Paul appears to be drawing his readers back to the Genesis account itself, where deception played a central role in what unfolded. This is not the only time Paul uses Eve as an example of deception. In another letter, he warns the entire church not to be led astray, just as Eve was deceived by the serpent (2 Corinthians 11:3).

If deception is the focus, then Paul’s concern may be less about establishing an enduring creation principle and more about preventing a similar pattern from repeating itself in Ephesus, where false teaching was already spreading through the church.

The question is not whether Paul appeals to Genesis—he clearly does. The question is why he appeals to Genesis. Is he establishing a principle based primarily on creation order, or is he drawing on the broader Genesis narrative of deception, transgression, and redemption to address a specific situation confronting the Ephesian church?

The Most Difficult Verse

Finally, we arrive at perhaps the most puzzling statement in the entire passage:

“Yet she will be saved through childbearing...” (1 Timothy 2:15)

Few verses in Paul’s writings have generated more debate.

Over the centuries, scholars have proposed numerous interpretations. Some suggest Paul is referring to motherhood. Others argue he means women will be preserved through childbirth. Still others connect the verse to Christian perseverance and faithful living.

What seems clear is what Paul cannot mean.

He cannot be teaching that women earn salvation through giving birth. Such an interpretation would contradict everything Paul teaches elsewhere about salvation by grace through faith.

One interpretation, however, stands out as particularly compelling.

Notice where Paul has taken us.

Creation.

Adam.

Eve.

Deception.

The Fall.

Every step of the discussion has been rooted in Genesis.

It would be surprising if Paul suddenly abandoned that context in his final sentence.

Immediately after discussing Eve, her deception, and her transgression, some scholars see a connection to Genesis 3:15, often called the protoevangelium or “first gospel,” God promises that the offspring of the woman will one day crush the serpent’s head.

The strongest argument for this interpretation is not that the word childbearing somehow means Messiah. It doesn’t.

Rather, it seeks to answer an important question: Why, after discussing Eve, deception, and the Fall, does Paul suddenly bring up childbearing?

The Genesis 3:15 interpretation attempts to answer that question within the flow of the Genesis narrative Paul has already been invoking.

The same story that introduces humanity’s fall also contains the first promise of redemption.

Under this reading, Paul ends not with a warning but with a reminder of God’s redemptive plan. Though Eve was deceived, God chose a woman as the means through which the promised Savior would enter the world.

To be sure, this interpretation does not remove every difficulty. Paul’s wording remains challenging, and faithful scholars continue to debate its precise meaning.

Yet of the various interpretations that have been proposed, this one seems to fit most naturally with the immediate context and flow of Paul's argument. From creation to Adam, Eve, deception, and the Fall, Paul has remained firmly rooted in Genesis. It is therefore difficult to ignore the possibility that his final statement is also drawing from that same redemptive storyline.

Whatever Paul means by “saved through childbearing,” the interpretation of this verse alone does not settle the broader question of women in ministry. That question must be answered by considering the entire passage in its historical and literary context.

A Common Objection: The Qualifications for Elders

At this point, some readers may point to Paul’s qualifications for overseers and elders in 1 Timothy 3 and Titus 1. After all, Paul describes an overseer as “the husband of one wife” (1 Tim. 3:2), which many understand as evidence that church leadership is restricted to men.

Before examining that phrase more closely, it is worth remembering the world Paul inhabited. As mentioned, formal education in the ancient world was overwhelmingly available to men. As a result, it is not surprising that many of the individuals qualified for positions of church leadership would have been male. The pool of potential leaders was shaped, at least in part, by the educational and cultural realities of the first century.

This observation does not settle the question of whether the elder qualifications are descriptive or prescriptive with respect to gender. It simply reminds us that the context in which Paul wrote looked very different from our own.

The phrase “husband of one wife” has been the subject of considerable discussion among scholars. Many, including Gordon Fee and Craig Keener, argue that the expression is primarily concerned with marital faithfulness. Literally translated, it describes a “one-woman man.” In this view, Paul is emphasizing the character, integrity, and reputation of church leaders rather than directly addressing the question of gender.

As Fee observes, the focus of the qualification is fidelity. Just as Paul’s references to managing children are not generally understood to exclude otherwise qualified unmarried leaders, the masculine wording may reflect the typical candidates being addressed rather than functioning as a universal restriction.

This would not be unusual for Paul. His letters were written to address specific churches and specific situations, not to provide exhaustive discussions of every possible circumstance. The absence of explicit references to single, widowed, or female candidates does not necessarily mean such individuals were excluded from consideration.

What is clear throughout Paul’s ministry is that he consistently recognized, commended, and partnered with women who demonstrated spiritual maturity, theological understanding, and faithful service. Whatever conclusions one ultimately reaches regarding church offices, it is difficult to reconcile Paul’s relationships with these women with the notion that he viewed them as second-class participants in the mission of the Church.

Why Many Scholars Read 1 Timothy 2 Contextually

By this point, the cumulative evidence begins to tell a coherent story. Paul's instruction that women should learn, the prevalence of false teaching in Ephesus, the unusual nature of authentein, his positive references to women such as Priscilla, Phoebe, and Junia, his appeal to Eve's deception within a letter deeply concerned with deception, and his possible allusion to God's redemptive promise through the woman's offspring all suggest that 1 Timothy 2 may be addressing a specific situation rather than establishing a universal ban on women teaching or leading.

Reasonable Christians will continue to disagree. Yet if the evidence points toward a contextual reading, faithfulness to Scripture requires us to follow the evidence wherever it leads.

Looking Again

When I began this study, I wasn’t searching for a new interpretation, nor was I attempting to challenge church tradition. If anything, I was finally giving careful attention to a passage I had avoided for years.

What I discovered was not certainty about every question surrounding women in ministry. Faithful Christians continue to disagree, and I hold that reality with humility.

What surprised me was how much richer and more nuanced the passage became when I considered its historical setting, linguistic challenges, and literary context. Rather than standing in tension with the women Paul commended throughout his ministry, I came to see this passage as part of the same story.

I recognize that many faithful Christians will disagree with the conclusions I have reached. For centuries, respected theologians, pastors, and church traditions have understood this passage differently. Their views deserve careful consideration and should never be dismissed lightly.

At the same time, historical consensus is not the same thing as exegetical certainty. Tradition is a valuable guide, but Scripture remains our final authority. The question before us is not whether previous generations were sincere in their conclusions, but whether we have understood Paul’s words as accurately as possible.

My purpose in this series has not been to settle a debate that faithful Christians have wrestled with for centuries, nor has it been to persuade readers to adopt a particular label or position.

Rather, my goal has been to encourage us to approach Scripture with humility, context, and careful study.

