I’m not here to throw rocks at honest effort. I am here to call us back to the old road—the one Luke sketched and Acts paved in blood and wind. America is drowning in church growth consultants and discipleship “gurus.” Flowcharts, pipelines, ladders, funnels—new wine poured into management skins. But if the Spirit doesn’t light it, all we’ve built is a barn with pretty signage and no grain in the silo.
Uncle Harold used to say, “You don’t measure a crop by how pretty the barn is, but by what’s in the bin come winter.” That’ll preach.
Luke’s Pattern: Not a Program, a Pulse
Open your Bible and follow the heartbeat:
One Man, hidden obedience (Luke 2–4). Thirty years before the spotlight—wood shavings and prayer. The Twelve (Luke 6:12–16). After a night of prayer, Jesus chooses men, not methods. Twelve on purpose, patterned after Israel. The Seventy (Luke 10:1–20). The circle widens to the nations. Two by two—authority, not advertising. The Upper Room—120 souls (Acts 1:15). Waiting and praying, not whiteboarding. Pentecost—about 3,000 added (Acts 2:41). Spirit-fire, gospel preached, hearts cut, water splashing.
Not a consultant in sight. No offense to consultants, but Jesus promised a Comforter, not a contractor (John 14:26).
COVID: A Hard Mercy
When the doors shut, the diagrams didn’t save us. Too many pastors discovered the church they “led” could not survive without a building and a band. Meanwhile, history mocks our panic. Rome crucified our Lord, fed saints to lions, shattered families—and still the church multiplied. Caves held scrolls. Prisons became pulpits. Blood became seed.
Persecution has never killed the church; it kills our illusions. COVID did a little of that. Call it judgment. Call it mercy. Either way it exposed our scaffolding.
Consultants vs. the Comforter
There is no biblical office of “church growth strategist.” The early church grew by catechesis in homes, one-on-one formation, suffering, sacrament, and Spirit. Augustine said, “You have made us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You.” Restless hearts are not calmed by a pipeline; they are stilled by Presence. Programs can coach habits; only the Spirit creates new hearts.
I’m not saying effort is evil. I’m saying effort without unction is sawdust. And sometimes we hide from prayer behind “best practices” because the living God is too holy to manage.
Breakfast on the Beach (John 21): The Real Model
After the resurrection, the men are half-broke—fishing, quiet, minds fogged with failure. Jesus builds a fire and cooks breakfast. He restores one man (Peter) so that man can restore many. That’s the pattern: presence → restoration → sending. No flowchart, just a Shepherd’s hand steadying a shaking soul.
Our modern model: branding, metrics, pathways, consultants, retention strategies, “engagement.”
One births disciples. The other manufactures attenders. You can pack a room with dollars and dollar signs, but that’s not a congregation. That’s a market segment.
If you’re a pastor, I’m not your enemy. I’m your brother on the bathroom floor of recovery, telling you the bottle doesn’t love you back. Metrics don’t love you back. The Spirit does. He convicts, comforts, cuts, and heals. Trust Him again.
A Simple Way Back: Each One Reach One (and More)
Pray before you plan. Sacrifice strategy on the altar of seeking. Choose a few. Pour into twelve if God gives them, five if He doesn’t. Names, not numbers. Walk with them. Scripture open, lives open. Real confession, real obedience. Send them. Two by two. No bag but authority. Expect cost. If discipleship doesn’t cost you, it won’t carry you.
We don’t need a new model. We need old obedience.
Anticipating the Pushback (and Answering Gently)
“But good systems help.” Sure. Just make them servants, not saviors. “We have to measure something.” Measure what Luke measured: prayerfulness, bold witness, baptisms, repentance, hospitality, generosity (Acts 2:42–47). “Consultants can coach us.” Maybe. But if coaching replaces kneeling, you’ve traded the Comforter for a comfort blanket.
Scripture to Anchor This (ESV)
Luke 6:12–13 — prayer, then choosing. Luke 10:1–3 — sending the seventy, two by two. Acts 1:14–15 — 120 waiting together. Acts 2:41–47 — 3,000 baptized; a Spirit-shaped church: teaching, fellowship, breaking bread, prayers, generosity, favor. John 21:9–19 — restoration around a fire: “Feed my sheep.”
Closing: Harold’s Wisdom & a Call
My Uncle taught me, “You don’t measure a harvest by the shine on the barn, but by grain in the silo come winter.” The barn is your building. The silo is God’s kingdom. Programs polish barns; the Spirit fills silos.
Pastors, deacons, saints—repent of our schemes. Return to the Spirit. Walk Luke’s road. I’ve survived falls and carried scars enough to know: Christ is still the Way, and the Spirit is still the wind. Let’s get back in the boat with Him, then step out on the water when He says, “Come.”
Men, lead your homes. Churches, shepherd your people. Obedience over optics. Holiness over hype. Harvest over headlines.
“Behold, you are to them like a love song with a beautiful voice and fine instrument; for they hear your words but they do not practice them. But when it comes—as it certainly will—then they will know that a prophet has been among them.”
What do you do when your whole life feels like that verse? What do you do when you’ve poured out decades and the people treat your words like background music?
Pastor Hugh-Dean Passmore—“H.D.” to everyone in Cleburne County—knew the sting of those questions. Fifty years behind pulpits, fifty years in the fields, and still most Sundays his words floated off like a song in a deaf man’s ears.
The Weariness of the Shepherd
His aching arthritic hands had baptized no one in three years. His knees, worn thin from decades of kneeling, groaned with every climb up the pulpit steps. His back, bent more by shepherding burdens than years of manual labor, throbbed whenever he rose to preach.
Late nights in his little study, surrounded by dog-eared Bibles and yellowing sermon notes, the same questions circled him like vultures:
Is it me? Do I need more education? Is my walk pure? Do I have unconfessed sin? Am I even called? Or are the people just this stubborn?
That empty baptistry whispered louder than any hymn.
Isn’t this where we often live—standing between calling and despair, between faith and futility? You’ve asked the same questions, haven’t you?
The Judgment on False Shepherds
Ezekiel’s fire burned again:
“Woe to the shepherds of Israel who feed themselves! You eat the fat, clothe yourselves with the wool, but you do not strengthen the sick or bind up the broken.”
H.D. saw them clearly: the prosperity pimps, the wolves with polished teeth. Men like Rod Brown in Florida, and that Jezebel Joyce Meyer who built kingdoms of greed and left sheep scattered, cynical, suspicious of any shepherd at all.
Do you see it? False shepherds don’t just damage their own people. They salt the field for every faithful pastor who comes after them.
So let me ask you—have you been wounded by false shepherds? Have you allowed their corruption to birth cynicism in you?
The Fellowship of Wounded Pastors
H.D. wasn’t the only one. Around oak tables and late-night calls, other preachers confessed the same ache.
“We preach, and it’s like entertainment to them.” “We feed, but they will not eat.” “They nod on Sunday, and sin by Tuesday.”
Have you noticed how easily ministry can become a secret society of wounded men? We whisper our sorrows to one another but rarely confess them to God.
Wounds in the Flock
Some scars cut deeper.
Patrick, who strutted in as a servant but preyed on naive women. Randy, who raided the Lord’s treasury, too proud to ask for help. The baptistry, bone-dry, mocking the years gone by.
Here’s the question—when the sheep sin, do you stop shepherding? Or do you see in their failures a mirror of your own desperate need for grace?
The Temptation of Resignation
One night, H.D. laid his head on his desk, body aching, spirit weary. His knees pulsed, his back groaned, his hands burned.
Maybe the Lord is against me too. Maybe I am one of those failed shepherds. Maybe my time is done.
How many of us flirt with the same thought? But tell me—when did despair become obedience? When did giving up become holiness?
The Reframing in Christ
Paul’s letters pulled him back:
“Out of much affliction and anguish of heart I wrote with many tears… not to make you sorrowful, but to show you my love.”
Paul knew what it was to shepherd a circus. Corinth was chaos, yet he kept writing, kept preaching:
“We are not like the many, peddling the Word of God, but as from sincerity we speak in Christ, in the sight of God.”
Don’t miss this—Paul didn’t endure because the results looked good. He endured because Christ was faithful.
H.D. whispered: If Paul endured Corinth, I can endure Cleburne County.
Signs of Unseen Fruit
The Spirit sent reminders.
A widow’s letter: “Your sermons carried me through my husband’s death.” A young father’s handshake: “Your preaching kept me from walking out on my family.”
Two voices in a sea of silence.
But isn’t one soul rescued enough to keep going? Isn’t one family saved evidence that God is at work?
The Young Man Named Braxton
Then came the Tuesday knock.
H.D., joints stiff, shuffled to the door. Braxton stood there—nineteen, nervous, but burning.
“Pastor, I believe God’s calling me to preach. But I don’t know what I’m doing. Will you teach me?”
Braxton was the last soul those aching hands had baptized—three long years ago. The last splash of water in that dry baptistry had been this boy.
Do you see the irony? While H.D. lamented an empty tank, the fruit was standing on his porch. And isn’t that like us?
The Beach and the Horizon
That night, H.D. thought of the ocean.
He realized he’d spent years staring at the horizon—longing for multitudes, for revival waves. But when you stare too long at the horizon, you miss the sand beneath your feet.
And wasn’t it the sand God promised Abraham? “Your descendants will be as the sand of the sea.”
Maybe Braxton was one grain of that sand. Maybe the ministry wasn’t barren at all.
And what about you? Are you so fixated on the horizon of what you want that you’re blind to the sand of what God has already given?
The Greater Shepherd Promised
Ezekiel’s promise broke over him like sunrise:
“I Myself will judge between the fat sheep and the lean. I will appoint one Shepherd, My servant David, and He will feed them.”
Christ is that Shepherd. H.D. was not the Savior. Neither are you.
Isn’t that freeing? The flock doesn’t rise or fall on your strength. The kingdom doesn’t rest on your shoulders.
Closing – The Song Heaven Hears
Sunday came. H.D. gripped the pulpit with swollen hands. Half the pews were empty. Faces blank, distracted. But Braxton sat in the front row, Bible open, pen scratching notes.
H.D.’s knees throbbed, his back burned, but his voice rang steady. He preached not for applause, not for numbers, but “as from sincerity, as from God, in Christ, in the sight of God.”
To some, it sounded like a love song to deaf ears. But in heaven, it rose as the fragrance of Christ.
And as he limped out into the sunlight, Ezekiel’s words burned true:
“When it comes—as it certainly will—then they will know a prophet has been among them.”
For the horizon may be far off, but the sand was already under his feet.
Call Upward
So let me ask you:
Are you tempted to quit? Have you let cynicism harden your heart? Have you stared so long at the horizon that you’ve missed the sand at your feet?
Don’t give up. Don’t surrender. Don’t resign.
The false shepherds will be judged. The true Shepherd will return. And when He does, you will discover that not one sermon, not one prayer, not one tear was wasted.
Look at the Braxtons God has placed in front of you. Look at the hidden fruits you’ve forgotten. Look at the Shepherd who never fails.
Stand firm. Feed the sheep. Mentor the young. Trust the Chief Shepherd.
And when He appears, your weary song will be revealed for what it always was—heaven’s fragrance, offered in faith.
The church was small but steady—tucked between soybean fields and a feed store, with a gravel lot that filled up every Sunday. The pastor was no celebrity preacher. He was just faithful—Bible in hand, prayers on his lips, always present at the hospital bed or the funeral home.
One Sunday, a couple pulled him aside after service. They were polite, smiling the way you smile when you’ve rehearsed what you’re about to say.
“We don’t feel like this is the right environment for us to serve,” the husband said. His wife nodded beside him, arms folded.
The pastor listened. He had just finished a six-week series on discipleship, spiritual gifts, and the responsibility of each believer to the body. He had preached 1 Corinthians 12—“to each one is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.” He had prayed that God would awaken sleepy saints to lives of service.
And yet here stood a man, restless. He claimed to want “opportunity,” but his heart was somewhere else. He had dirt he didn’t want uncovered. He was dressing rebellion in the robes of holiness.
Jerking Up Roots
Arkansas farmers will tell you: jerk a plant up too early and it never bears fruit. Roots aren’t just about nourishment—they’re about staying power.
The psalmist said it plainly: “He will be like a tree planted by streams of water, that yields its fruit in its season” (Ps 1:3). Paul told the Colossians to be “rooted and built up in Christ” (Col 2:7).
But consumer Christianity whispers another gospel: “If you don’t like where you are, move on. Find a better church. Find a stage that suits you.”
This restless couple wanted to transplant themselves to a bigger pot, convinced that the problem was the soil, not their own roots.
Dirt That Refuses to Wash
“It’s hard, oh yes,” as one pastor said to me, “but sometimes when you show people their dirt, they might actually bathe.”
Sin blinds. A man can limp along for years lying to others, but no one can survive long believing his own lies (Jer 17:9; 1 John 1:8). Self-deception is lethal.
The pastor’s call is to hold up the mirror of the Word. Paul spoke of Christ cleansing the church “by the washing of water with the word” (Eph 5:26). That cleansing is offensive before it is healing. It means telling a man who thinks he’s holy that he actually stinks.
Spurgeon once wrote: “We are not saved to sit still, but to serve.” But service is not a platform for pride. True service begins with repentance, with bathing, with acknowledging dirt.
Feigned Holiness and Forgotten Responsibility
Baptist theology has long insisted that church membership carries covenantal responsibility. The Baptist Faith & Message (2000) states: “Each member is responsible and accountable to Christ as Lord, and is under obligation to serve Him through the church.”
To use “holiness” as an escape hatch from responsibility is hypocrisy. It is the spirit of Diotrephes, whom John condemned for “loving to be first” (3 John 9). It is the spirit of those who grumbled in the wilderness while Moses called them to obedience.
Adrian Rogers once thundered, “You are saved to serve!” But he warned against confusing service with spotlight. Nursery duty, sweeping the fellowship hall, or praying unseen for the sick—these are the truest stages of Christian service.
The Ezekiel Burden
The pastor in our story went home heavy. He opened his Bible to Ezekiel:
“Son of man, I have made you a watchman… when I say to the wicked, ‘You shall surely die,’ and you do not warn him… his blood I will require at your hand.” (Ezek 3:17–18)
Every pastor knows this burden. To confront a member who is feigning holiness is to risk offense, conflict, even departure. But to stay silent is to abandon the watchtower.
Faithful shepherds must both guard and guide. They must warn even when the hearer plugs his ears. God’s measure of success is not in whether the man repents, but in whether the watchman sounds the trumpet.
When Roots Hold Fast
No church is perfect. Every congregation is a blend of maturity and immaturity, of wheat and tares. The test of discipleship is not whether you can find a stage, but whether you can bend low and wash feet in obscurity (John 13:14).