One of the challenges we all face is that we rarely come to Scripture as blank slates. We bring presuppositions, traditions, experiences, and theological frameworks with us. I certainly did.

The temptation is to assume that only those who disagree with us bring assumptions to the text. In reality, all of us do. The challenge is not whether we have presuppositions, but whether we are willing to examine them in light of Scripture.

Whether you ultimately agree with my conclusions or not, my hope is that this series has encouraged you to do what this study encouraged me to do: look again.

Read carefully.

Ask questions.

Examine assumptions.

Allow the text—and its context—to speak for itself.

Because genuine biblical interpretation begins with the humility to acknowledge that we may not have understood a passage as fully as we thought.

And perhaps that is the question this series leaves us with:

Have we misunderstood Paul?

The First Crack

By the time I reached the midpoint of my seminary thesis project, I found myself wrestling with an unexpected tension.

On one hand, I had spent years hearing 1 Timothy 2 interpreted as a universal restriction on women teaching and exercising authority in the church. On the other hand, the deeper I dug into Paul’s letters, the more difficult that interpretation became to reconcile with the women Paul actually knew, trusted, and commended.

If all we had were a few isolated verses from 1 Timothy, we might conclude that Paul wanted women to remain largely silent and uninvolved in ministry.

But Paul left us far more than a few isolated verses.

He left us his relationships.

And it was those relationships that began to challenge some of my assumptions.

The first crack appeared in an unexpected place: Acts 18.

There we meet Priscilla and her husband Aquila, two of Paul’s closest ministry partners. Together they traveled, planted churches, hosted believers in their home, and served alongside the apostle in the work of the gospel. The more I studied their relationship with Paul, the harder it became to reconcile what I was finding with the portrait of Paul I had inherited.

Then Luke introduces us to Apollos.

This wasn’t a new believer learning the basics of Christianity. Apollos was eloquent, educated, and mighty in the Scriptures. He would eventually become one of the most influential teachers in the early church, mentioned alongside Paul and Peter as one of the leading figures of the apostolic age.

Yet his understanding of the gospel was incomplete.

When Priscilla and Aquila heard him teach, they took him aside and explained “the way of God more accurately” (Acts 18:26).

The more I reflected on that encounter, the more intriguing it became. One of the church’s most gifted teachers received theological instruction from a ministry team that included a woman. Luke records the event without apology, correction, or explanation. He simply tells the story as though there were nothing unusual about it.

Interestingly, Priscilla’s name frequently appears before Aquila’s in the New Testament. While scholars debate the significance of this detail, in the ancient world the person listed first often held greater prominence. At the very least, it is another indication that Priscilla was not a silent or insignificant figure in the early church.

And I found myself asking a question that would continue to surface throughout my research: If Paul believed women should never participate in theological instruction, why does one of his closest ministry partners appear to be doing exactly that?

That question lingered as I continued reading.

A Trusted Messenger

By this point, I found myself paying closer attention to the women Paul mentioned, especially those he seemed to hold in unusually high regard. One of those women was Phoebe.

At first, it was Paul’s description of her that caught my attention.

He introduces her in Romans 16 as “a diakonos of the church in Cenchreae” and notes that she had been “a benefactor of many people, including me” (Romans 16:1–2).

In the ancient world, a benefactor was not merely someone who offered occasional assistance. The term often referred to a patron who used her resources, influence, and support to advance the work of others.

Those are not casual commendations. They are the words of someone expressing deep respect and trust.

Even more stunning was the possibility that Phoebe may have been entrusted with delivering Paul’s letter to the Romans.

If so, her role likely involved far more than carrying a scroll from one city to another.

In the ancient world, trusted emissaries often explained the contents of a letter, answered questions, and represented the author who sent them.

While we cannot know exactly what Phoebe’s responsibilities included, it is difficult to imagine Paul entrusting what many consider his most theologically significant letter to someone he did not deeply trust.

The more I studied Phoebe, the more I began to see that my understanding of Paul had been overly simplistic. Paul was not merely tolerating women in ministry. He appeared to be relying on them.

The Mystery of Junia

Then I encountered Junia.

In Romans 16:7, Paul writes:

“Greet Andronicus and Junia, my relatives and fellow prisoners. They are outstanding among the apostles, and they were in Christ before I was.”

At first, I nearly read past her name. But the more I studied, the more fascinating her story became.

What immediately caught my attention was Paul’s description of her. He calls Junia a fellow prisoner, notes that she was in Christ before he was, and includes her among those he describes as “outstanding among the apostles.” Whatever one ultimately concludes about the precise meaning of that phrase, it is difficult to miss the remarkable esteem with which Paul speaks of her.

Yet the story becomes even more interesting.

For centuries, Junia was understood to be a woman. In fact, the fourth-century church father John Chrysostom, a native Greek speaker, commented on this passage in his Homily 31 on Romans by exclaiming,

“Oh, how great is the devotion of this woman, that she should be counted worthy of the appellation of apostle!”

Yet somewhere along the way, Junia became Junias.

Yet the history of Junia’s name is surprisingly complex. Although early Christians understood her to be a woman, many later interpreters began reading the name as masculine. Over time, “Junias” appeared in certain translations and commentaries. What makes this particularly noteworthy is that while Junia was a common female name in the ancient world, evidence for the masculine name Junias is remarkably scarce.

Today, however, most scholars recognize Junia as a woman.

A Pattern Emerges

As I continued through Paul’s letters, I began noticing that Junia was not an isolated example.

Near the close of Philippians, Paul appeals to two women, Euodia and Syntyche, to resolve a disagreement. Most readers focus on the conflict itself. Paul focuses on something else. He describes them as women who had “contended at my side in the cause of the gospel.”

That phrase stopped me.

These were not spectators. They were not passive supporters. They had labored alongside Paul himself in advancing the gospel, and Paul wasn’t embarrassed by that fact. He celebrated it.

By now, something was becoming difficult to ignore.

Priscilla.

Phoebe.

Junia.

Euodia.

Syntyche.

Individually, each example could perhaps be explained away. But by this point I was no longer looking at isolated examples. I was looking at a pattern.

And patterns are harder to dismiss.

Again and again, Paul speaks of women as coworkers, benefactors, laborers, ministry partners, and trusted servants of the gospel.

The Question I Could No Longer Ignore

What surprised me most was not that women appeared in Paul’s ministry. I already knew they were there.

The Paul emerging from his letters seemed more complex—and far more interesting—than the Paul I thought I knew.

That doesn’t automatically answer every question surrounding women in ministry. Nor does it erase the difficult passages we still must consider. But it does force us to wrestle with an important question.

What do we do with these women?

How do we reconcile Paul’s apparent affirmation of their ministries with the traditional interpretation of 1 Timothy 2?