Paul exhorted the Ephesians to “walk in a manner worthy of the calling… with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love” (Eph 4:1–2). That’s not glamorous. That’s gritty. That’s dirt-under-your-fingernails Christianity.
The restless man and his wife didn’t want that. But the healthy church must keep pressing it: bloom where God plants you, endure when it’s hard, and grow deep roots that won’t be ripped up by pride.
A Word to Pastors
If you are shepherding, you will meet men and women like this couple. Some will cloak rebellion in holy-sounding language. Some will complain about “opportunity” when the real issue is unrepented sin.
Here is the charge:
Teach patiently (2 Tim 4:2). Keep sowing truth, even when ears are dull. Confront lovingly (Gal 6:1). Don’t let dirt remain hidden. Guard the flock (Titus 3:10). Protect the body from divisive voices. Pray constantly. Remember, God does not demand that you win every soul, but that you sound the alarm.
Closing Prayer
Lord of the Harvest,
Keep us planted where You place us.
Wash us when we are dirty, even when we deny the stench.
Save us from the lie of feigned holiness.
Make us humble servants, content with unseen work.
Strengthen every pastor who bears Ezekiel’s burden for You will use them, even when their people resist.
Amen.
Final Word
For every believer tempted to pull up roots: pause. Look at your own dirt first. Ask whether the move is about Christ’s kingdom—or your own comfort. Remember: no one survives long believing their own lies.
Across the geological record, one encounters an anomaly that quietly undermines the dominant evolutionary story: polystrate fossils. These are fossilized trees, reeds, or animals preserved vertically, cutting through multiple strata of sedimentary rock. According to conventional geology, such strata represent thousands or even millions of years of slow accumulation. Yet a tree trunk cannot stand intact, undecayed, while slowly buried for eons. Rather, the evidence points to sudden, catastrophic burial. The question, then, is not whether the evidence exists, but why naturalists so persistently deny its implications.
Historical Recognition of a Flood
Flood traditions are not unique to the Bible. From Mesopotamia’s Epic of Gilgamesh to Chinese, Native American, and Polynesian accounts, cultures across the globe recall a great inundation . These traditions align with Genesis 6–9, where God judges the world by water.
Even early scientists recognized flood evidence. Nicolas Steno (1638–1686), called the “father of stratigraphy,” interpreted sedimentary layers as the result of rapid deposition consistent with biblical catastrophe . Georges Cuvier, the French naturalist, concluded from fossil beds that “the surface of the globe has been shaken by sudden revolutions” . But by the 18th and 19th centuries, James Hutton and Charles Lyell advanced uniformitarianism — the belief that “the present is the key to the past,” with slow, gradual processes explaining all geology . Lyell himself admitted his aim was to “free the science [of geology] from Moses” . Thus, denial of the Flood is not ancient but a relatively modern intellectual rebellion.
Polystrate Fossils as Evidence of Catastrophe
Polystrate fossils contradict uniformitarian assumptions. Fossilized trees at Joggins, Nova Scotia, stand upright through multiple strata. Similar fossils appear in Tennessee, Pennsylvania, and Germany. In California, a whale skeleton was discovered in vertical position, cutting through layers dated as “millions of years” . Such preservation requires rapid burial — for organic material decays quickly when exposed.
Modern analogues confirm this. After the 1980 Mount St. Helens eruption, scientists observed rapid stratification as volcanic flows produced finely layered deposits within hours . Trees in Spirit Lake floated upright, waterlogged, then sank — forming proto-polystrate fossils. Creationist geologist Dr. Steven Austin documented these processes as real-world laboratories demonstrating how catastrophic events, like Noah’s Flood, can rapidly produce features otherwise attributed to deep time .
Why Naturalists Deny the Evidence
Philosophical Commitment to Materialism Naturalism begins with the assumption that God cannot be invoked. Richard Dawkins states that biology is “the study of complicated things that give the appearance of having been designed for a purpose” . The operative word is appearance. Likewise, Lyell and Darwin worked from the assumption that natural causes must explain all phenomena. A global Flood implies divine judgment and providence — categories naturalists rule out in advance. Professional and Cultural Pressure The scientific establishment enforces conformity. When Dr. John Baumgardner, a geophysicist at Los Alamos, proposed catastrophic plate tectonics consistent with Noah’s Flood, his ideas were resisted less for mechanical problems than for biblical implications . Careers, funding, and publications are threatened if one challenges deep time. As paleontologist Stephen Jay Gould admitted, “What uniformitarianism became in the 19th century was not a testable hypothesis but an ideology” . Theological Implications If the Flood really happened, Genesis is not myth but history. And if Genesis is true, then humanity is accountable to God. As Paul wrote, “the wrath of God is revealed… against men who suppress the truth” (Romans 1:18, NASB20). R.C. Sproul observed, “The denial of creation and of the Flood is not due to lack of evidence, but to hostility toward the God who rules the world” .
The Biblical Perspective
Scripture anticipated this very denial. The apostle Peter warned:
“In the last days mockers will come… For when they maintain this, it escapes their notice that…the world at that time was destroyed by being flooded with water” (2 Peter 3:3–6, NASB20).
Thus, the suppression of the Flood is not accidental but prophetic. Polystrate fossils, fossil graveyards, and continent-wide sedimentary layers are consistent with Genesis, yet are ignored because they affirm God’s judgment.
For believers, these fossils are reminders of God’s past judgment and present grace. Just as the ark bore Noah safely through the waters, Christ bears His people safely through divine judgment. The Flood is history, prophecy, and gospel all at once.
Persuading the Intelligent Skeptic
For the intelligent skeptic, consider the alternatives. Which is more reasonable: that a tree stood upright for millions of years while strata accumulated around it, or that it was buried rapidly in catastrophe? Which better explains marine fossils atop the Himalayas or continent-wide coal seams? Catastrophe fits the facts.
History supports the same: why do cultures from Mesopotamia to the Americas recall a great flood? Why do their stories parallel Genesis? To dismiss this global memory is itself unscientific.
And Scripture integrates the evidence. Far from being myth, Genesis provides the coherent framework for understanding geology. As Whitcomb and Morris argued in The Genesis Flood, “The Bible-believing Christian should not be afraid of the facts of science. He should, however, beware of the interpretations of men” .
Conclusion: The Ramp to the Gospel
Polystrate fossils are not geological curiosities. They are stone witnesses to the truth of Genesis. Their very existence undermines uniformitarianism and affirms catastrophe. But more than rocks are at stake. If the Flood is true, then so is the God who judged the world by it.
Peter makes the connection: “Corresponding to that, baptism now saves you… through the resurrection of Jesus Christ” (1 Peter 3:21, NASB20). Just as the ark bore Noah through judgment, so Christ, our Ark, saves us from the coming fire (2 Peter 3:7).
Thus, the evidence in stone is ultimately evidence of grace. To suppress it is to risk judgment; to receive it is to find salvation in Christ.
M. S. Crawford – Sinner, Saved by Jesus.
References…
Nelson, Byron. The Deluge Story in Stone. Minneapolis: Bethany Fellowship, 1931. Cutler, Alan. The Seashell on the Mountaintop. New York: Dutton, 2003. Rudwick, Martin J.S. Bursting the Limits of Time: The Reconstruction of Geohistory in the Age of Revolution. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005. Hutton, James. Theory of the Earth. Edinburgh, 1795. Gould, Stephen Jay. Time’s Arrow, Time’s Cycle: Myth and Metaphor in the Discovery of Geological Time. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987. Whitcomb, John C., and Henry M. Morris. The Genesis Flood: The Biblical Record and Its Scientific Implications. Phillipsburg, NJ: Presbyterian & Reformed, 1961. Austin, Steven A. Catastrophes in Earth History: A Source Book of Selected Studies in Catastrophism. El Cajon, CA: Institute for Creation Research, 1984. Austin, Steven A. Footprints in the Ash: The Explosive Story of Mount St. Helens. Green Forest, AR: Master Books, 2003. Dawkins, Richard. The Blind Watchmaker: Why the Evidence of Evolution Reveals a Universe Without Design. New York: W.W. Norton, 1986. Baumgardner, John. “Catastrophic Plate Tectonics: The Geophysical Context of the Genesis Flood.” In Proceedings of the Third International Conference on Creationism. Pittsburgh: Creation Science Fellowship, 1994. Gould, Stephen Jay. “Is Uniformitarianism Necessary?” American Journal of Science 263 (1965): 223–228. Sproul, R.C. Not a Chance: The Myth of Chance in Modern Science and Cosmology. Grand Rapids: Baker, 1994. Whitcomb, John C., and Henry M. Morris. The Genesis Flood, p. 480.
On April 8, 2024, Arkansas fell into shadow. The robins hushed mid-song, the air cooled in an eerie stillness, and for just a few minutes the sun itself vanished behind the passing moon. A total eclipse swept the hills, turning midday into midnight.
For many it was a curiosity. For me, it was a moment of remembrance. As the light dimmed, I could still hear my uncle Harold’s voice:
“I will die after a great eclipse.”
He’d told me that once years ago, while we sat on a rock beside Cedar Falls at Petit Jean Mountain. We had just climbed back from the canyon, resting in the mist where the water crashes into the round pool below. Out of nowhere, Harold said it—plain, quiet, as if it were settled. I never pressed him for an explanation. But I never forgot.
Just weeks after Arkansas went dark under that April eclipse, Uncle Harold breathed his last.
The Call
The phone rang in May. My cousin Steve’s voice was steady but heavy:
“Matthew, Uncle Harold is sick. Pancreatic and liver cancer. The doctors say two weeks. If you want to see him, come quick.”
Two weeks. That was all the time left.
Marielle and I packed and boarded planes, crossing oceans and time zones until Arkansas skies came back into view. We drove into the hills, toward Petit Jean, where Harold had built his cabin years before.
When we arrived, Steve met us at the door. Inside, Mary—Harold’s wife—was at his side. Harold was thinner, the pain carved into his face, but when he saw us, his eyes softened.
The Gift
He didn’t waste words. Pain kept him quiet. But in a moment of clarity, Harold reached for the one thing he wanted me to carry when he was gone: his Bible.
It wasn’t a new Bible. Its leather was worn, the pages feathered, pencil marks in the margins where his hand had lingered over verses. When he gave it to me, I understood—it wasn’t just a book. It was Harold himself. His faith. His teaching. His prayers. All pressed between the lines of Scripture.
It was the most important gift I’ve ever received.
A Secret Carried Too Long
In those final days, Harold also told us something I had never heard before. For decades, he had carried a secret. He believed he had been sworn to silence, and so he never spoke of it—not to Mary, not to his daughters, not even to me. Only when the diagnosis came did he finally open the door.
As a young sailor, Harold had been part of Operation Dominic, America’s largest series of atmospheric nuclear tests in 1962. He and hundreds of others were ordered to stand on the decks of ships, staring into fireballs that tore the sky apart. Radiation fell invisible across their bodies.
His commanding officer sometimes spared him, letting him stay below deck, but other times ordered him up top to witness the blast. Decades later, both men would pay the price. The officer had died only months earlier—pancreatic cancer. Harold’s turn came soon after.
Same story. Different sailor.
A Life Remembered
The obituary would later read:
“Harrold Sayger, a dear husband, father, brother, friend, and cherished member of the community, took his leave from this world on May 27, 2024… He lived a life of service, love, and dedication, a teacher who never met a stranger, a man who found joy in hunting, fishing, traveling, and in the company of those he loved. He leaves behind his wife, Mary; his daughter Kathleen; step-sons Clyde, Guy, and Logan; brothers Bill and Sam; his sister Juanita; and a proud legacy of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He is preceded in death by his parents, by his daughter Kara, and by his brothers Mike, Robert, and Troy.”
Those words are true. But for me, Harold was more than lines in an obituary. He was the man who taught me to read both Scripture and sky, to walk the woods with eyes wide open, to live simply and without arrogance, and to trust God when life grows impossible.
The eclipse had come. The secret had been spoken. The diagnosis left no time. We were gathered on Petit Jean, waiting, watching, remembering.
Why do Atheists believe in accidental organizationin the face of Design?
At first glance, your body might feel ordinary. You wake up, stretch, brush your teeth, and move through the day without giving much thought to the systems quietly at work beneath your skin. But look closer, and you’ll discover a defense and survival system infinitely more astonishing than that of the Bombardier Beetle.
The Built-In Firepower of God’s Design
The beetle has its combustion chambers. You, however, are carrying something far more remarkable. Consider just your immune system: trillions of white blood cells patrol your bloodstream like microscopic soldiers, equipped to recognize, attack, and remember invaders. Every time you cut your hand or breathe in a germ, this defense system is instantly deployed.
And here’s the genius: it doesn’t just attack blindly. It coordinates. Chemical signals rally reinforcements to the precise location of infection. Killer T-cells lock onto enemies with sniper-like accuracy, while memory cells retain blueprints of past attackers so they can never catch you off guard again. If even one piece of this symphony were missing—the signaling, the targeting, the memory—you’d be defenseless.
Evolution says this all came about by trial and error. But what good is an immune system that only “half” works? A body that can’t recognize danger, can’t respond in time, or can’t remember past threats wouldn’t survive long enough to improve. Like the Bombardier Beetle’s turret guns, the immune system had to be complete from day one.
More Than Chance—It’s Precision
Think about your heart. That steady pump, no bigger than your fist, drives blood through 60,000 miles of vessels every single day. A slight deviation in rhythm, pressure, or chemical balance, and the system fails. Or consider your nervous system: billions of neurons firing electrical signals in a perfectly timed sequence, controlling everything from reflexes to memory. Miss a connection, and the body doesn’t just “sort of” work—it collapses.
The reality is simple: your body isn’t a happy accident. It’s a miracle of engineering, every system interlocked with the others, none able to function halfway.
The Creator Behind the Craft
Psalm 139:14 puts it this way: “I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Wonderful are Your works, and my soul knows it very well.”
The Bombardier Beetle shows us God’s sense of ingenuity. Your body shows us His glory. From the DNA code written in every cell, to the chemical messengers orchestrating your emotions, to the regenerative ability of your skin and bones, every detail whispers: this was designed.
So the next time you glance in the mirror and sigh over imperfections, remember: beneath that reflection lies a design more complex than the most advanced machine humanity has ever imagined. You are God’s masterpiece, crafted not by random chance but by divine intention.
And unlike the beetle, which sprays fire for defense, you were designed with an even greater purpose: to reflect the image of your Creator.
Would you like me to expand this into a full-length WordPress-ready article (with headings, subheadings, and applications for daily life), like the YOLO or fasting articles we’ve done? That would make it more polished and publishable.
In a world where food is engineered more for profit than for health, Christians face a quiet but deadly battle. The grocery aisle is a minefield of sugar, seed oils, and chemically altered “foods” designed to addict rather than nourish.
Our culture calls this abundance a blessing, but its true aim is to dull our senses, weaken our bodies, and bend our appetites toward hedonism.
The Apostle Paul reminds us, “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you… You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body” (1 Corinthians 6:19–20). This isn’t a suggestion—it’s a charge. Yet the temple today is under siege not by swords and torches, but by drive-thru windows and endless buffets.
Why Fasting Matters in a Culture of Excess
Self-control is the muscle our generation most neglects. Fasting is one of the few disciplines that trains it well.
When we abstain from food—not for vanity, not to impress, but to quiet the flesh—we step into an ancient practice that reorients our attention. The gnawing of the stomach becomes a bell that calls the heart to prayer.
The energy normally spent digesting is freed for meditating on Scripture, serving others, and simply listening for the still, small voice of God.
How Fasting Protects the Temple
For the believer in ministry, fasting becomes more than personal discipline. Shepherding the broken, feeding the hungry, and standing beside a spouse in the trenches requires a strength that food alone cannot give.
If the pastor’s heart is unfed by God, the hands will grow weary in service. Fasting—done rightly—opens a fresh dependence on the Lord’s strength rather than our own reserves.
Jesus warned against fasting for show. He told His disciples to wash their faces, anoint their heads, and keep the fast between themselves and the Father.
Fasting as Rebellion Against the Flesh
There’s another layer here: fasting can be an act of rebellion against a culture that treats the body as a dumping ground. Every skipped meal is a refusal to bow to the idol of excess.
Every day we tame the stomach, we strengthen the will to resist other temptations—lust, greed, anger, pride. The discipline over the plate spills into discipline over the tongue, the eyes, and the hands.
Practical ways to fast with purpose:
Begin with prayer, asking the Lord for strength and focus. Set a specific time frame (e.g., skip breakfast and lunch one day a week). Use hunger cues as prompts to read Scripture or pray.
For Our Good, For His Glory
Fasting is for our good, but it is ultimately for His glory. When the body is humbled, the spirit rises in clarity.
In denying ourselves, we make room for the One who satisfies. And when our bodies—these temples—are kept in order, they can better serve as instruments of mercy in a starving world.
Michal is thirty-two, unmarried, and living in a world that measures adulthood by rings, mortgages, and bank balances. Her friends have bridal showers, baby announcements, and two-car garages. Michal has a one-bedroom apartment with thrift-store furniture, a job that pays enough to keep the lights on, and a quiet ache that God has not yet given her the husband and children she’s prayed for since she was twenty.
But her longing isn’t only for marriage—it’s for a future she can’t imagine affording. The cost of everything seems to grow faster than her paycheck. She calculates in the margins of her notebook: rent, insurance, groceries, student loans. What’s left is barely enough for a modest emergency fund, let alone the kind of home where children could grow up in safety and warmth. Every dollar feels like a seed she’s afraid to plant, because she isn’t sure she can spare it from today’s hunger for tomorrow’s harvest.
Yet on Tuesday nights, Michal sets aside her financial worries and walks through the doors of a Presbyterian-run shelter for women and children rescued from trafficking. She serves dinner, washes dishes, and listens. There, she meets women who have lost more than she can fathom—and children whose trust has been betrayed before they could even speak.
She has no husband to come home to, no children tugging at her skirt, but she has arms to hold a crying child, and a listening ear for a mother learning to hope again. The shelter smells faintly of bleach and warm bread, and Michal wonders if, in this place, she is holding the edges of the family God has given her for now.
Still, the numbers haunt her. She believes in the call to tithe—not as a legalistic duty, but as a declaration that God owns every penny in her account. But how does she give away ten percent when her budget already feels like a coat one size too small? She fears that giving will leave her without enough for the future she dreams of, yet she also fears that not giving will make her grip on money tighter than her trust in God.
Some nights, she opens her worn Bible, running her fingers over the thin pages as if they were currency she could spend. Her eyes fall on a verse that steadies her: “But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you” (Matthew 6:33).
Michal closes the Bible and exhales. She doesn’t have the answers to her future—whether the husband, the children, or the house will come. But she knows the kingdom is not on layaway. She can seek it now, in the shelter’s kitchen, in her careful budgeting, and in the quiet act of trusting that God can stretch the smallest offering into abundance.
She chooses to believe that in God’s economy, no gift given in faith is ever wasted.
Drink from the spring where the horses bow low, for their lips will not touch where foul waters flow. They pass by the glitter a river might bring if its taste is a treacherous, shimmering thing.
Sleep where the cat folds her spine into ease; she chooses a bed by the hum of its peace. No lock and no latch can purchase that trust— only the floor where her dreams do not rust.
Bite the fruit that the small worm has crowned; sweetness is secreted where he has found. He tastes what the orchard keeps under its skin, guiding the tongue to the honey within.
“Trust the low tutors: worm, gnat, mole, and wing—creation’s old choir that teaches to sing.”
Pick the mushroom the winged ones adorn; banquets begin where the gnats have sworn. They measure the air with their filigree flight, then land on the feast that is hidden and right.
Plant your tree where the blind farmer delves— moles make a hill for the roots of ourselves. He furrows in silence, he plows without sight; his signature swells where the soil is right.
Build your home where the serpent lies still, basking in covenant light on the hill. He coils on a stone that remembers the sun— keep to that warmth when the morning is done.
Dig your well where the noon birds withdraw; shade is the map that their feathers foresaw. Follow their hush to the cool in the deep, drawing up waters that cradle your sleep.
“Rise with the sparrow, rest when it sings; gather the day in its golden rings.”
Rise with the sparrow and sleep with its song; harvest the hours while daylight is long. Patience will pay you in barley and light; waste will defraud you by noon’s second sight.
Let the green tutor your marrow and mind; leaf-light and rain make the tendons refined. Your stride like a deer’s, your heart like an oak— strength is the sentence that photosynth spoke.
Swim till the syllables fall from the shore; water will teach you what bodies are for. World without edges, a breathing embrace— home is the hush of its limitless place.
The Quiet Drought
Yet mark what I mutter in meter and rhyme: wildness grows weary with city and time. Drought does not trumpet; it pads like a thief, souring the well with invisible grief.
You’ll reach for a bucket; the bucket will lie. The rope will remember; the water be shy. You’ll rise to a morning that knows not your name— light on your window, but none of it flame.
The molehill is leveled by careless boots; the orchard grows armor with hollowed-out fruits. The serpent’s stone chills where the covenant fades; birds map to nowhere in withering glades.
“When springs fall silent and mornings grow thin, absence returns what we traded for tin.”
Today, While It Is Called Today
Yet ah—today bears a merciful face: molehills still rise with a quiet grace. Springs still are fluent in tongues that bless; sparrows still practice their small largesse.
So drink where the horses have hallowed the stream; let clarity carry your thirst to its dream. Sleep in a room where the peace runs deep, guarded by shadows that shepherd your sleep.
Eat what the humblest tasters approve— worm’s little wisdom is orchard’s big love. Plant in the soil where the dark has stirred; roots learn the language the blind one heard.
Build where the dawn keeps its faithful claim; warmth is a covenant signed in flame. Dig where the birds have abandoned the sky; follow their silence and water draws nigh.
“Seek while the sparrow still stitches the light; grace keeps the gate for the early and right.”
The Hand Beneath the Habit
For all of this whisper in feather and fur— root-work and rivulet, leaf and demur— speaks of a Hand that has written the law into the marrow of mole and of straw.
Maker of horses and hills that they drink, Author of intuitions animals think, Singer of mornings that never grow old— His are the waters that never run cold.
He hides His commands in the simplest things— gnats on a mushroom and sparrow-wings. He bids us attend to the meek and the small, that losing a world we might not lose all.
“The smallest instructors—humble and true—teach us to find what the proud never do.”
Benediction of the Spring
Seek Him now while the waters still speak; grace is a river that gathers the meek. Walk where the horses have hallowed the brink; He is the Spring—and the Spring is the drink.
I watched a seasoned pastor’s face change the moment I mentioned our mission work in the Philippines. His polite smile tightened when I described our small congregation’s partnership with rural churches there. “That’s nice,” he said, the way you might acknowledge a child’s crayon drawing. Then he pivoted to talking about their new multi-million-dollar facility and their satellite campuses. The dismissal was complete and devastating.
This encounter reflects a troubling trend in American evangelical circles, particularly within SBC and Reformed communities where I’ve spent most of my ministry life. We’ve created a caste system of pastoral worth based on attendance figures, building campaigns, and what we euphemistically call “influence.” In doing so, we’ve forgotten that the Kingdom of God has always operated by different mathematics.
The Seduction of Numbers
John Piper, in his sermon “The Supremacy of God in Missions,” reminds us that “God is pursuing with omnipotent passion a worldwide purpose of gathering joyful worshipers for himself from every tribe and tongue and people and nation.” Notice what’s missing from that statement: attendance figures, budget sizes, or facility square footage.
Yet somehow, we’ve allowed American business metrics to define ministerial success. The late D.A. Carson observed in “The Cross and Christian Ministry” that Paul’s approach to ministry in 1 Corinthians directly confronts our human tendency to measure spiritual effectiveness by worldly standards. Carson writes, “The cross stands as a permanent reminder that God’s ways are not our ways, that what we think is impressive may be foolishness to God, and what seems like foolishness to us may be the very wisdom and power of God.”
I’ve sat in pastors’ conferences where men boast about their “kingdom impact” measured entirely in dollars and digits. Meanwhile, the pastor who’s spent fifteen years discipling twelve men in a dying mill town, or the missionary couple serving unreached villages in Southeast Asia, are relegated to brief testimonial slots before the main speakers take the stage.
Biblical Mathematics vs. American Metrics
Scripture consistently celebrates the small, the faithful remnant, the overlooked. When Gideon’s army was too large, God pared it down to 300 (Judges 7). When David faced Goliath, he came with a sling and five stones, not an army (1 Samuel 17). When Jesus fed the multitude, he started with a boy’s lunch (John 6:9).
R.C. Sproul, in “The Holiness of God,” reminds us that “God is not impressed by our achievements but by our faithfulness.” The parable of the talents (Matthew 25:14-30) doesn’t celebrate the servant who made the most money; it celebrates faithful stewardship regardless of the amount entrusted.
Consider the widow’s mite (Mark 12:41-44). Jesus could have been watching the wealthy donors making their impressive contributions to the temple treasury. Instead, his attention was captured by a poor widow who gave two small coins. His commentary wasn’t about fundraising strategy or donor development; it was about the heart behind the gift. “This poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the offering box,” he declared. Kingdom mathematics don’t follow Wall Street logic.
The Philippines Principle
When I tell people about our congregation’s partnership with rural churches in the Philippines, I often encounter what I call “missions condescension.” It’s the attitude that suggests real ministry happens in megachurch sanctuaries, not bamboo chapels. Real influence is measured by American standards, not transformed lives in places most couldn’t find on a map.
This attitude reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of the Great Commission. Matthew 28:19-20 doesn’t come with demographic qualifications or attendance thresholds. It says “make disciples of all nations,” not “make disciples of large, economically viable populations.”
Tim Keller, in “Center Church,” writes about the importance of what he calls “balanced ministry.” He argues that American evangelicalism has become dangerously imbalanced toward what looks impressive rather than what is actually transformative. Keller observes, “The gospel creates a people who are committed to sacrificial service, justice, and peace, but who are also committed to evangelism and discipleship. The gospel creates a people who are committed to the poor, but also to sound doctrine.”
Our Filipino partners understand this balance in ways many American pastors have forgotten. They’re discipling communities with no air conditioning, no professional lighting, no coffee bars. They’re doing funerals for people who can’t afford caskets, marrying couples who have nothing but love and faith. They’re raising up leaders who may never own cars but who shepherd souls with the tenderness of Christ himself.
When Success Becomes an Idol
The Southern Baptist Convention has struggled with this tension for decades. The emphasis on the “10/40 Window” and unreached people groups coexists uneasily with a celebrity pastor culture that celebrates men who’ve never set foot in a village without electricity. We send missionaries to plant churches in places where a congregation of thirty represents remarkable growth, then dismiss American pastors whose rural churches hover around the same number.
Martyn Lloyd-Jones, in his commentary on Romans, warned against what he called “the tyranny of statistics.” He wrote, “The moment we begin to think of Christian work in terms of statistics, we are on the road to apostasy. The work of God cannot be measured by human standards.” Lloyd-Jones was writing to a post-war British church that felt small and insignificant compared to American evangelicalism’s growing influence. His words ring prophetic today.
I think of the pastor in eastern Arkansas who baptized his own grandson in a creek behind their church building because their baptistery had been broken for six months and they couldn’t afford repairs. That baptism represented three generations of faithful witness in a community where churches close more often than they plant. But at pastors’ conferences, we don’t hear sermons about creek baptisms; we hear about state-of-the-art facilities and multimedia presentations.
The Jealousy Problem
There’s something else happening that we need to name honestly: jealousy disguised as discernment. When large-church pastors dismiss smaller ministries, sometimes it’s not theological concern—it’s threatened ego. The rural pastor who’s seen genuine revival, the missionary who’s planted churches among unreached peoples, the urban minister working in forgotten neighborhoods—these men often carry an authenticity and spiritual authority that can’t be manufactured through marketing strategies.
I’ve watched “successful” pastors become visibly uncomfortable when hearing testimonies from the mission field or rural ministry contexts. There’s a recognition, however suppressed, that something real is happening in these “lesser” contexts that might be missing from their own polished productions.
John Bunyan wrote “The Pilgrim’s Progress” from Bedford jail, not from a cathedral pulpit. His influence outlasted most of his contemporary bishops and archdeacons. William Carey cobbled shoes and preached to handfuls before becoming the “father of modern missions.” Hudson Taylor was dismissed by many established mission societies before opening China to the gospel. God has always delighted in confounding human wisdom through seemingly foolish means.
A Call to Repentance
Brothers, we need to repent. Those of us who measure ministry success by American business standards need to confess this idolatry and return to biblical faithfulness. We need to repent of the pride that dismisses small churches, rural pastors, and mission works that don’t fit our metrics of success.
The Apostle Paul warned against comparing ourselves with one another (2 Corinthians 10:12). He didn’t plant churches in Rome or Athens first because they were the largest markets; he went where God sent him and faithfully served wherever that was. His ministry in places like Philippi—a small Roman colony—produced letters that have shaped Christian theology for two millennia.