By the time I reached this point in my research, I realized I could no longer examine 1 Timothy 2 in isolation.

Whatever Paul meant in that passage, it had to make sense alongside the women he trusted, commended, and partnered with throughout his ministry.

And that realization sent me back to the passage that started it all.

So buckle up. Part 4 is a little longer than the others, but it's where all the pieces finally come together.

The Ancient Influences

In Part 1, I introduced a question that emerged during my seminary thesis project: Have We Misunderstood Paul? Before we can answer that question, we must first understand the world in which he lived and wrote.

One of the greatest challenges in interpreting Scripture is remembering that the biblical authors did not live in our world. They lived in cultures shaped by assumptions, traditions, and social structures that often differ dramatically from our own. Nowhere is that difference more apparent than when we begin talking about women.

When many Christians think about the debate surrounding women in ministry, they assume it began with the church. In reality, the conversation was already centuries old before Paul ever put pen to parchment.

The ancient world was overwhelmingly patriarchal. To be sure, women did not experience the same limitations in every culture, and some enjoyed greater freedoms than others. Yet throughout much of the Greco-Roman world, women were generally viewed as intellectually, socially, and even morally inferior to men.

These assumptions did not emerge in a vacuum. Many were reinforced by some of the most influential thinkers of the ancient world. The names Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle are often associated with wisdom and intellectual achievement, and their influence on Western civilization can hardly be overstated. Yet their views of women reflected many of the prejudices of their age.

Aristotle, for example, wrote:

While such statements are jarring to modern readers, they reveal how deeply assumptions about male superiority had become embedded within the culture Paul inherited.

Similar attitudes could also be found among some Jewish writers of the period. The first-century historian Josephus wrote:

To be clear, these statements should not be confused with the teaching of the Old Testament itself. Scripture contains numerous examples of women whom God used in extraordinary ways. Deborah judged Israel. Miriam prophesied. Huldah delivered God's Word to a king. Ruth was used by God as an instrument of redemption in Naomi's life and became part of the Messianic line. Even the woman of Proverbs 31 is portrayed as wise, industrious, and entrusted with significant economic responsibility, managing household affairs, engaging in commerce, and purchasing property. Nevertheless, quotations like these remind us that by the first century many women lived in a world that often viewed them as intellectually, socially, and spiritually inferior to men.

The Gospel and the Culture

Against this backdrop, the ministry of Jesus becomes all the more remarkable.

What many modern readers miss is just how countercultural His treatment of women truly was. While philosophers debated women’s capacity for wisdom and some religious leaders marginalized them, Jesus welcomed women as disciples, taught them, and made them active participants in His ministry.

What must be noted, however, is that even though Jesus’ and Paul’s treatment of women was consistent with the values of the Gospel (as we will see more clearly when we examine Paul's relationships with women in Part 3), that does not mean those views were widely shared by the culture around them.

Nor was this gospel-shaped transformation limited to questions of gender. We see it in Paul’s letter to Philemon as well. When Onesimus, a slave, came to faith in Christ, Paul urged Philemon to receive him “no longer as a slave...but as a dear brother” (Philemon 16). The gospel had not only changed Onesimus’s heart; it changed how Philemon was called to see him.

Again and again, the New Testament reveals a gospel that reshapes relationships and challenges long-held assumptions about status, privilege, and identity.

Ideas do not transform societies overnight.

The world Jesus and Paul inhabited still carried many assumptions about the role of women, their access to education, and their participation in religious life. While the Gospel affirmed the equal value and dignity of women as image-bearers of God, those truths were being introduced into cultures that often viewed women very differently.

This is one reason historical context matters. The fact that Jesus or Paul affirmed women in ways that were unusual for their day does not mean everyone around them immediately embraced those same assumptions. In many cases, the culture continued to lag behind the implications of the Gospel itself.

Even the idea of women receiving theological instruction and then teaching other women—as later reflected in Titus 2—is significant.

Before women could teach sound doctrine, they first had to be taught sound doctrine. In a world where formal religious education was largely directed toward men, the expectation that women would be grounded enough in the faith to disciple and instruct others represented an important shift.

As we continue through this series, we will see additional examples suggesting that the relationship between the Gospel and the surrounding culture was often more complex than we might initially assume.

Jesus and Women

One of my favorite examples is Mary of Bethany.

Most of us are familiar with the story. Martha is busy serving while Mary sits at Jesus’ feet, listening to His teaching. When Martha complains, Jesus gently defends Mary, saying she has chosen “the better part.” For years, I read that passage without fully appreciating its significance.

Then I learned that “sitting at someone’s feet” was more than a description of posture. It was the language of discipleship. Rather than sending her back into the kitchen, Jesus defended her right to learn. What may seem ordinary to modern readers would have been remarkable in a culture where women were often excluded from formal theological instruction.

Paul himself would later describe being educated “at the feet of Gamaliel” (Acts 22:3). In the ancient world, students sat at the feet of their teachers. Luke is not merely telling us where Mary was sitting; he is telling us what she was doing.

The more I reflected on that scene, the more significant it became. Centuries of cultural assumptions had taught women to remain in the background. Yet Jesus consistently invited them closer.

Mary was not an isolated example. That pattern appears throughout the Gospels. Women traveled with Jesus, supported His ministry, and learned from Him as disciples. He engaged the Samaritan woman at the well in one of the longest theological conversations recorded in the Gospels, and her testimony led many in her town to believe in Him. He publicly commended the faith of the Syrophoenician woman—a remarkable encounter I explore more fully in my article Crumbs from the Table, https://donnaaustministries.substack.com/p/crumbs-from-the-table.

It was the women who remained near the cross when many of the male disciples fled, and it was the women who first witnessed the empty tomb at the resurrection.

That detail is easy to overlook because we know the story so well. In the first century, however, it was extraordinary. If you were inventing a story and wanted to persuade others that an event had truly happened, women would not have been your first choice as witnesses in that culture.

Yet God chose women. The first people entrusted with announcing the resurrection—the greatest news in history—were women.

That fact alone should cause us to pause before assuming that women were viewed as spiritually inferior or incapable of meaningful ministry.

Which Brings Us Back to Paul

Paul certainly lived within a patriarchal world. No one disputes that. The question is whether he simply reinforced the assumptions of his culture or whether the gospel transformed the way he viewed women.

Was Paul more influenced by Aristotle?

Or by Jesus?

That question became increasingly important as I continued my research. Because when I turned from Paul’s controversial statements to the women he actually knew, trusted, and commended, I discovered something I wasn’t expecting.

And that is where we turn next for Part 3.

Few passages in Scripture have generated more discussion, disagreement, and division than 1 Timothy 2:11–15.

To be honest, I avoided studying this passage for years, mostly because I was afraid of what it might mean.

That fear was not surprising given my background.

Before coming to Christ, I was deeply influenced by feminist ideology. By the time I became president of the Women’s Collective in college (yes, I was all in), feminism had become more than a cause I supported—it had become the lens through which I viewed reality.

Questions of power, oppression, and equality shaped the way I understood nearly every issue. Looking back, I can see how deeply that ideology had shaped my worldview before Christ transformed the way I saw myself, others, and the world around me.

After becoming a Christian, I came to recognize how easily our experiences, assumptions, and cultural influences shape the way we read and understand Scripture.

One of the first areas where I encountered this personally was in Scripture’s teaching on marriage. Coming from a feminist background, the language of a wife’s submission initially felt difficult to accept. Yet as I studied the text more carefully, I came to see that biblical marriage was not what I had assumed. The husband’s role was not one of domination or privilege, but of Christlike, sacrificial love and servant leadership. What I initially perceived as restrictive became a joy and a privilege when understood within God’s design.

That experience taught me an important lesson: when Scripture challenges my presuppositions, my responsibility is not to reshape the text but to allow the text to reshape me.

Because I understood how deeply my own assumptions could influence my reading of Scripture, I largely avoided a deep study of the passages addressing women in ministry and leadership until I felt prepared to approach them with that same commitment—to follow the text wherever it led, even if it led me somewhere I did not expect.

So for years, I left those passages largely unexplored.

It wasn’t until I began working on my seminary thesis that I finally felt it was time.

The passage I chose to study was 1 Timothy 2:11–15.

Although much of the debate centers on verse 12, this passage cannot be understood in isolation. Paul’s instruction is part of a larger argument, and any faithful interpretation must consider the surrounding context, the historical setting, and the flow of his reasoning as a whole. Nevertheless, because verse 12 stands at the heart of the discussion, it serves as a natural starting point:

For centuries, Christians have wrestled with Paul’s words. Entire theological systems, denominational practices, and church leadership structures have been built upon a particular understanding of this passage.

Many churches have concluded that women are prohibited from preaching, teaching, or exercising spiritual authority over men because Paul intended these instructions to apply universally to all churches in all times.

As a result, countless women who sensed a call to ministry were told that certain avenues of service were forever closed to them—not because of gifting, education, character, or calling, but because of gender.

If that interpretation is correct, then the church has been right to maintain those boundaries.

But what if Paul was addressing a specific situation in Ephesus rather than establishing a universal prohibition?

The implications of that question are enormous.

What is at stake is not merely the interpretation of a difficult passage. It is the possibility that generations of sincere and faithful Christians may have misunderstood what Paul intended to communicate.

What began as an academic assignment quickly became something much more personal. The deeper I dug into the historical context, the language, and Paul’s broader theology, the more I found myself asking a question I never expected to ask:

Have we misunderstood Paul?

That question may sound provocative, but it is not intended to be.

Throughout church history, Christians have returned to difficult passages and reexamined them. We do so not because Scripture changes, but because our understanding can sometimes be shaped by assumptions we don’t even realize we’re carrying.

Sometimes those assumptions come from the surrounding culture. Sometimes they come from our personal experiences. Sometimes they come from traditions we have inherited without ever stopping to examine them.

Church history matters. The voices of faithful Christians who have wrestled with these texts before us deserve a hearing. But their conclusions, no matter how longstanding or widely held, cannot carry the same authority as the biblical text itself.

One of the insights I most appreciated from New Testament scholar Scot McKnight’s The Blue Parakeet is his distinction between reading Scripture through tradition and reading Scripture with tradition.

According to McKnight, reading Scripture through tradition often suggests allowing inherited interpretations to become the primary lens through which we understand a passage. Reading Scripture with tradition, on the other hand, suggests learning from the wisdom of those who have gone before us while continuing to test every interpretation against the biblical text itself.

My own journey has taught me that how both feminist ideology and religious tradition can become lenses through which we read Scripture. Neither should be allowed the final word.

The goal is not to make the Bible conform to our preferences.

The goal is to allow the text—and its context—to speak for itself.

One of the challenges of interpreting 1 Timothy is remembering that we are reading someone else’s correspondence. Paul was not writing a systematic theology textbook. He was writing a personal letter to Timothy, his trusted ministry partner, who had been left in Ephesus to address a growing crisis within the church.

Timothy knew the people involved. He knew the false teachers. He knew the circumstances that prompted Paul’s instructions. We do not.

Imagine finding a text message on someone’s phone and reading only one side of the conversation. You might understand the words themselves, but without knowing the situation that prompted them, you could easily misunderstand what was being said.

The same principle applies here.

Context does not weaken Scripture. Context helps us hear Scripture as its original audience would have heard it.

And that larger context raises an important question.

The Paul many people imagine from 1 Timothy 2 often seems very different from the Paul we encounter elsewhere.

The same Paul who wrote 1 Timothy also wrote:

“There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 3:28)

The same Paul repeatedly commended women who labored alongside him in ministry. He celebrated their faithfulness, acknowledged their contributions, and referred to them as coworkers in the gospel.

How do we reconcile those realities?

Did Paul suddenly reverse course when writing to Timothy?

Or might we be missing something important about the circumstances behind his words?

Those are some of the questions that launched this study.

They are only the beginning.

In the weeks ahead, we will explore questions of culture and context, language and history, church tradition and biblical authority, and the circumstances that prompted Paul to write these words in the first place.

Because before we can determine what this passage means for us, we must first understand what it meant to its original audience.

The truthfulness of Scripture is not in question. The question is whether we have understood it correctly.

Get ready for Part 2, because before we can understand what Paul said, we must first understand the world in which he said it.

Please enjoy an excerpt from my book, When Hope Comes, along with new reflections on spiritual famine, living water, and the hope that never runs dry.

When the northern kingdom of Israel had completely abandoned God, He sent Amos to prophesy against them:

A Famine of Hearing

Devastation would come because the people were no longer interested in hearing or obeying God’s Word. The Hebrew word for “hearing” (shama) means more than simply listening. It carries the idea of hearing with the intent to obey. Israel’s famine was not merely a lack of information about God, but the absence of a people willing to respond to His voice.

A famine of hearing the Lord would become their judgment. We can almost hear God say, “If you do not want My Word, then I will give you what you truly desire—a life without it. Go ahead, chase the things you believe will satisfy you until they reveal how empty they truly are.”

Why would God impose what seems to be a counterintuitive consequence? Because when we seek satisfaction in the promises of our culture rather than the promises of God, we exchange the truth for a lie (Romans 1:25). Eventually, when we continually reject God and pursue powerless substitutes, He gives us over to the desires we insist upon following (Romans 1:28).