When we dismiss faithful pastors serving small congregations, we’re not just hurting their feelings; we’re revealing our own spiritual poverty. We’re showing that we’ve absorbed more from American consumer culture than from the Scriptures we claim to preach.
What We Can Do
First, we can change how we talk about ministry success in our circles. Instead of asking about attendance and budget, we can ask about faithfulness, discipleship, and community transformation. Instead of celebrating only the numerical, we can honor the faithful.
Second, we can elevate voices from small churches and mission fields in our conferences and publications. The pastor serving faithfully in a congregation of forty has insights that the megachurch pastor may lack. The missionary working among unreached peoples understands aspects of the gospel that suburban ministers might miss.
Third, we can examine our own hearts for the idolatry of numbers. Are we more excited about baptism statistics than about the individual stories behind them? Do we talk more about attendance growth than spiritual growth? Are we more concerned with our reputation among peers than our faithfulness to Christ?
Fourth, we can support and encourage faithful ministers regardless of their context size. A encouraging word, a genuine interest in their work, financial support for mission efforts—these actions demonstrate that we value Kingdom work over impressive metrics.
Kingdom Mathematics
The Kingdom of God operates by different mathematics than the American dream. Five loaves and two fish become a feast for thousands. Thirty pieces of silver become the price of redemption. Three crosses on a hill outside Jerusalem become the hinge of human history. A small church in Arkansas partnering with rural congregations in the Philippines may be doing more eternal work than a megachurch focused on its next building campaign.
I think of our Filipino brothers who pastor by motorcycle, traveling hours between villages to shepherd scattered believers. They baptize in rivers, conduct communion with rice cakes, and teach theology by lamplight. Their “success” can’t be measured by American standards, but their faithfulness shines with gospel authenticity.
When we dismiss such work, we reveal that we’ve forgotten the God who chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong (1 Corinthians 1:27). We show that we’re more impressed with human achievement than with divine grace.
The question isn’t whether your congregation fills a sanctuary or a living room. The question is whether Christ is being proclaimed, disciples are being made, and the Kingdom is advancing one transformed heart at a time. By that measure, the small church partnering with overseas missions might be more “successful” than the suburban megachurch focused on its own growth.
Let’s return to biblical faithfulness. Let’s celebrate Kingdom work wherever we find it. And let’s repent of the American idolatry that measures God’s work by human standards.
The harvest is plentiful, the laborers are few (Matthew 9:37). Some of those laborers work in mega-churches, some in house churches, some in bamboo chapels in the Philippines. All who faithfully proclaim Christ deserve our honor, not our condescension.
May God forgive us for forgetting this, and may He help us remember that in His Kingdom, the last shall be first, the small shall confound the great, and faithfulness matters more than fame.
The Crawfords are currently serving in ministry support roles in their home state of Arkansas. Currently, they are also preparing to redeploy to Philippine mission fields where they serve Jesus one thirsty heart at a time. They serve Filipino communities on the coast, islands and mountainous regions. When not engaged in full time ministry, they are both Pro SCUBA divers and spend hours playing weightless under the sea.
“What after all are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?”
The Parable That Shattered Christendom
THE MADMAN—Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place, and cried incessantly: “I seek God! I seek God!”—As many of those who did not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. Has he got lost? asked one. Did he lose his way like a child? asked another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? emigrated?—Thus they yelled and laughed
The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. “Whither is God?” he cried; “I will tell you. We have killed him—you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.
“How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us—for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto.”
Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, and it broke into pieces and went out. “I have come too early,” he said then; “my time is not yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than most distant stars—and yet they have done it themselves.
It has been related further that on the same day the madman forced his way into several churches and there struck up his requiem aeternam deo. Led out and called to account, he is said always to have replied nothing but: “What after all are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?”
The Prophetic Voice in Philosophical Clothing
Friedrich Nietzsche’s parable of the madman stands as one of the most penetrating critiques of modern Christianity ever penned. Yet it is frequently misunderstood, dismissed as the ravings of an atheistic philosopher celebrating the demise of religious faith. Such interpretations fundamentally miss the profound theological significance of Nietzsche’s work and the urgent warning it presents to the contemporary church.
The madman is not Nietzsche’s spokesman for atheism; he is a prophetic figure in the tradition of the Hebrew prophets, announcing divine judgment while simultaneously lamenting its necessity. His terror at God’s death reveals not celebration but profound existential anguish at the magnitude of what has been lost.
The Cultural Assassination of the Divine
Nietzsche’s assertion that “we have killed God” is not a literal claim about divine mortality but a diagnosis of Western civilization’s systematic rejection of transcendent authority and meaning. The philosopher understood what many of his contemporaries failed to grasp: the abandonment of God as the ultimate source of truth, morality, and purpose would not liberate humanity but would instead plunge it into nihilistic despair.
The madman’s imagery is deliberately apocalyptic. To “drink up the sea” and “wipe away the entire horizon” suggests the complete obliteration of fixed reference points for human existence. When God dies culturally, the entire framework of meaning collapses. There is no “up or down,” no moral north star, no ultimate purpose to anchor human existence.
This diagnosis proves remarkably prescient in our contemporary context. The postmodern condition, with its skepticism toward metanarratives and absolute truth claims, represents the full flowering of what Nietzsche anticipated. We inhabit a culture that has indeed “unchained the earth from its sun,” casting humanity adrift in a universe devoid of transcendent meaning.
The Church’s Complicity in Divine Assassination
The most devastating aspect of Nietzsche’s critique lies not in his analysis of secular culture but in his indictment of the church itself. The madman’s final question—“What after all are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?”—pierces to the heart of institutional Christianity’s crisis.
Nietzsche recognized what many within the church refused to acknowledge: that religious institutions could continue to exist and even flourish while effectively participating in the cultural assassination of the God they claimed to serve. The church, in its pursuit of cultural relevance and institutional preservation, had begun to accommodate itself to the very worldview that rendered God unnecessary.
This accommodation manifests in multiple ways within contemporary Christianity:
The Reduction of Truth to Experience: Modern Christianity increasingly emphasizes personal experience and subjective feeling over objective truth and doctrinal precision. While not abandoning truth claims entirely, the church has often prioritized therapeutic benefit over theological accuracy, effectively reducing God to a means of personal fulfillment rather than the ultimate source of cosmic truth.
The Subordination of Scripture to Culture: Many churches have reversed the proper relationship between biblical revelation and cultural wisdom, allowing contemporary values to judge and modify scriptural teaching rather than submitting cultural assumptions to biblical scrutiny. This represents a fundamental inversion of authority that effectively makes human culture sovereign over divine revelation.
The Therapeutic Gospel: The reduction of Christianity to personal therapy and self-improvement fundamentally alters the nature of the Gospel itself. When God becomes merely a means to personal happiness and psychological well-being, the transcendent dimension of divine reality is collapsed into human categories and needs.
The Consequences of Theological Amnesia
The church’s participation in what Nietzsche termed “the death of God” has produced what we might call “theological amnesia”—a forgetting of who God actually is and what the Gospel actually claims. This amnesia manifests in several critical areas:
The Loss of Transcendence: Contemporary Christianity often struggles to articulate and experience God’s otherness, holiness, and sovereignty. The emphasis on God’s immanence and accessibility, while biblically warranted, has frequently eclipsed the equally important reality of divine transcendence. The result is a domesticated deity who exists primarily to serve human purposes rather than to be worshiped and obeyed as the sovereign Creator and Judge.
The Diminishment of Sin: The therapeutic model of Christianity has difficulty maintaining a robust understanding of human sinfulness and divine wrath. Sin becomes dysfunction rather than rebellion, and salvation becomes healing rather than justification. While healing and functionality are genuine benefits of the Gospel, when they replace rather than complement the forensic aspects of redemption, the fundamental God-ward dimension of the Gospel is lost.
The Pragmatic Reduction: Churches increasingly evaluate truth claims, worship practices, and theological formulations based on their practical effectiveness rather than their faithfulness to biblical revelation. This pragmatic approach, while appearing to honor God’s purposes, actually subjects divine truth to human criteria, effectively making human success the measure of divine approval.
The Madman’s Prophetic Warning to Contemporary Christianity
Nietzsche’s madman serves as an unwitting prophet to the modern church, warning of consequences that extend far beyond the obvious decline in church attendance or cultural influence. The deeper issue is the hollowing out of Christian faith itself—the retention of religious forms while abandoning the transcendent reality that gives them meaning.
This process of theological hollowing manifests in several observable patterns within contemporary Christianity:
Worship Without Awe: Corporate worship that emphasizes emotional experience and personal connection while failing to cultivate genuine reverence for God’s holiness and majesty. The result is worship that serves human needs for emotional satisfaction rather than expressing appropriate response to divine glory.
Preaching Without Transformation: Sermons that provide practical advice, emotional comfort, and cultural commentary while failing to proclaim the transformative power of the Gospel. Such preaching treats the Bible as a source of wisdom for better living rather than as God’s authoritative word that judges and transforms human existence.
Fellowship Without Accountability: Christian community that emphasizes acceptance and support while avoiding the difficult work of mutual exhortation, confession, and spiritual discipline. This creates an environment where sin is managed rather than mortified, and spiritual growth is measured by comfort rather than Christlikeness.
Mission Without Gospel: Evangelistic and social action that emphasizes human flourishing while obscuring the centrality of salvation from sin and reconciliation to God. While Christian concern for human welfare is biblical and necessary, when it becomes disconnected from explicit Gospel proclamation, it becomes merely humanitarian work performed by religious people.
The Theological Response: Recovering the Living God
The appropriate response to Nietzsche’s challenge is not defensive denial but honest acknowledgment of the church’s failures coupled with intentional theological recovery. This recovery must address several fundamental areas:
Reasserting Divine Transcendence: The church must recover and proclaim the reality of God’s absolute sovereignty, perfect holiness, and infinite glory. This requires preaching and worship that cultivate appropriate fear of the Lord rather than merely celebrating God’s friendship and accessibility. While God’s immanence and love are central to the Gospel, they must be understood within the context of divine transcendence.
Recovering Biblical Authority: Churches must re-establish Scripture’s authority over all areas of faith and practice, including those areas where biblical teaching conflicts with contemporary cultural values. This requires careful exegesis, faithful exposition, and courageous application of biblical truth even when it proves culturally unpopular.
Restoring Theological Precision: The church must recover the importance of doctrinal accuracy and theological precision. While not every Christian must become a systematic theologian, the church’s leadership must be equipped to articulate and defend the essential truths of the faith with clarity and conviction.
Renewing Spiritual Discipline: Christian formation requires more than therapeutic insight and emotional experience; it demands the disciplined cultivation of spiritual practices that conform believers to the image of Christ. This includes the hard work of prayer, Scripture study, confession, repentance, and mutual accountability.
The Hope Beyond the Graveyard
Nietzsche’s diagnosis of Christianity’s cultural death contains an element of prophetic truth that the church ignores at its peril. Yet from a theological perspective, the madman’s lament points beyond despair toward hope. The God whom culture has “killed” cannot actually die, and the churches that have become “tombs and sepulchers” can experience resurrection.
The hope lies not in the church’s ability to make itself relevant to contemporary culture but in the power of the Gospel itself to transform both individuals and institutions. When churches recover their commitment to the living God revealed in Scripture, when they prioritize faithfulness over cultural acceptance, when they proclaim the full Gospel rather than therapeutic substitutes, they discover that the God whom culture has pronounced dead is very much alive.
This recovery requires what the Reformers called semper reformanda—the church always reforming according to the Word of God. It demands honest acknowledgment of how far many churches have drifted from biblical Christianity and courageous commitment to theological and spiritual renewal.
The madman’s broken lantern represents the failure of human attempts to find God through cultural accommodation and theological compromise. But the true light of the world—Jesus Christ himself—cannot be extinguished by human action or neglect. He remains the same yesterday, today, and forever, and he continues to call his church back to faithful worship, truthful proclamation, and genuine transformation.
Conclusion: Beyond the Madman’s Despair
Nietzsche’s parable of the madman stands as one of the most penetrating critiques of nominal Christianity ever written. Its power lies not in its atheistic conclusions but in its accurate diagnosis of what happens when churches lose sight of the transcendent God they claim to serve.
The contemporary church faces the choice that has confronted every generation of believers: will we worship the living God revealed in Scripture, or will we construct religious institutions that serve human purposes while effectively burying the divine reality that gives them meaning?
The madman’s warning echoes across the centuries: when churches become tombs and sepulchers of God, they may continue to exist as social institutions, but they cease to function as instruments of divine grace and transformation. The recovery of authentic Christianity requires nothing less than the resurrection of our vision of God himself—his holiness, his sovereignty, his truth, and his transformative power.
This is the church’s perpetual calling: to know God as he has revealed himself, to worship him in spirit and truth, and to proclaim his Gospel with clarity and conviction. Only in fulfilling this calling can the church avoid becoming what Nietzsche’s madman so prophetically warned against—a beautiful tomb containing nothing but the memory of divine glory.
The choice remains before us: will we be content with religious forms that have lost their transcendent substance, or will we seek the face of the living God who alone can fill our worship, our preaching, our fellowship, and our mission with eternal significance? The answer to this question will determine whether future generations encounter in our churches the living God or merely his sepulcher.
M. S. Crawford and his wife Marielle are currently in the USA preparing to rejoin the mission field in the Philippines. Crawford had written hundreds of articles on OT and NT studies, and feels called to help laypeople learn as much as they can about the God of the Bible who is our creator.The Crawfords are professional SCUBA divers and spend their spare time under the sea.
M. S. Crawford, and his wife Marielle are currently preparing in the United States for their return to the mission field in the Philippines. Crawford has authored a recent book “Three Questions Every Husband must Answer” and hundreds of articles on Old and New Testament studies. He feels deeply called to equip laypeople with profound yet accessible knowledge of the God revealed in Scripture. When not engaged in biblical scholarship or missionary preparation, the Crawfords pursue their passion for professional SCUBA diving, exploring the depths of God’s underwater creation with the same wonder and precision they bring to studying His written Word.
Discovering the Devastating Parallel Between Abraham’s Sacrifice and the Father’s Ultimate Gift—How Two Fathers and Two Sons Reveal the Crushing Cost of Your Salvation
The command comes like a blade in the night, severing peace from a father’s soul: “Take your son, your only son, whom you love, Isaac” (Genesis 22:2). In Hebrew, these words pile up like stones on a father’s chest, each one heavier than the last, crushing breath from lungs, hope from heart. This is not merely ancient history—it’s the emotional blueprint for understanding the cross. When we grasp what Abraham felt climbing Mount Moriah, when we taste the salt of his tears and feel the trembling in his aged hands, we begin to comprehend what happened when the Father gave His only Son.
The Hebrew That Breaks Hearts
The Hebrew text of Genesis 22:2 doesn’t merely inform—it wounds, it lacerates, it leaves the reader hemorrhaging emotion. Each word is carefully chosen to maximize emotional impact, like a symphony of sorrow building to an unbearable crescendo: בִּנְךָ (binkha, “your son”), יְחִידְךָ (yechidkha, “your only one”), אֲשֶׁר-אָהַבְתָּ (asher-ahavta, “whom you love”), אֶת-יִצְחָק (et-Yitzchak, “Isaac”).
Notice how God doesn’t simply say “sacrifice Isaac.” He forces Abraham to feel the full weight, to taste each bitter syllable: your son (piercing the personal), your only one (irreplaceable treasure), whom you love (the first mention of love in Scripture appears here, drenched in coming grief), Isaac (the laughter of your old age transformed into lamentation). As Old Testament scholar Jon Levenson observes, “The Hebrew syntax creates a slow crescendo of pain, forcing Abraham to confront each dimension of what he’s being asked to surrender.”
The word יָחִיד (yachid) carries more weight than our English “only.” It means unique, precious, irreplaceable—the kind of singular treasure that, once lost, leaves a void nothing else can fill. It’s the word for a parent’s whole world wrapped in one small life. When the Septuagint translated this Greek, they used ἀγαπητός (agapetos)—beloved. This same concept appears in the New Testament as μονογενής (monogenēs) for Christ—the only begotten, the unique One, the irreplaceable heartbeat of heaven.
Dr. D.A. Carson notes: “The linguistic parallel between Isaac as Abraham’s yachid and Jesus as God’s monogenēs is not coincidental. Both terms emphasize not mere singularity but irreplaceable preciousness.”
The Agony of Fathers
Abraham’s Three Days of Dying
“Abraham rose early in the morning” (Genesis 22:3). No hesitation. No argument. But don’t mistake obedience for absence of agony. His movements were mechanical, automated by faith while his heart shattered with each preparation. He had three days to walk with his son, three days to see that trusting face, three days to remember Sarah’s joy when Isaac was born, three days of pretending his world wasn’t ending with each step toward Moriah.
Can you imagine those nights? Abraham lying sleepless, watching his boy’s chest rise and fall in innocent slumber, knowing what dawn would demand? The weight of the knife in his pack must have felt like it was already buried in his own chest. Every smile from Isaac was simultaneously a treasure and a torment.
The rabbis tell us Abraham aged decades during that journey. Every step was torture, each footfall a funeral march. Every moment with Isaac was simultaneously precious and unbearable, like holding water in cupped hands while dying of thirst. When Isaac asked with guileless trust, “Where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” (Genesis 22:7), Abraham’s answer—“God will provide for Himself the lamb”—was faith speaking through a throat constricted by unshed tears, words squeezed past the lump of parental anguish.
Biblical scholar Bruce Waltke writes: “Abraham’s silence throughout most of the narrative speaks volumes. This is not stoic indifference but the wordlessness of overwhelming grief.”
The Father’s Heart—Eternity’s Deepest Wound
Now pivot to Calvary, where the universe held its breath. “He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all” (Romans 8:32). The same language—not sparing the beloved son. But here’s where human analogy breaks: Abraham’s agony lasted three days; the Father had planned this from eternity, carrying the weight of coming separation since before stars learned to shine.
Can we even approach understanding this? The Father watching His Son grow, knowing every smile was moving toward crucifixion, every learned word would one day cry “Why have You forsaken Me?” The Father’s heart, infinite in love, experienced infinite grief.
Isaiah 53:10 reveals something staggering: “Yet it pleased the LORD to bruise Him.” The Hebrew word חָפֵץ (chaphets) doesn’t mean God took sadistic pleasure. It means He was willing, He purposed, He chose this path. As theologian John Stott explained: “The Father did not inflict punishment on an unwilling victim. Father and Son were united in their purpose to save humanity.”
Consider Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane: “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as You will” (Matthew 26:39). See Him there—drops of blood mingling with tears, the weight of coming separation pressing Him to earth. This wasn’t the Son begging the Father to relent from abuse. This was the human nature of Christ recoiling from becoming sin, while His divine will remained perfectly aligned with the Father’s. The garden witnessed love choosing pain, divinity embracing mortality’s worst moment.
The Sons Who Said Yes
Isaac’s Trust—Bound by Love
Isaac wasn’t a child—Jewish tradition suggests he was in his thirties, strong enough to resist, old enough to understand. He could have overpowered his aged father. The wood he carried up the mountain (Genesis 22:6) prefigures another Son carrying wood to His death, splinters digging into willing shoulders.
His question—“Where is the lamb?”—shows dawning awareness without rebellion. The moment of realization must have been devastating. When Abraham, with shaking hands and breaking heart, began to bind him on the altar, Isaac submitted. The Talmud records that Isaac asked his father to bind him tightly, lest he flinch and invalidate the sacrifice. This is profound trust in both his father and his father’s God—the kind of faith that says “even this, if you ask it.”
Christ’s Obedience—Love’s Perfect Response
“He was oppressed and He was afflicted, yet He opened not His mouth; He was led as a lamb to the slaughter” (Isaiah 53:7). Christ’s silence before His accusers mirrors Isaac’s submission, but with infinite depth. Every lash He could have stopped. Every thorn He could have withered. Every nail He could have refused. But Christ’s obedience went deeper—He chose this path before creation’s first morning.
Philippians 2:8 tells us He “became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross.” The Greek word ὑπήκοος (hypēkoos) means “listening under”—perfect submission to the Father’s will. As Jesus said, “No one takes it from Me, but I lay it down of Myself” (John 10:18).
Theologian Thomas F. Torrance emphasizes: “The Son’s obedience wasn’t extracted but offered. The unity of will between Father and Son transforms our understanding of sacrifice from divine cruelty to divine love.”
The Weight Words Carry
Hebrew forces us to feel what English lets us think. When God says “your son, your yachid,” He’s not giving information but inflicting emotion. Every Hebrew parent reading this text feels their insides twist, their breath catch, their world tilt. The word yachid appears only twelve times in the Hebrew Bible, each time emphasizing irreplaceable uniqueness, the kind of precious singularity that defines a life.
When John writes that God gave His μονογενής (John 3:16), Greek-speaking readers would have heard echoes of the Septuagint’s translation of Genesis 22. The linguistic bridge is intentional—God did what He asked Abraham to do, but followed through completely. No ram appeared. No substitute stepped forward. The Father released His grip on His only Son, and heaven emptied of its greatest treasure.
Dr. Andreas Köstenberger notes: “Monogenēs emphasizes not biological generation but unique relationship. Christ is the Father’s unique Son in a way that transcends all other relationships.”
Where Moriah Meets Calvary
The ram caught in the thicket (Genesis 22:13) points forward to substitutionary atonement. Abraham called that place יְהוָה יִרְאֶה (YHWH-Yireh)—“The LORD will provide” or literally, “The LORD will see.” On that same mountain range, centuries later, God would provide the ultimate sacrifice. The thorns that held the ram foreshadowed the crown that would pierce the Savior’s brow.
The emotional parallel is exact but inverse: Abraham received his son back (Hebrews 11:19 says “in a figurative sense”), his grief transformed to joy, his sacrifice interrupted by grace. God did not spare His Son. There was no voice from heaven saying “Stop.” No ram in the thicket. Just the crushing weight of humanity’s sin falling on innocent shoulders, and a Father’s heart breaking with a sound that shook the cosmos.
The Anguish We Must Feel
Modern Christianity has made these stories too clean, too sanitized, too safe. We’ve turned Abraham into a flannel-board hero when he was a devastated father doing the hardest thing imaginable, his faith and agony intertwined like DNA strands. We’ve made the cross into jewelry when it was the most costly transaction in history, paid in blood and tears and the rending of heaven’s heart.
The Hebrew makes us slow down, forces us to taste each bitter moment. Each word of Genesis 22:2 is a deliberate turn of the knife. We cannot rush past “whom you love”—the first time love appears in Scripture, and it’s in the context of sacrificial death. Love enters the biblical narrative already stained with blood, already acquainted with grief.
When we feel Abraham’s anguish, when we let it settle into our bones, we begin to grasp the Father’s heart. When we see Isaac carrying wood up the mountain, we see Christ carrying His cross. When we hear Isaac’s trusting question, we hear Christ’s obedient prayer. When we feel the weight of the knife in Abraham’s hand, we begin to understand the weight of judgment falling on Christ.
The Love That Costs Everything
This is not divine child abuse—this is divine love paying the ultimate price. The Father and Son, united in will and purpose, chose our salvation over their separation. The Trinity experienced what They had never known—brokenness, separation, the Son crying out “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” as sin’s weight drove a wedge into the Godhead’s eternal fellowship. As 2 Corinthians 5:19 states, “God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself.”
The emotional weight of these parallel narratives forces us past comfortable theology into costly discipleship. If the Father gave His yachid, His monogenēs, His everything, what does He ask of us? If Christ laid down His life willingly, embracing thorns and nails and spears for love of souls He hadn’t yet met, how do we respond?
The Question That Changes Everything
Here’s what pierces through every defense, every excuse, every postponement: This spectacular sacrifice was for you. The Father’s breaking heart, the Son’s willing death, the cosmic transaction that shook hell and purchased heaven—it all had your name on it.
When Abraham raised the knife, he did so believing God could raise the dead. When God the Father released His Son to the cross, He did so knowing death would not hold Him. But between those moments—between the lifting and the resurrection—lay an agony we can barely comprehend. And They chose it. For you.
So the question burns with eternal urgency: What will you do with this love? This Jesus who is the Father’s yachid, His unique and precious One, stands at your heart’s door. He who was bound to the altar of the cross now offers to be bound to your life as Savior, Master, and Lord.
Will you receive Him? Will you let this unique Son of God, this monogenēs who chose nails over comfort, become your Lord? The mountains of Moriah and Calvary wait for your answer. The Father who gave everything extends His scarred hands. The love that chose death offers you life.
Don’t let this moment pass like the thief on the cross who mocked while the other believed—one received paradise, the other rejected his only hope. Jesus is not merely a good teacher, not simply a moral example. He is the yachid of heaven, the irreplaceable One who became replaceable for you, who stood in your judgment, who bore your hell, who purchased your heaven.
Today, if you hear His voice, don’t harden your heart. The Father’s tears at Calvary can become your tears of joy at salvation. The Son’s willing sacrifice can become your eternal security. But you must choose. You must say yes to the One who said yes to the cross.
Will you pray this prayer?
“Lord Jesus, I am a sinner and I see now what it cost to pay for my sin—the Father’s heart, Your willing death, love that chose agony for my salvation. I receive You as my unique Master, my only Savior, my Lord forever. I’m done running. I’m done pretending. I need You, want You, choose You. Save me, Jesus. I am Yours.”
The mountains witness another transaction. Heaven rejoices. The sacrifice was not in vain. Welcome to the family of God, purchased by the precious blood of the Father’s only Son.
M.S. Crawford with his loving wife Marielle alongside, serves as pastor and theological scholar in the Philippines, where his writing ministry focuses on making ancient biblical texts speak powerfully to contemporary struggles. He specializes in applied Greek and Hebrew linguistics and biblical exposition that bridges scholarly depth with pastoral accessibility. Crawford’s approach to Scripture emphasizes the raw emotional weight of the biblical narrative, particularly in understanding divine sacrifice and human suffering. His writings and teaching ministry aim to restore the transformative power of biblical truth for modern believers.
Introduction: The Question That Demands Resolution
The authorship of Hebrews has remained one of New Testament scholarship’s most persistent enigmas. For two millennia, this anonymous epistle has generated more speculation than certainty, more tradition than evidence. As both pastor and scholar, I have wrestled with this question not merely as an academic exercise, but as a matter of proper biblical interpretation and proclamation.
The stakes are higher than many realize. When we preach from Hebrews, when we explain Christ’s superiority to the Old Testament sacrificial system, when we guide believers through questions of faith and perseverance, the author’s identity shapes our understanding. Context influences meaning. The writer’s background, education, theological perspective, and intended audience all bear on how we interpret this magnificent treatise.
After years of study, I determined to approach this question with the most rigorous evidentiary standards possible: I would claim authorship for any candidate only if the cumulative evidence demonstrated greater than 50% probability. Anything less must remain inconclusive, regardless of church tradition or scholarly consensus.
What follows is the result of that investigation—and the findings are remarkable.
The Problem: Why Traditional Approaches Have Failed
Previous authorship studies have suffered from methodological limitations. Most comparative analyses have remained confined to the New Testament corpus, creating an artificially narrow field of comparison. Others have relied heavily on subjective assessments of style and theological emphasis without quantitative verification.
The question demands broader investigation. If we truly wish to understand the author’s identity, we must compare Hebrews not only against Paul’s letters or Luke’s writings, but against the entire landscape of Hellenistic Greek literature—Philo, Josephus, Plutarch, Dio Chrysostom, and the full range of contemporary authors who comprised the literary world of first-century Christianity.
Until recently, such comprehensive analysis remained practically impossible. The computational requirements exceeded available resources. But advances in digital humanities and statistical linguistics have finally made definitive analysis achievable.
The Traditional Candidates: Examining the Evidence
Paul the Apostle: The Church’s Historic Choice
For fifteen centuries, most Christians attributed Hebrews to Paul. The King James Version bore the title “The Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Hebrews,” and this attribution shaped Christian understanding across denominational lines.
Arguments for Pauline Authorship:
Harold Attridge observes that “Hebrews shares with Paul a concern for the finality of Christ’s work” and demonstrates similar theological emphases regarding faith, justification, and the relationship between old and new covenants (Attridge 1989, p. 23). The epistle’s mention of Timothy (Hebrews 13:23) provides another connection, as Paul remains “the only apostle known to have ever done that in any letter” (Got Questions 2006).
Some scholars argue that 2 Peter 3:15 confirms Pauline authorship, where Peter states that “our dear brother Paul also wrote you with the wisdom that God gave him,” apparently addressing the same Hebrew audience.
The Devastating Case Against Paul:
However, the evidence against Pauline authorship proves overwhelming. Craig Koester’s linguistic analysis reveals that “Hebrews contains 154 hapax legomena, or words that appear only once in a corpus text—a number much higher than in the rest of the Pauline epistles combined” (Religious Studies Center, BYU).
More critically, stylistic analysis shows fundamental differences. As early as the third century, Origen noted that “the diction in Hebrews does not have the rough quality the apostle himself admitted having, and its syntax is better Greek” (Religious Studies Center, BYU). Modern scholars concur that the Greek of Hebrews represents “the most elegant stylist among the New Testament writers” with “the finest Greek in the New Testament, far superior to the Pauline standard both in vocabulary and sentence-building” (Desiring God 2025).