We see this principle throughout Scripture. When the Israelites grew tired of God’s daily provision of manna and demanded meat, God gave them quail in abundance. Yet what they craved became a source of judgment rather than satisfaction. Their problem was not hunger but misplaced desire. They wanted God’s gifts more than God Himself.

Tim Keller asks in his book, Counterfeit Gods, “Why would the greatest punishment imaginable be to allow someone to achieve their fondest dream?” His answer is sobering: because our hearts have a way of turning good gifts into gods.

Today, believers in the West are inundated with Christian messages, books, podcasts, sermons, and social media content. Never before have so many people had such easy access to God’s Word. While faithful believers in underground churches hunger for even the crumbs of Scripture, sadly, we often allow an abundance of biblical resources to breed familiarity rather than obedience. Yet spiritual famine is not always the absence of truth; sometimes it is the absence of an appetite for it.

Like Israel, we can become hearers without becoming doers. Some reject God’s truth outright. Others deconstruct it, dilute it, or reshape it to fit cultural preferences. Has apathy crept into our hearts? Have we become so familiar with truth that we no longer tremble at it, delight in it, or obey it?

The Wells We Trust

The tragedy of spiritual famine is that we often do not recognize our condition until the wells we trust run dry.

Jeremiah describes this reality with a powerful image:

The Hebrew word for cistern (bor) refers to a man-made reservoir carved out of rock, unlike a spring that continually provides fresh water. Jeremiah’s point is profound: Israel’s problem was not merely that they pursued idols; it was that they abandoned the very source of life.

The same temptation confronts us today. In seasons of spiritual famine, we are tempted to draw from broken cisterns—relationships, success, possessions, status, comfort, political affiliation, and even the illusion of control—hoping they will satisfy the deepest longings of our souls. Yet every substitute eventually runs dry.

The Fountain of Living Water

Spiritual famine reveals a sobering truth: whatever we look to for hope, identity, and security apart from God will eventually leave us thirsty.

Centuries later, Jesus drew upon this same imagery in Jeremiah as He stood beside a well in Samaria, offering living water to a woman whose soul was parched by broken cisterns (John 4:1-42.)

By Jewish standards, this woman was an outcast. She had spent years searching for significance, love, and fulfillment in places that could never satisfy. Yet in a single conversation with Jesus, everything changed. When she embraced Christ, the true Living Water, she found a new identity, a new purpose, and a new hope.

Whatever famine we face, we can draw from that same well.

The Choice to Trust

Throughout Scripture, famine often serves as more than a physical crisis. It becomes a spiritual mirror, revealing where people place their trust. The Book of Ruth opens against just such a backdrop—a famine.

Elimelech left Bethlehem—the “House of Bread”—because there was no bread. Rather than trusting the God who had promised to provide for His people, he looked elsewhere for security. Fear drove him away from the very place God had called home.

Have we done the same?

When hardship comes, where do we look for refuge? When our lives begin to unravel, where do we seek security? When famine strikes, which wells do we run to first?

I wish I could say that every time hardship has entered my life, I have responded with unwavering faith. The truth is, my own famines have often exposed fears, misplaced hopes, and a desire to control what only God can. Yet those difficult seasons have also reminded me that every other well eventually runs dry, while Christ remains a faithful source of living water.

In her book Are You Drowning?, Jenna Shotmeyer, a family friend, recounts the tragic accident that resulted in a life-altering traumatic brain injury. Overnight, the labels that had defined her life—stellar student, college tennis player, friend, and aspiring accountant—were stripped away. In her darkest season, Jenna discovered that those identities had quietly become the source of her worth and security.

Feeling “exposed and naked without the Nike logo and Women’s Tennis label across her chest,” she eventually embraced a new identity: Child of God.

It became the only identity sturdy enough to keep her from drowning and the only foundation capable of sustaining her life. Like Elimelech, Jenna faced a famine of her own. Unlike Elimelech, however, her suffering ultimately led her to place her hope more deeply in Christ.

God sees us in our suffering (Job 34:21). He is good, faithful, kind, and compassionate (Psalm 119:68; Hebrews 10:23; Isaiah 54:10). He promises to be with us wherever we go (Joshua 1:9), even in our darkest hours.

Most importantly, He promises us hope that cannot be shaken by our circumstances. Paul writes in Romans:

The Israelites turned to idols. Elimelech fled to Moab. The Samaritan woman returned again and again to an earthly well. We often run to success, relationships, possessions, or the illusion of control.

Yet every broken cistern eventually runs dry. The question is not whether famine will come, but whether we will place our hope in the One who never fails.

Jesus Our Living Hope

Only Jesus offers living water. Only He can sustain us in seasons of loss, uncertainty, suffering, and grief. And only He can provide the hope that remains when every other source of security fails.

As Edward Mote so beautifully wrote:

Throughout Scripture, it is often the outsiders—the ones willing to gather even the crumbs from the table—who recognize the true Bread of Life and are honored for their faithfulness.

The Faithful Ruths of the World

As these witnesses welcome and support Ruth into their Israelite community and anticipate God’s blessing on this new family, the theological theme of Ruth is also realized, “Yahweh welcomes foreigners who demonstrate faithfulness demanded of ethnic Israel.”1 God deeply cares for all the Ruths of the world, all the outcasts, widows, and foreigners (Deuteronomy 10:18), and he delights when they acknowledge him as the one true God (Psalm 147:11).

And honestly, that hasn’t changed. God continues to delight when anyone comes to Him, because in many ways, aren’t we all outsiders—living in exile east of Eden, longing for home? And when we call on His name, we become citizens of another kingdom, foreigners in a world that is no longer our true home.

God sees and loves the faithful outsider and through his mercy, they become insiders. We see biblical examples of foreign non-Israelite women such as Tamar, Rahab, and, of course, Ruth. All experienced great adversity and varied circumstances, but each pledged allegiance and faithfulness to the one true God. God includes these marginalized foreigners to accomplish his plans and purposes, and all are included in the genealogy of Jesus listed in Matthew’s Gospel.

What we can’t miss is how God, in both Old and New Testaments, chooses the most unlikely and lowly for his glory to be revealed, and God continues to teach us by defying conventional and human wisdom by doing the unexpected.

Did Jesus Reject the Gentile Woman?

Theologian Ligon Duncan captures God’s heart, whose mission is to bring hope and redemption to the other, a lowly, gentile woman, in his brilliant piece, “A Pagan Woman Who Understands Grace.”2

What initially appears to be an offensive and perplexing conversation between a Gentile woman and Jesus, the context reveals a different story. Jesus commends this gentile woman’s great faith and heals her daughter. We glean from two passages of the same account in Mark 7:24-30 and Matthew 15:21-29.