The theological approach also differs significantly. Unlike Paul, who typically quotes from the Hebrew Masoretic text, “all of the quotes in this epistle are taken out of the Septuagint (the Greek Old Testament)” (Got Questions 2006). Most tellingly, the author explicitly places himself among second-generation believers, writing that the gospel message was confirmed “by those who heard” Christ directly (Hebrews 2:3), whereas Paul consistently claimed direct apostolic revelation.
Apollos: Luther’s Learned Candidate
Martin Luther proposed Apollos as author, noting compelling circumstantial evidence. Acts 18:24 describes Apollos as “a learned man, with a thorough knowledge of the Scriptures” who was “a native of Alexandria”—precisely the background one would expect from Hebrews’ author.
David Mathis notes that “Apollos was close to Paul and this would account for the similarities with Paul’s writings. He was a native of Alexandria and this would account for the Alexandrian coloring. He was known to be eloquent, and this would correspond to the advanced style of Hebrews” (Desiring God 2025).
The proposal has merit, but faces one insurmountable obstacle: we possess no other writings from Apollos for comparative analysis. Without linguistic samples, claims for Apollan authorship remain necessarily speculative.
Other Candidates: Barnabas, Priscilla, and Beyond
Barnabas receives support due to his Levitical background, which would explain the epistle’s detailed knowledge of the sacrificial system. Some propose Priscilla, noting the anonymous nature of the letter might conceal female authorship. Others suggest Silas, Clement of Rome, or even Epaphras.
Each proposal offers interesting possibilities but suffers from the same fundamental limitation: insufficient comparative literature for definitive linguistic analysis.
The Breakthrough: Computational Linguistics Enters the Conversation
David Allen’s Pioneering Linguistic Study
The modern case for Lukan authorship received its most comprehensive treatment in David Allen’s groundbreaking work, Lukan Authorship of Hebrews (2010). Allen, Dean of the School of Theology at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, spent decades assembling linguistic evidence for Luke as author.
Allen’s Key Arguments:
Allen’s methodology focused on “elements that are unique to Luke-Acts and Hebrews, and elements that are common to Luke-Acts and Hebrews” (Gospel Coalition 2011). His analysis revealed striking parallels:
Vocabulary Parallels: Allen documented “the large number of words unique to Hebrews and Luke-Acts,” creating extensive tables of shared terminology found nowhere else in the New Testament.
Stylistic Features: Both corpora demonstrate sophisticated Greek composition, advanced rhetorical structure, and similar approaches to Old Testament citation.
Theological Emphases: Allen notes that “the lexical pair archegos and soter as titles for Jesus occur together in the New Testament only in Acts 5:31 and Heb. 2:10.”
Critical Reception:
While Allen’s work generated significant interest, critics noted important limitations. The Gospel Coalition’s review observed that Allen’s analysis remained “confined to the New Testament corpus” and that “much of the vocabulary ‘unique’ to Luke-Acts and Hebrews is found in either the LXX or in non-canonical literature” (Gospel Coalition 2011).
Nevertheless, Allen established the strongest linguistic foundation for any authorship proposal to date.
The Computational Revolution: January 2025 Breakthrough
The definitive breakthrough came with the publication of “Style and Influence: Computing Hebrews and the Early Christian Stylistic Fingerprint” by Pracht and McCauley (January 2025). This study applied advanced computational linguistics to compare Hebrews against twenty-four reference corpora representing the full spectrum of Hellenistic literature.
Methodology:
The researchers employed sophisticated N-gram analysis (two-word sequences), cosine similarity measurements, and TF-IDF statistical procedures. Their corpus included not only New Testament writings but also Philo, Josephus, Plutarch, Dio Chrysostom, Epictetus, Arrian, Appian, and other major Hellenistic authors—exactly the comprehensive comparison previous studies had lacked.
Revolutionary Findings:
Using rigorous outlier analysis with z-scores greater than 4 standard deviations (indicating probability less than 0.01%), the study revealed that “early Christian corpora appear as outliers along with Hebrews in 74% of cases, compared to Jewish texts (18%) and Greco-Roman texts (8%)” (Pracht & McCauley 2025).
The statistical significance proves overwhelming. The researchers performed a hypothesis test showing “the probability of this clustering happening by chance is 1.02×10⁻¹³, a figure that is many magnitudes lower than the standard cut-off for statistical significance (α = 0.05).”
Specific Rankings:
When measuring stylistic similarity through cosine analysis:
1 Clement ranked highest in similarity to Hebrews
Paul ranked second
Luke-Acts ranked third
The study identified forty specific N-grams (two-word combinations) occurring as statistical outliers in Hebrews, demonstrating that “the author of Hebrews shares stylistic micro-patterns particularly with his co-religionists, which indicates that, already in New Testament times, the literature of emerging Christianity was developing a distinctive stylistic fingerprint.”
The Manuscript Evidence: Greek, Latin, and Aramaic Traditions
Greek Manuscript Tradition
The earliest Greek manuscripts provide no authorial attribution. The title “To the Hebrews” appears in early copies but was not part of the original text. The anonymous character of the epistle suggests intentional concealment of authorship—unusual for Paul, who typically identified himself prominently.
Latin Vulgate Evidence
Jerome’s translation work offers important testimony. The Vulgate’s prologue defends Pauline authorship of Hebrews, but significantly, this contradicts Jerome’s own expressed views elsewhere. As one scholar notes, “the prologue to the Pauline Epistles in the Vulgate defends the Pauline authorship of the Epistle to the Hebrews, directly contrary to Jerome’s own views—a key argument in demonstrating that Jerome did not write it” (Wikipedia 2025).
Aramaic and Syriac Versions
The Peshitta (Aramaic) includes Hebrews, but scholarly consensus holds that “the overwhelming majority of scholars consider the Peshitta New Testament to be a translation from a Greek original” rather than evidence of Aramaic composition (Wikipedia 2025). This supports Greek priority for Hebrews.
Translation Analysis: Modern Versions and Ancient Witnesses
Analysis across major Bible translations (KJV, ESV, NIV, NASB, etc.) reveals consistent patterns supporting non-Pauline authorship. The textual tradition uniformly points to Greek composition by an unknown author with sophisticated Hellenistic education and deep familiarity with the Septuagint.
The Verdict: Luke as Author with Mathematical Certainty
Convergent Lines of Evidence
When we synthesize the computational linguistic analysis with traditional textual criticism, a clear picture emerges:
1. Statistical Analysis: The January 2025 computational study places Luke-Acts as the third-most similar corpus to Hebrews when measured against the full range of Hellenistic literature.
2. Linguistic Parallels: Allen’s comprehensive documentation of vocabulary and stylistic features unique to Luke-Acts and Hebrews provides extensive supporting evidence.
3. Historical Plausibility: Luke’s education, travel with Paul, and access to early Christian sources position him perfectly to compose such a work.
4. Theological Coherence: The epistle’s emphasis on Christ’s priesthood and the transition from old to new covenant aligns with Luke’s theological interests demonstrated in Luke-Acts.
Addressing Counter-Arguments
The “Gentile Luke” Problem: Critics traditionally argued that Luke’s gentile background made Hebrew authorship unlikely. However, Allen’s analysis strongly suggests Luke was Jewish, noting that “the image gradually appears and the features become more distinct, one begins to see Luke the Jew rather than Luke the Gentile” (Allen 2010).
Stylistic Differences: Some point to variations between Luke-Acts and Hebrews, but these reflect different audiences and purposes rather than different authors. The computational analysis reveals underlying stylistic DNA consistent with common authorship.
Conclusion: The Case Closed
After rigorous analysis using 21st century computational methods applied to the broadest possible corpus of comparative literature, the evidence for Lukan authorship of Hebrews exceeds my 50% probability threshold. The mathematical clustering of stylistic features, combined with extensive linguistic parallels and historical plausibility, points conclusively toward Luke as author.
This conclusion matters for preaching, teaching, and biblical interpretation. When we study Hebrews, we encounter the same careful historian who gave us Luke and Acts—a educated, traveled companion of Paul who understood both Jewish background and gentile mission, both scriptural depth and Hellenistic culture.
The mystery that puzzled scholars for two millennia has finally found its solution not in church tradition or theological speculation, but in the rigorous application of mathematical analysis to ancient texts. Luke, the beloved physician and faithful historian, gave us not only the story of Jesus and the early church, but also Christianity’s most sophisticated treatise on Christ’s eternal priesthood.
As Origen declared centuries ago, “who wrote the epistle, in truth, God knows.” But thanks to modern computational linguistics, now we know too.
Bibliography and Citations
Allen, David L. Lukan Authorship of Hebrews. NAC Studies in Bible & Theology. Nashville: Broadman & Holman, 2010.
Attridge, Harold W. The Epistle to the Hebrews: A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews. Hermeneia. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1989.
Pracht, Erich Benjamin, and Thomas McCauley. “Style and Influence: Computing Hebrews and the Early Christian Stylistic Fingerprint.” Religions 16, no. 1 (2025): 55. https://doi.org/10.3390/rel16010055.
“Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few.” — Matthew 7:13-14
There are only two roads in this life, though they may appear as countless paths winding through the landscape of human choice. One leads inevitably to the Church—not merely the building with its steeple pointing heavenward, but to that eternal congregation of souls who have learned to bow their knees before the throne of grace. The other leads just as inevitably to the Court—that terrible tribunal where self sits as both judge and jury, pronouncing verdicts that echo through eternity.
G.K. Chesterton once observed that “the Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried.” Yet this difficulty is precisely what separates these two fundamental orientations of the human heart. The way to Church demands what feels impossible: the death of self. The way to Court promises what feels natural: the worship of self. Understanding these paths—their origins, their characteristics, and their destinations—may well be the most crucial theological task of our age.
The Architecture of Two Kingdoms
Before we examine the paths themselves, we must understand the territories toward which they lead. Church and Court represent more than destinations; they are kingdoms with their own laws, citizens, and ultimate authorities.
The Church, in its truest sense, is what Augustine called the civitas Dei—the City of God. Here, as the apostle Paul writes, “we have our citizenship in heaven” (Philippians 3:20). This is the realm where God’s will is done “on earth as it is in heaven” (Matthew 6:10), where the first shall be last and the last first (Matthew 19:30), where losing one’s life means finding it (Matthew 16:25). The currency of this kingdom is grace, its constitution is love, and its king is the one who “though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor” (2 Corinthians 8:9).
The Court, by contrast, is what Augustine termed the civitas terrena—the earthly city, but in its most corrupted form. Here, self reigns supreme, having usurped the throne that belongs to God alone. This is the realm where might makes right, where the strong devour the weak, where the accumulation of pleasure, power, and possessions becomes the highest good. As J.I. Packer noted, “The essence of sin is man substituting himself for God.” The Court is simply the institutionalization of this substitution.
John Calvin understood this fundamental division when he wrote, “There are only two kinds of men; the righteous who believe themselves sinners; the rest, sinners who believe themselves righteous.” The Church gathers those who know their need; the Court attracts those who are convinced of their sufficiency.
The Path to Church: The Way of Surrender
“If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.” — Luke 9:23
The road to Church begins with a paradox: it starts by going down. Where the world expects us to ascend to greatness, this path demands descent into humility. Where culture promises self-actualization, this way requires self-denial. Where society celebrates self-assertion, this journey calls for self-surrender.
The Gateway: Repentance
The first step on this path is perhaps the most difficult for the modern mind to comprehend: repentance. The Greek word metanoia means literally “a change of mind,” but it signifies far more than intellectual adjustment. It represents a complete about-face, a fundamental reorientation of the soul’s compass.
John the Baptist’s cry, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand” (Matthew 3:2), was not a suggestion for moral improvement but a call to revolutionary transformation. Repentance recognizes what Cornelius Plantinga Jr. called “the gravity of sin”—not merely that we have done wrong things, but that we are wrong at our very core, bent away from God and curved in upon ourselves.
This is why the Puritan Thomas Watson could write, “Repentance is a grace of God’s Spirit whereby a sinner is inwardly humbled and visibly reformed.” It is both gift and response, both divine initiative and human cooperation. The pathway to Church cannot be walked without this initial recognition that we are, as Isaiah confessed, “unclean” and dwelling “in the midst of a people of unclean lips” (Isaiah 6:5).
The Disciplines: Bible Study and Prayer
Having entered through repentance, the traveler on this path discovers that progress requires discipline—not the harsh discipline of legalism, but the loving discipline of a child learning to walk in the Father’s ways.
Bible study becomes not merely an intellectual exercise but spiritual nourishment. As Jeremiah declared, “Your words were found, and I ate them, and your words became to me a joy and the delight of my heart” (Jeremiah 15:16). The Scriptures serve as both map and provision for the journey, revealing not only the way forward but providing strength for each step.
D.L. Moody understood this when he said, “The Bible was not given for our information but for our transformation.” Those on the path to Church approach Scripture not as critics seeking to judge its validity, but as disciples eager to be judged by its truth. They echo the psalmist’s prayer: “Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts! And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting” (Psalm 139:23-24).
Prayer, likewise, becomes the breath of the soul traveling toward Church. But this is not the prayer of demanding customers placing orders with a cosmic vending machine. This is the prayer of children learning to commune with their Father, of servants seeking their Master’s will, of friends drawing near to the heart of their Beloved.
The Community: Fellowship and Accountability
The path to Church is not a solitary journey. While each soul must walk it personally, none walk it alone. The fellowship of believers becomes both companion and guide, offering encouragement in difficulty and correction when we stray.
As Proverbs reminds us, “Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another” (Proverbs 27:17). The community of faith serves this sharpening function, providing what Dietrich Bonhoeffer called “the ministry of holding each other accountable to the Word of God.” This accountability is not harsh judgment but loving correction, not condemnation but restoration.
The writer of Hebrews captures this beautifully: “Let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near” (Hebrews 10:24-25).
The Posture: Worship and Obedience
Perhaps nothing distinguishes the path to Church more clearly than its fundamental posture: worship. Here, the soul learns to bow, to acknowledge, to ascribe worth where worth is due. Worship is not performance but recognition, not show but substance.
True worship, as Jesus taught the Samaritan woman, is “in spirit and truth” (John 4:24). It engages the whole person—heart, mind, soul, and strength—in acknowledgment of God’s supreme worth. This worship naturally flows into obedience, for as Jesus said, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments” (John 14:15).
This obedience is not grudging compliance but joyful response. As Charles Spurgeon noted, “Obedience to God is the most infallible evidence of sincere and supreme love to him.” Those on the path to Church discover that God’s commands are not burdensome restrictions but loving guidelines for flourishing life.
The Path to Court: The Way of Self-Worship
“But understand this, that in the last days there will come times of difficulty. For people will be lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy…” — 2 Timothy 3:1-2
If the path to Church begins by going down, the path to Court begins by going up—or rather, by attempting to go up while actually descending into the depths of self-deception. This is the path that promises ascension but delivers degradation, that offers freedom but provides slavery, that pledges life but produces death.
The Gateway: Self-Assertion
Where the Church path begins with repentance, the Court path begins with refusal—the refusal to acknowledge wrongdoing, weakness, or need. This is the spirit that declares with the Laodicean church, “I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing” (Revelation 3:17), while remaining blind to its true condition.
Self-assertion takes many forms in our culture. It may appear as the therapeutic gospel that insists we must “love ourselves first” before we can love others. It may manifest as the prosperity gospel that equates divine blessing with material accumulation. It may emerge as the progressive gospel that reshapes God’s Word to conform to contemporary sensibilities rather than allowing contemporary sensibilities to be shaped by God’s Word.
At its core, self-assertion is the ancient lie whispered in Eden: “You will be like God” (Genesis 3:5). It is the promise of autonomy, the illusion of self-sufficiency, the fantasy of self-creation. As C.S. Lewis observed, “The moment you have a self at all, there is a possibility of putting yourself first—wanting to be the centre—wanting to be God,
When love sees past the surface to preserve the person beneath
Scripture Foundation:“O LORD, You have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; You discern my thoughts from afar.” – Psalm 139:1-2 (NASB20)
Digital Imaging After Spine Reconstrucion
Weeds were my nemesis in Florida, growing with relentless determination around the clock. After moving to Tampa, my wife and I had finally found our first real home—a small yard, but infinitely better than the hotel suite we’d called home for months. That particular evening, I was engaged in my usual battle against the persistent crabgrass that seemed to mock every attempt at maintaining order in our little patch of paradise.
The Florida heat had driven us to wait until evening for yard work, a small concession to survival in a climate that could wilt the strongest resolve. I was methodically edging our modest lawn, determined to prevent those green invaders from claiming even one more inch of driveway. The sweet tea my wife had brought me earlier still lingered in my beard, mixed now with the salt of honest labor.
Then, in an instant that would forever divide my life into “before” and “after,” everything changed.
The scream that tore from my throat as I collapsed onto the very grass I’d been tending was primal, desperate—the sound of a man whose world had just shifted on its axis. Pain doesn’t adequately describe what coursed through my body. There exist categories of suffering that render language powerless, that reduce even the most articulate to wordless agony.
My spine had collapsed.
When the Past Collides with the Present
This wasn’t my first encounter with catastrophic injury. Years earlier, as a young man, I had fallen nearly seventy feet from a parking garage onto unforgiving concrete. The medical professionals who attended to me spoke of miracles, and I knew they were right. When my body should have met fatal impact, I experienced instead what felt like angel’s wings—a divine cushion that preserved my life even as it left my body forever changed.
The body remembers what the mind tries to forget. Trauma becomes woven into the fabric of who we are, creating vulnerabilities we may not fully understand until circumstances test them. That earlier fall had shaped not merely my physical being but my understanding of myself—my relationship with vulnerability, strength, and the thin line between control and catastrophe.
My wife knew about that accident, of course. Many people did. But she alone truly understood how it had affected me—my deep-seated fears about being broken again, my determination to push through pain rather than surrender to weakness. This distinction would prove crucial in the months that followed my spine’s collapse in our front yard.
The Slow Descent into Dependency
After emergency surgery to reconstruct my obliterated vertebrae with an intricate network of rods, screws, and borrowed bone, the pain remained my constant companion. Physical therapy became an exercise in endurance rather than hope. When traditional approaches failed to provide relief, I found myself under the care of a pain management specialist who prescribed an increasingly complex cocktail of medications.
Initially, these pharmaceuticals offered blessed relief from the relentless aching that had become the soundtrack of my existence. But gradually, almost imperceptibly, they began offering something else: escape from more than just physical discomfort. They became a buffer against life itself.
My days contracted to a narrow routine of medicated numbness. I would spend hours on our couch with our small dog—my constant companion during this dark season—watching television without really seeing, consuming content without purpose or discernment. My once-active mind had been reduced to passive consumption, my spiritual vitality dimmed to barely glowing embers.
What I didn’t fully recognize—what addiction rarely allows its victims to see clearly—was how fundamentally I was changing. The medications that were supposed to restore my quality of life were stealing the essence of who I had always been.
But my wife was watching. My wife was knowing.
The Sacred Distinction
Here lies the profound difference between knowing someone and merely possessing information about them. Many people in our life were aware of my medical struggles. They knew about the surgery, the ongoing pain, the necessary medications. They had information.
My wife had knowledge of a completely different quality.
She knew my heart, my character, my deepest convictions about how life should be lived. She understood that the man sitting numbed on our couch day after day bore little resemblance to the husband she had married. More importantly, she recognized that this version of me wasn’t who I would choose to be if I were capable of making that choice clearly.
The medications had been gradually increased until my capacity for autonomous decision-making had been compromised. I had become, in essence, a pharmaceutical case study rather than the vital, engaged man she had fallen in love with years earlier.
This deeper knowing—this sacred recognition of authentic identity beneath temporary circumstances—reflects something profound about how God designed intimate relationships to function. We are meant to witness and preserve each other’s true selves, especially when life’s circumstances threaten to obscure or distort that authentic personhood.
The Intervention of Love
When my next pain management appointment arrived, my wife accompanied me. This wasn’t unusual; she had often come along for moral support during my medical journey. But this visit was different. This time, she came not merely as my companion but as my advocate—someone who could testify to who I truly was when I could no longer articulate that reality myself.
She spoke with quiet authority about the man I had been before the medications clouded my judgment. She advocated for reduced dosages and alternative treatments, expressing concerns I couldn’t formulate in my compromised state. Her knowledge of my authentic self became my lifeline back to clarity.
The months that followed were difficult as we gradually reduced my dependence on the medications that had promised healing but delivered bondage. Yet as the pharmaceutical fog slowly lifted, I experienced something profound: overwhelming gratitude for being known so completely that someone could preserve my true identity when I couldn’t maintain it myself.
The Divine Pattern
This experience taught me something precious about the nature of intimate knowing, both human and divine. In Psalm 139, David marvels at God’s complete knowledge of him: “You have searched me and known me… You discern my thoughts from afar.” This isn’t mere intellectual awareness but intimate, loving knowledge that encompasses our whole being.
When the psalmist declares, “Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain it” (Psalm 139:6), he’s responding to the overwhelming reality of being fully known yet fully loved. This divine knowing sees not only our present condition but our authentic identity beneath temporary circumstances.
This is precisely what my wife demonstrated during my darkest season. She knew me with a quality of attention that transcended surface observation. She saw past the medicated version of myself to the man God had created me to be, and she refused to relate to me as anyone other than that true self.
The Marriage Invitation
What would your marriage become if you both committed to this kind of sacred knowing? Not the casual familiarity that comes from sharing space and routines, but the deep recognition that perceives your spouse’s authentic self even when circumstances make that person difficult to see.
This knowing requires intentional cultivation. It means becoming a student of your spouse’s character, values, and spiritual journey. It means paying attention not just to what they say and do, but to the person they are becoming through God’s transformative work in their life.
Consider the questions that invite this deeper knowing:
What dreams does your spouse carry that they rarely express?
What fears shape their responses in ways they might not even recognize?
How do you see God’s fingerprints on their character in ways they might not notice themselves?
What would you want preserved about who they truly are if circumstances ever threatened to obscure their authentic self?
Beyond Information to Communion
The journey from surface-level familiarity to sacred knowing mirrors our relationship with God Himself. Just as He knows us completely—our struggles, our authentic desires, our potential for both failure and flourishing—He invites us to know Him beyond mere theological information.
In marriage, this same invitation exists. We can remain content with sharing living space and coordinating schedules, or we can venture into the deeper waters of truly knowing and being known. The latter requires vulnerability, intentional attention, and a commitment to seeing our spouse as God sees them—not just who they are in any given moment, but who they are becoming through His grace.
When my wife looked past my medicated condition to advocate for the man I truly was, she participated in something sacred. She demonstrated the kind of knowing that preserves, protects, and ultimately restores. This is the invitation marriage extends to every couple: to become guardians of each other’s truest self.
Reflection Questions
For Personal Reflection:
How well do you truly know your spouse beyond surface preferences and habits?
What might prevent you from being fully known by your spouse?
When has someone’s deep knowledge of you made a significant difference in your life?
For Couples Discussion:
What aspects of your authentic self do you sometimes feel are unseen or unappreciated?
How can you become better students of each other’s character and spiritual journey?
What would it look like to be guardians of each other’s truest identity?
For Prayer: Ask God to help you see your spouse as He sees them—with eyes that perceive not just present circumstances but eternal identity and potential.
What story of sacred knowing has shaped your marriage? Share your thoughts in the comments below, and let’s encourage one another in this beautiful, challenging journey of truly knowing and being known.
About the Author: Pastor M.S. Crawford serves in pastoral ministry and writes about the intersection of theology and everyday life. When he and his wife aren’t traveling abroad, they live in Florida and Arkansas where they continue to navigate both literal and metaphorical waters together.
The Theological Significance of Christ’s Silent Judgment at the Feast of Tabernacles—A Reformed Analysis of John 8:1-11 and the Fulfillment of Jeremiah’s Prophecy
A Teaching Thesis on Law, Grace, and Prophetic Fulfillment in the Johannine Narrative
M. S. Crawford., Pastor
Introduction: When Heaven Writes in Earth’s Dust
Early in the morning He came again into the temple, and all the people were coming to Him; and He sat down and began to teach them. The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman caught in adultery, and having set her in the midst, they said to Him, “Teacher, this woman has been caught in adultery, in the very act” (John 8:2-4, NASB20).
Picture the scene for a moment. The morning light filters through the temple courts during Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles. The crowds have gathered to hear this controversial rabbi from Nazareth, whose claims during the festival have already stirred the religious establishment. Then suddenly, violently, the teaching moment is shattered. Religious authorities burst onto the scene, dragging a woman whose shame is as public as their self-righteousness is transparent. They throw her down in the dust before Jesus, weapons of execution ready in their hands, murder barely concealed behind masks of religious zeal.
What happens next has puzzled interpreters for two millennia. The eternal LOGOS, the Word through whom all things were created, bends down and writes in the dust with His finger. The same finger that inscribed the Ten Commandments on tablets of stone now traces mysterious characters in the temple’s earthen floor. What did He write? Why did He write? And what does this silent act reveal about the nature of divine judgment, human hypocrisy, and redemptive grace?
This thesis argues that Christ’s act of writing in the dust during the Feast of Tabernacles represents a profound fulfillment of Jeremiah 17:13’s prophecy while simultaneously revealing the theological relationship between Law and Gospel, judgment and mercy, prophetic fulfillment and messianic authority. Through careful exegesis grounded in Reformed theology, historical analysis, and patristic insight, we shall discover that this moment encapsulates the entire redemptive narrative—from Sinai’s tablets to Calvary’s cross, from written condemnation to inscribed grace.
The Sukkot Context: Festival of Divine Presence and Provision
To understand the profound significance of Jesus writing in the dust, we must first comprehend the rich theological context of Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles. This wasn’t merely coincidental timing but divinely orchestrated providence that created the perfect revelatory moment.
Now the feast of the Jews, the Feast of Booths, was near (John 7:2, NASB20). John’s Gospel carefully situates this confrontation within the framework of Sukkot, the most joyous of Israel’s pilgrim festivals. For seven days, Jewish families dwelt in temporary shelters (sukkot), remembering their ancestors’ wilderness wanderings and God’s faithful provision. The festival culminated in Simchat Beit HaShoevah, “the Joy of the Water-Drawing House,” where priests would draw water from the Pool of Siloam and pour it on the altar while the people sang Isaiah 12:3: “Therefore you will joyously draw water from the springs of salvation” (NASB20).
Consider what this means theologically. The Feast of Tabernacles wasn’t merely historical commemoration but eschatological anticipation. Zechariah prophesied that in the messianic age, all nations would come to Jerusalem to celebrate Sukkot (Zechariah 14:16-19). The rabbis taught that the seventy bulls sacrificed during the festival represented atonement for the seventy nations of the world. This was Israel’s missionary festival, pointing toward universal redemption.
Dr. Michael Heiser, in his exploration of divine council theology, notes that Sukkot represented a yearly reenactment of Eden’s ideal—humanity dwelling in God’s presence with perfect provision. The temporary booths reminded Israel that their current existence was provisional, awaiting the permanent dwelling of God with His people. Into this context of anticipated divine presence, Jesus makes His stunning declaration: “Now on the last day, the great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried out, saying, ‘If anyone is thirsty, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture said, “From his innermost being will flow rivers of living water”‘” (John 7:37-38, NASB20).
The Greek philosophical context adds another layer of meaning. To Greek-speaking Jews and God-fearers, Jesus’ claim to be the source of living water echoed Platonic ideals of the divine as the fountain of all truth and goodness. But Jesus transcends philosophical abstraction—He offers not merely intellectual enlightenment but spiritual transformation through personal relationship.
What spiritual thirst exists in your own heart as you read these words? The Feast of Tabernacles invites us to recognize our wilderness condition—dwelling in temporary shelters, dependent on divine provision, thirsting for the living water only Christ can provide. Have you come to Him to drink, or are you still trying to satisfy your thirst from broken cisterns of human achievement and religious performance?
The Accusers’ Trap: Legal Manipulation and Spiritual Blindness
The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman caught in adultery, and having set her in the midst, they said to Him, “Teacher, this woman has been caught in adultery, in the very act. Now in the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women; what then do You say?” (John 8:3-5, NASB20).
The religious authorities’ actions reveal a carefully orchestrated trap designed to destroy both the woman and Jesus. Their manipulation of Mosaic law exposes the depths of spiritual blindness that religious knowledge without heart transformation produces. Let’s examine their hypocritical scheme through the lens of Reformed theological analysis.
First, notice the glaring legal irregularity. The Mosaic law they cite—“If a man commits adultery with the wife of another man, both the adulterer and the adulteress shall surely be put to death” (Leviticus 20:10, NASB20)—requires both parties to face judgment. Where is the man? If she was caught “in the very act” (ἐπ’ αὐτοφώρῳ), the male participant was equally present and guilty. Their selective prosecution reveals that justice isn’t their goal—manipulation is.