We learn that Jesus entered a house near Tyre and Sidon, Gentile territory, outside where the Jews lived. Duncan suggests Jesus intentionally traveled outside Jerusalem to preach and minister to the Gentiles, which makes Jesus’ response even more intriguing. When a Canaanite woman heard Jesus was there, she fell at his feet and begged him to deliver her demon-possessed daughter. His disciples urged him to “Send her away, for she keeps crying out after us” (Matthew 15:21).

In Matthews’s account, Jesus explained that he was sent only to “the lost sheep of Israel” (Mt 15:24), the Jews. Nevertheless, she cried out, “Lord, help me” (Mt 15: 25). This woman, a stranger to the covenant of promise, calls him Lord, son of David (Mt 15:22).

She seems to have more insight about who he was than the Pharisees and even his disciples.

Understanding the Bread and the Crumbs

He continued, “First, let the children eat all they want,” he told her, “For it is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.”

When I first read that passage, I was confused. I found myself searching for ways to defend Jesus, but all I could think was, did Jesus just call this woman a dog? How do I reconcile that?

“Lord,” she replied, “Even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.” (Mark 7:27; Matthew 15:27). And now she seems to agree with Him. Were women and Gentiles so marginalized in that culture that she had come to see herself as no better than a dog?

Once again, context matters. In this exchange, the “children” are the Jewish people, and the “dogs” refer to the Gentiles (non-Jews), signifying a traditional distinction between the Jews and the Gentiles, especially in this story.3 However, even that biased distinction could have felt insulting.

Now the crumbs come from the bread. And Jesus is the bread. Jesus, in effect, was saying, “I am the bread of life for the Jews only, and I need to offer this bread to them first (Mark 7:27), suggesting there is hope for the Gentiles in the future.4 While Jesus calls himself the Bread of Life, author Cory Driver, in his article, “Crumbs from the Table,” astutely proposes that Jesus’ confusing and even harsh words might have been intended for his disciples to hear more than this woman.5 What an interesting twist. Let’s keep reading.

Although Jesus referred to himself as “bread for the children,” these very children, his people, the religious leaders, and even the crowds from Galilee abandoned him and treated him more “like crumbs that the children (the Jews) were happy to drop and leave.”6 Jesus’ rejection from his own people was already unfolding, and this very encounter subtly brought this truth to light.

Willing to Eat the Crumbs from the Table

This pagan woman was willing to take even the crumbs. She knew what she deserved. She knew “her sins were many, but his mercy was more.”7 This outsider acknowledged who Jesus was; she knew he was the son of David, the Messiah. And she would not let go. This woman seemed to understand things his own disciples couldn’t discern! “Then Jesus said to her, “Woman, your faith is great! Your request is granted.” And her daughter was healed at that moment” (Mt 15:28).

Duncan points out of all the encounters with Jesus, the only people Jesus ever commended for their faith were Gentiles, the outsiders. Martin Luther is quoted as saying, “She took Christ at his own words. He then treated her not as a dog but as a child of Israel.”8

I knew Jesus had His reasons. I just needed to trust that even when something doesn’t immediately make sense to me, He is still good and faithful.

Jesus told the Canaanite woman she had great faith.

What? Was she turning around to see if He was speaking to someone else? And what exactly did He mean by that? Faithful to what?

Just as many in Israel rejected the Bread of Life, the Canaanite woman was willing to accept even the crumbs. She revealed herself to be a righteous foreigner and, as such, can be seen in the same light as Jesus’ ancestors. Like her Canaanite sisters Tamar, Rahab, and Ruth, she responded faithfully to the revelation of God placed before her.

Rahab, the prostitute who hid the spies in Jericho and later became the mother of Boaz, boldly proclaimed, “The LORD your God, he is in the heavens above and on the earth beneath” (Joshua 2:11). Each of these women chose to align themselves with the God of Israel and become part of His redemptive story.

In our story, during the dark days of the Judges, God’s people were blemished by rebellion and idolatry. Yet like a bright star shining in the darkest night, there was Ruth—the poor, barren foreigner whose devoted and radical faith shamed even the children of promise.

Ruth, willing to gather even the crumbs from the table, knew nothing of God’s plans for her legacy, yet she walked in radical faithfulness.

What does it mean to walk in radical faithfulness?

I think of the brave and devoted persecuted Christians and missionaries serving throughout the world in countries where openly practicing faith in Christ is forbidden. If discovered, they face imprisonment or even martyrdom. These faithful believers gather in underground churches, rejoicing over the crumbs that fall from the table and finding joy in even the smallest glimpses of spiritual nourishment. It is their Spirit-filled faith that empowers their boldness and courage to defend the gospel in oppressive and harrowing places.

In contrast, many of us in the West are inundated with Christian messages, books, podcasts, and sermons showcased across every social media platform. I am ashamed to admit that despite being flooded with the truth of the gospel, some have become numb, saturated, and disinterested.

They are feasting yet facing spiritual famine.

Some reject, deconstruct, twist, or pervert God’s clear truth.

Has apathy encroached upon our hearts, as it did with the Israelites, the Pharisees, and even the Galileans? Have we become jaded or bored with faith?

What can we learn from the outsider?

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from my book, When Hope Comes. I look forward to sharing more excerpts here on Substack as I continue completing the companion Bible study for the book.

Sources

My heart is so full as I think of my three daughters-in-law—young moms who love and nurture their children with patience, gentleness, and a devoted faith, guiding their little ones toward Jesus. I celebrate them for modeling His love so well.

I think about all the mothers I’ve known over the years, young and old, who have poured out their hearts, raising, teaching, nurturing and faithfully loving their children through every season of life.

So much of what mothers give happens quietly and behind the scenes—through sacrifices no one sees, endurance in the hardest moments, sleepless nights, prayers whispered, and a love that faithfully shows up day after day. The impact of that kind of love reaches farther than we often realize.

I reflect on my own mom, Tomasina Giuca, who is no longer with us, but her impact and influence continue to shape me in ways I may not fully realize. Adoption brought me into a new family story, and while I never met Jean Colosi, I’ve come to know the woman who gave me life through my three biological siblings and their families. Through them, I catch glimpses of the love and legacy she left behind, carried forward through generations.

For those who are missing their moms today—whether through loss, distance, or estrangement or for those who have longed to become mothers but have been unable to conceive—my heart breaks with you. Some absences never stop aching, especially on days meant for celebration.

And yet, even in the ache, there can still be traces of grace. We can still find reasons to be grateful for the love that shaped us and the memories that remain woven into the fabric our lives. This is why we can, “Give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thessalonians 5:18).❤️

What if the place you are hiding in is the very place God meets you?

I can’t help but wonder… did the angel of the Lord know how terrified Gideon was?

He calls him a “mighty man of valor,” yet Gideon is hiding, in a winepress, trying to thresh wheat in secret so the Midianites won’t find him. You can read the full account in Judges 6:11-16.

The irony is striking.

God declares Gideon’s strength, courage, and valor while Gideon is crouched in fear, doing something that doesn’t even make sense—threshing wheat in a winepress.

A winepress is sunken and enclosed. Threshing wheat needs wind, yet Gideon is essentially working in a cave, with no wind in sight.

And yet, this is where God meets him.

Not after Gideon proves himself. Not once he finds his courage. But right there, in the fear, in the hiding, in the weakness.

Perhaps that’s the point.

God doesn’t speak to who Gideon believes he is in that moment. He speaks to who Gideon will become.

Maybe that’s how God sees us when we come to Him. Gideon wasn’t just hiding from the Midianites. He was hiding from a version of himself shaped more by fear than by truth.

And perhaps that’s where we find ourselves too.

We may still see ourselves as we’ve always been—fearful, uncertain, shaped by old patterns and lies, but God sees something entirely new. As 2 Corinthians 5:17 reminds us, we are a new creation in Christ; the old has gone, the new has come.

And when we embrace the fullness of Christ’s redeeming work on the cross and His resurrection, we are given a new identity. We are no longer who we once were. Throughout Scripture we are told who we are.

We are chosen, holy, and beloved.
We are God’s workmanship, created with a purpose.
His Spirit now lives within us—to transform us, guide us, empower us, and convict us.
And we are called, as ambassadors, to represent Him in the world.

Does a butterfly know it was once a caterpillar?

Can we truly grasp what it means to pass from death to life, or even begin to imagine the chorus of angels rejoicing over our new birth?

While this new identity becomes ours in an instant, it takes time to grow into that reality. But first, we must believe that it is true, and let it soak into every corner of our being.

Like Gideon, we must confront the lies we’ve believed, the ones that have shaped our thinking and our choices and have kept us stuck in our own winepresses.

This is not about becoming someone else, but becoming who we were always meant to be. As C. S. Lewis so aptly reminds us in his book, Mere Christianity, “The more we let God take us over, the more truly ourselves we become, because He made us. He invented us.”

The new collides with the old.

We sense the change, even if we can’t fully explain it. New desires take root, yet old patterns still linger. What once felt natural now feels out of place, and what once felt foreign begins to feel like home.

It’s a strange in-between place, yet all of it is true. And still, we struggle to live in the reality of that newness.

I remember when this tension became very real for me. When I first became a believer I felt like an imposter, as if the old was overshadowing the new. I feared those around me would notice the “hypocrisy” I perceived in myself, and I began to question the reality of my own conversion.

Without realizing it at the time, the enemy was at work, causing me to question the authenticity of my new identity, and doubt whether what took place in my heart was even real, genuine, and lasting.

And yet, something undeniable was happening.

Things that once held my attention in my old life began to lose their grip. The romance novels I once devoured no longer appealed to me. In their place came a sudden, almost consuming desire to read the Bible—something that would have felt foreign to me before now is life-giving.

God began to soften my heart toward those I had judged or needed to forgive. I found myself having conversations with Jesus as if He were right there with me, and praying for people I barely knew. I couldn’t resist telling anyone I locked eyes with about my new relationship with Jesus. I began asking for a kinder, more compassionate heart, one that would help me focus more on others than on myself.

That prayer never gets old. And thank God, neither does His sanctifying grace.

I lived with myself long enough to know that those changes could only be explained as the supernatural work of the Spirit. As Paul tells us in Romans 8:16, “The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God.”

And Galatians 3:3 (NLT) reminds us, “How foolish can you be? After starting your new lives in the Spirit, why are you now trying to become perfect by your own human effort?”

When we come to Christ, the Spirit’s work in us may feel unfamiliar, unsettling, even exhilarating—and unmistakably real.

Despite the strangeness of this new birth, it is only by His grace that we can step into who He says we are and begin to walk in our God-given identity. Like Gideon, God sees us as a new creation and calls us to step into our purpose—to live, love and serve courageously for His glory, right where we are.

I surrendered my life to Christ over 30 years ago. Even now, when old fears, uncertainties, or doubts surface, He continues to remind me, especially in the winepress, who I am in Christ and what I’m called to do.

How about you? Have you found it challenging to navigate the tension between the old and the new self?

The winepress may be where He meets you, but it was never meant to be where you stay.

As a small child, I quickly learned the feeling of inadequacy. Although I could’t fully describe it, it was an unhinged belief that I was not good enough. Does that strike a chord? My grandmother, never intending to hurt me, would tease me by making comments about how naive I was. Although she said naive, I heard dumb, and that belief stuck.

Those feelings of shame and inferiority followed me into my teenage and adult years. Even the slightest comments from others could trigger that same sense of inadequacy. My mind replayed those past feelings over and over, quietly reinforcing lies about who I was.

When we rehearse old hurts or past trauma, our brain’s alarm center, called the amygdala, stays activated. That ongoing stress keeps cortisol elevated, fueling fear and anxiety. But research also shows that when we deliberately shift our attention or reframe our thoughts, the part of the brain responsible for thinking and planning begins to quiet the “emotional alarm system” and helps us regulate our feelings more effectively.

As trauma researcher Bessel van der Kolk explains in his book, The Body Keeps the Score: Brain Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma, the body often continues to respond as if the threat is still present, even when the danger has long passed. The nervous system becomes primed for survival. The muscles tighten, the heart races, and the brain remains on high alert, because the body “remembers” what happened, not just the mind.

In other words: what we repeatedly think, we literally wire into the brain and it begins to shape our reality.

God Designed the Brain for Renewal

Here’s the good news: God created our brains with the ability to change. Scientists call it neuroplasticity— the brain’s built-in capacity to reorganize, rewire, form new connections, and strengthen healthier pathways over time. That means we are not doomed to think the same thoughts, react the same way, or remain stuck in old patterns forever.

The same brain that learned to live in survival mode can, over time, learn new ways of responding. When we interrupt that loop by reframing our thoughts, taking them captive, choosing truth over fear or talking it through with a trusted counselor or friend— the part of the brain that helps us think clearly and make wise choices begins to settle the alarm system. Over time, our minds form healthier pathways.

This is part of the renewing work Scripture points to where God patiently transforms our thinking so we can press forward instead of staying bound to a painful past.

When we repeatedly dwell on fear, shame, or hurt, the brain “practices” those responses and they become our default way of thinking. But when we interrupt those loops through truth, prayer, gratitude, forgiveness, journaling, counseling, or community, the brain slowly builds new pathways toward peace and clarity.

In other words, the same brain that once rehearsed worry, ruminated on false realities, or was stuck in past trauma, can now take those thoughts captive and be renewed by the transforming work of the Holy Spirit.

This is exactly what Scripture has taught all along:

“Take every thought captive to make it obedient to Christ” (2 Corinthians 10:5).

“Be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2).

“Be renewed in the spirit of your mind.” (Ephesians 4:23).

“You keep in perfect peace those whose minds are stayed on You.” (Isaiah 26:3).

God never commands what He doesn’t also empower. He didn’t simply tell us to “think differently,” He designed the brain so that renewed thinking becomes instinctive over time. As we release the past into His hands, our thoughts begin to align with His truth. Our reactions begin to grow calmer and more grounded with less and less triggering. Peace becomes more familiar. Hope becomes more accessible.

That’s not positive thinking.

That’s spiritual formation supported by God-designed biology.

Closing

What lies about yourself have you believed because of old hurts or past trauma?

We can rejoice because God invites us to exchange those lies for His truth, renew our minds, and to walk in the freedom of who He has called us to be.

Over the centuries, the same question is raised—

Did it really happen?

Did Jesus truly rise from the dead or is the resurrection simply a meaningful story meant to inspire hope?

This is not a small question. It is everything.

As Tim Keller once said,

“If Jesus rose from the dead, then you have to accept all that he said; if he didn’t rise from the dead, then why worry about any of what he said?”

There is no middle ground.

A Claim Rooted in Real Time and Place

What I find so compelling is that the resurrection is not presented as a vague spiritual idea. It is a historical claim, anchored in a real city, at a real point in history.

At the center of that claim is this:

A publicly executed man—whose life, death, and resurrection fulfilled dozens of specific Old Testament prophecies written centuries before He was born.

One of these prophecies is found in Isaiah 53, which tells us that the Messiah would be rejected, suffer in our place, be pierced for our transgressions, remain silent before His accusers, be unjustly condemned and killed, and be buried in a way no one would expect. And yet, He would live again, be vindicated, and bring righteousness to many.

In fact Psalm 22 depicts a description of crucifixion centuries before it was even practiced. Even when Jesus cried out while on the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He was drawing attention to the whole Psalm—one that begins in suffering and ends in victory.

These are not vague impressions. They are specific threads woven together long before Jesus was born now seen clearly in His life, death, and resurrection. This is not a disconnected event. It is the culmination of a story God had been writing for generations.

The Place It Could Have Been Stopped

In a recent podcast interview, Wesley Huff pointed out something simple, yet profound:

The resurrection was proclaimed in Jerusalem, the very place where Jesus had been crucified. Within weeks, His followers stood in that same city and declared:

“God has raised this Jesus to life, and we are all witnesses of it.” (Acts 2:32)

Not in secret. Not at a distance.
But in the very place where it could have been most easily refuted and and yet, no one was able to disprove the testimony of those who claimed to have seen Him alive.

What Was Expected To End Became A New Beginning

From Rome’s perspective, crucifixion was designed not only to execute but to silence.
To end movements and erase threats. And so, when Jesus was crucified, the expectation would have been clear:

This movement is over.

But the opposite happened. Instead of fading, it grew. As the early church faced increasing persecution, the message did not disappear, it spread. What Rome intended to suppress became the very thing that strengthened and multiplied the movement.

One of the early church fathers, Tertullian, observed this very reality when he wrote:

“The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.”

Carefully Preserved, Publicly Testable

There is another piece of this story that adds to its credibility.

The Gospel accounts were written within the lifetime of those who had witnessed these events. That piece of information is crucial. These were not distant legends formed generations later. They were recorded while people were still alive who could have challenged or refuted them.

And yet, no one did. The message endured.

When we compare the Gospel accounts to other ancient writings, whether the histories of Julius Caesar or Tacitus, or even the philosophical works of Plato and Aristotle, which are widely accepted despite being preserved in far fewer and much later copies, we begin to see just how uniquely well attested the New Testament is.

In other words, what we read today is not a distorted version of a long-lost story. It is a faithful transmission of what was witnessed and proclaimed from the beginning.

An Unexpected Detail That Gets Our Attention

There is another detail in the Gospel accounts that is incredibly significant, although easy to miss.

All four Gospels record that women were the first witnesses to discover the empty tomb. In our modern world, that may not seem surprising. But in the first century, a woman’s testimony was often not given the same weight as a man’s in legal settings. If the resurrection accounts were fabricated, this would be a strange and counterproductive detail to include. As N. T. Wright and others have noted, this is the kind of detail you would not invent if you were trying to make your story more credible.

Secular Evidence of the Resurrection

Even outside of Scripture, we find confirmation of these events.

Historians like Tacitus and Josephus, who were not followers of Jesus, record that He lived, was crucified, and that His followers believed He had risen.

These are not voices trying to defend Christianity, yet they point to the same reality. Something happened that changed everything.

A Faith That Is Not Blind

Christianity does not ask us to check our minds at the door.

It invites us to consider the facts:

• A publicly executed man

• The fulfillment of long-anticipated promises and prophesies

• Eyewitness accounts recorded early

• A preserved record of those accounts

• An empty tomb

• Unexpected and countercultural details that further strengthen the accounts

• A movement that grew in the very place it could have been stopped

• A church that expanded even under persecution

• A dramatic transformation of fearful followers into bold witnesses

Taken together, these are not the marks of a carefully crafted legend, but are the marks of something real, something true.

Despite all the Evidence—Faith Can Feel Like Doubt

And yet, even with all the evidence, many of us can relate to Thomas, one of the disciples, often remembered as “doubting Thomas.”

Thomas had walked with Jesus.
He had seen the miracles.
He had heard the teaching.

And still, when told that Jesus had risen, he said:

“Unless I see… I will not believe.” (John 20:25)

There is something deeply honest about that. Because many of us live in a similar tension. We have seen God’s faithfulness. We have experienced His provision.
And yet, at times, we still wrestle with doubt.

But notice how Jesus responds to Thomas. Not with rejection. Not with shame. But with invitation.

“Put your finger here… Stop doubting and believe.” (John 20:27)

Jesus meets Thomas in his doubt and reveals Himself.

And Thomas responds:

“My Lord and my God.”

And then Jesus speaks words that reach far beyond that moment. It’s a message for us.

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” (John 20:29)

Despite all the evidence, Jesus acknowledges that faith is still required to believe.

More Than Evidence–An Invitation

The resurrection is not just something to examine. It is something to respond to.

Because if Jesus truly rose from the dead, then:

• His claims are true

• His authority is real

• And our identity is no longer defined by sin, loss, or striving–but by redemption

This is where it becomes personal.

Not just: Did it happen?

But: What does it mean for me that it did?

Reflection:

• Despite all the evidence, do you still doubt the resurrection of Christ?

• If the resurrection is true, what does that mean for how you view God and your identity today?