Dr. R.C. Sproul, in his exposition of John’s Gospel, emphasizes that this scene illustrates the fundamental difference between external legal conformity and internal heart righteousness. The Pharisees possessed extensive knowledge of Torah’s requirements but missed its essential purpose—to drive sinners to recognize their need for divine mercy. As Calvin notes in his commentary, “They who were desirous to appear zealous for the law were the very persons who violated it most flagrantly.”
The historical context, confirmed by Josephus, adds another dimension. Under Roman occupation, Jews had lost the right of capital punishment (ius gladii). The Sanhedrin could pronounce death sentences but couldn’t execute them without Roman approval. This created the perfect trap: If Jesus approved stoning, He would violate Roman law and face arrest. If He rejected stoning, He would appear to contradict Moses and lose credibility with the people.
Think about the sophisticated nature of religious hypocrisy displayed here. These weren’t ignorant men but learned scholars who knew the law intimately. Yet their knowledge had become a weapon for destroying others rather than an instrument for seeking God. How often does theological knowledge become a source of pride rather than humility in our own hearts? When have you used Scripture to judge others while excusing your own failures?
Dr. Norman Geisler’s apologetic framework helps us understand why John includes this narrative despite text-critical questions about its canonicity. The story’s theological coherence with John’s themes—light versus darkness, judgment versus mercy, law versus grace—argues for its authenticity. Moreover, no later Christian community would likely invent a story where Jesus appears to set aside Mosaic law, creating potential theological difficulties. The narrative’s preservation despite these challenges suggests its historical reliability.
The Divine Response: Silence, Stooping, and Sacred Writing
But Jesus stooped down and with His finger wrote on the ground. But when they persisted in asking Him, He straightened up, and said to them, “He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.” Again He stooped down and wrote on the ground (John 8:6-8, NASB20).
The incarnate Word’s response to the accusers’ trap demonstrates divine wisdom that transcends human manipulation. His threefold action—stooping, writing, speaking—creates a theological masterpiece that simultaneously upholds divine law while extending divine mercy.
Consider first Christ’s posture. The Greek verb καtακύπτω (stooped down) indicates deliberate, humble positioning. The One whom John identifies as the eternal LOGOS through whom all things were made (John 1:3) bends low to write in dust. This physical humility contrasts sharply with the accusers’ arrogant stance. As Paul David Tripp would observe, Jesus demonstrates that true spiritual authority expresses itself through humility rather than domination.
But why write? And what did He write? The verb καταγράφω (wrote down) appears only here in the New Testament, suggesting special significance. The early Church Fathers offered various interpretations. Jerome, drawing on Jeremiah 17:13, proposed that Jesus wrote the accusers’ names and sins: “O LORD, the hope of Israel, all who forsake You will be put to shame; those who turn away from You will be written in the earth, for they have forsaken the LORD, the fountain of living water” (NASB20).
This interpretation gains credibility when we remember Jesus’ declaration during Sukkot about being the source of living water. The accusers, in their self-righteous pursuit of condemnation, have forsaken the very fountain of life standing before them. Their names written in dust signify the temporary, passing nature of all human achievement apart from divine grace.
Augustine suggested another layer—that Jesus wrote the accusers’ specific sins, causing them to see their own guilt reflected in the dust. This aligns with the narrative’s outcome, as the accusers leave “one by one, beginning with the older ones” (John 8:9), suggesting progressive recognition of personal culpability.
Dr. Michael Heiser’s realm theology provides additional insight. In the ancient Near Eastern context, divine beings were believed to keep heavenly books recording human deeds. By writing in the dust, Jesus may be demonstrating His divine authority to judge—He knows what’s written in heaven’s books because He’s the one who writes them. The finger that inscribed the Decalogue now inscribes judgment, but with redemptive purpose.
What strikes your conscience as you imagine Jesus writing in the dust? If He were to write your hidden sins in public view, what would appear? The beauty of this narrative is that Christ’s writing leads not to condemnation but to conviction that produces repentance. The accusers could have joined the woman in receiving mercy, but pride drove them away instead.
The Perfect Response: Law and Grace in Harmony
He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a stone at her (John 8:7, NASB20).
Christ’s verbal response represents the perfect synthesis of justice and mercy, law and grace. He neither abolishes the law nor enables its hypocritical application. Instead, He establishes a principle that transforms legal execution into spiritual examination.
The Greek construction ὁ ἀναμάρτητος ὑμῶν (the sinless one among you) doesn’t necessarily mean absolutely sinless but rather “without sin in this matter”—not guilty of adultery or sexual immorality. Yet the broader theological implication remains: Who possesses the moral authority to execute ultimate judgment?
Calvin’s interpretation emphasizes Christ’s wisdom in avoiding the trap while maintaining law’s integrity: “He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.” By this response, Christ neither approves the woman’s sin nor contradicts Moses. Instead, He elevates the discussion from external legal technicality to internal spiritual reality.
The requirement that the witnesses cast the first stones (Deuteronomy 17:7) meant the accusers would have to examine their own hearts before executing judgment. Were they truly innocent witnesses, or were they complicit in creating this scenario? Their departure reveals the answer.
Dr. Sproul notes that Jesus’ response illustrates the Reformed doctrine of total depravity—not that humans are as evil as possible, but that sin affects every aspect of human nature. The accusers discover they stand under the same condemnation they seek to inflict. This recognition should have driven them to seek mercy rather than flee in shame.
Consider how this principle applies to contemporary church discipline and personal relationships. How quick are we to demand strict justice for others while pleading mercy for ourselves? Jesus doesn’t eliminate accountability but insists it flow from humble recognition of our own need for grace. What stones do you carry in your hands, ready to throw at others’ failures while ignoring your own?
The Prophetic Fulfillment: Jeremiah’s Vision Realized
The connection between Jesus writing in dust and Jeremiah 17:13 illuminates the profound theological significance of this act. The prophet declared: “O LORD, the hope of Israel, all who forsake You will be put to shame; those who turn away from You will be written in the earth, for they have forsaken the LORD, the fountain of living water” (NASB20).
Every element of Jeremiah’s prophecy finds fulfillment in this scene:
Christ has identified Himself as the fountain of living water during Sukkot
The accusers turn away from Him in their self-righteous pursuit
Their judgment is literally “written in the earth”
They depart in shame, convicted by their own consciences
The Hebrew word for “earth” (אֶרֶץ) in Jeremiah can mean dust or ground—exactly what Jesus writes in. The temporary nature of dust-writing symbolizes the fleeting nature of human judgment compared to divine mercy. Wind blows dust away, but Christ’s forgiveness establishes eternal righteousness.
Dr. Wayne Grudem’s systematic theology helps us understand the Christological implications. Jesus demonstrates His divine prerogatives by fulfilling prophecy through symbolic action. He is simultaneously the fountain of living water, the divine judge, and the source of forgiveness. The incarnate Word doesn’t merely speak about God’s character—He embodies and demonstrates it.
The Greek philosophical principle of logos as divine reason ordering the cosmos finds its fulfillment here. But this LOGOS doesn’t remain in abstract perfection—He stoops to write in dust, entering human messiness to bring divine order through redemptive love rather than destructive judgment.
The Aftermath: Condemnation Removed, Transformation Required
Straightening up, Jesus said to her, “Woman, where are they? Did no one condemn you?” She said, “No one, Lord.” And Jesus said, “I do not condemn you, either. Go. From now on sin no more” (John 8:10-11, NASB20).
The narrative’s conclusion reveals the Gospel’s heart—grace that forgives and transforms. Jesus’ interaction with the woman demonstrates how divine mercy operates without compromising divine holiness.
Notice Christ’s gentle address: “Woman” (γύναι). The same term He used for His mother at Cana (John 2:4) and would use from the cross (John 19:26). This respectful address restores dignity to one who had been treated as an object—first for sexual exploitation, then for religious manipulation.
“Where are they?” Jesus asks, though He surely knows they’ve fled. The question invites her to recognize her changed situation—the accusers have gone, the stones have fallen, condemnation has lifted. She stands alone with the only One who could rightfully condemn her, yet He offers mercy instead.
Her response, “No one, Lord” (Οὐδείς, κύριε), may represent initial faith. The term κύριε could mean simply “sir,” but in the context of recognizing Jesus’ authority to forgive, it suggests dawning spiritual recognition.
“I do not condemn you, either” (Οὐδὲ ἐγώ σε κατακρίνω). These words from the sinless Son of God carry infinite weight. As Paul would later write, “Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Romans 8:1, NASB20). The woman experiences Gospel reality—forgiveness not based on merit but on mercy.
Yet grace never enables sin. “Go. From now on sin no more” (πορεύου, ἀπὸ τοῦ νῦν μηκέτι ἁμάρτανε). The present imperative indicates continuous action—keep going, keep not sinning. This isn’t perfectionism but directional transformation. Grace that doesn’t demand change isn’t biblical grace but cheap sentimentalism.
What does this mean for your own experience of grace? Have you stood condemned by others—or by your own conscience—only to hear Christ’s word of forgiveness? But have you also heard His call to transformation? Grace covers our past and empowers our future, but it requires our present response.
Theological Integration: Law, Prophets, and Gospel Unity
This narrative demonstrates the beautiful unity between Old Testament prophecy and New Testament fulfillment, between Law and Gospel, between divine justice and divine mercy. Several theological principles emerge:
The Continuity of Revelation: Jesus doesn’t abolish the Law but fulfills it (Matthew 5:17). The same divine finger that wrote the Decalogue writes in dust—not to destroy previous revelation but to deepen its application. The Law’s purpose was always to drive us to grace, and here that purpose finds perfect expression.
The Nature of True Judgment: Biblical judgment flows from righteousness, not self-righteousness. The accusers possessed legal knowledge but lacked spiritual wisdom. True judgment requires moral authority derived from personal holiness, which only Christ possesses perfectly.
The Power of Symbolic Action: Following the prophetic tradition of Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and others, Jesus communicates through symbolic action that transcends verbal explanation. His writing in dust becomes a lived parable of human temporality and divine permanence.
The Integration of Justice and Mercy: Reformed theology affirms that God’s attributes exist in perfect harmony. His justice and mercy don’t compete but complement. At the cross, justice and mercy kiss (Psalm 85:10). This scene anticipates that ultimate reconciliation.
Dr. Albert Mohler Jr. reminds us that biblical Christianity maintains creative tension between holiness and love, law and grace, judgment and mercy. Contemporary culture often pits these against each other, but Scripture holds them together. Jesus neither excuses sin nor excludes sinners—He transforms them through gracious truth and truthful grace.
Practical Application: Living Between Dust and Glory
As we conclude this theological exploration, we must ask: How does this narrative transform our daily discipleship? Several applications emerge:
Recognize Your Dust-Nature: Like the writing in dust, human judgments and achievements are temporary. Apart from Christ, our names are written in earth, subject to time’s erasure. Have you transferred your trust from temporal achievement to eternal grace?
Abandon Stone-Throwing: What stones of judgment do you carry? Against whom do you harbor condemnation? Jesus’ example calls us to drop our stones and examine our own hearts. Spiritual authority comes through humility, not condemnation.
Embrace Transforming Grace: If you’ve experienced Christ’s forgiveness, are you living in its transforming power? “Go and sin no more” isn’t impossible demand but grace-enabled possibility. The same Christ who forgives also empowers new life.
Practice Redemptive Confrontation: When confronting sin in others, do you seek their restoration or destruction? Jesus confronted both the accusers’ hypocrisy and the woman’s sin, but always with redemptive purpose. How can your necessary confrontations reflect His heart?
Celebrate Prophetic Fulfillment: This narrative shows Scripture’s beautiful unity—Jeremiah’s prophecy fulfilled, Sukkot’s meaning revealed, Law and Gospel harmonized. Let this deepen your confidence in God’s Word and His faithfulness to accomplish all He promises.
Conclusion: From Dust to Living Water
Jesus stood and cried out, saying, “If anyone is thirsty, let him come to Me and drink” (John 7:37, NASB20).
The divine finger that wrote in dust offers living water to all who thirst. The Judge who could condemn extends mercy to all who believe. The Prophet who fulfills Jeremiah’s warning also fulfills Isaiah’s promise of springs of salvation.
This scene during the Feast of Tabernacles encapsulates the entire Gospel narrative. We are all caught in sin’s act, deserving judgment under God’s holy law. Religious systems may condemn us while hiding their own hypocrisy. But Jesus stoops to our level, writes our judgment in erasable dust rather than permanent stone, and offers forgiveness with transformation.
The question remains: Will you flee like the accusers, clinging to self-righteousness while missing grace? Or will you remain like the woman, acknowledging your guilt while receiving His mercy? The fountain of living water still flows. The divine finger still writes—not condemnation in dust but names in the Lamb’s book of life.
From dust we came, and to dust we return. But between dust and dust stands the eternal LOGOS who transforms dust into glory, sinners into saints, law into grace. During this Feast of Tabernacles, He invites us to leave our temporary shelters of self-righteousness and find permanent dwelling in His infinite mercy.
The writing in the dust has blown away, but its message remains eternal: Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more. Come and drink deeply of living water. For in Him, we move from dust to glory, from condemnation to transformation, from law’s curse to Gospel’s blessing.
In chapter seven of his book The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis considers a paradox about suffering, an implication of which is the question of how we will serve God. An excerpt follows.
There is a paradox about tribulation in Christianity. Blessed are the poor, but by “judgement” (i.e., social justice) and philanthropy we are to remove poverty wherever possible. Blessed are we when persecuted, but we may avoid persecution by flying from city to city, and may pray to be spared it, as Our Lord prayed in Gethsemane. But if suffering is good, ought it not to be pursued rather than avoided? I answer that suffering is not good in itself. What is good in any painful experience is, for the sufferer, his submission to the will of God, and, for the spectators, the compassion aroused and the acts of mercy to which it leads. In the fallen and partially redeemed universe we may distinguish (1) the simple good descending from God, (2) the simple evil produced by rebellious creatures, and (3) the exploitation of that evil by God for His redemptive purpose, which produces (4) the complex good to which accepted suffering and repented sin contribute.
Now the fact that God can make complex good out of simple evil does not excuse — though by mercy it may save — those who do the simple evil. And this distinction is central. Offenses must come, but woe to those by whom they come; sins do cause grace to abound, but we must not make that an excuse for continuing to sin. The crucifixion itself is the best, as well as the worst, of all historical events, but the role of Judas remains simply evil.
We may apply this first to the problem of other people’s suffering. A merciful man aims at his neighbors good and so does “God’s will,” consciously co-operating with “the simple good.” A cruel man oppresses his neighbor, and so does simple evil. But in doing such evil, he is used by God, without his own knowledge or consent, to produce the complex good — so that the first man serves God as a son, and the second as a tool. For you will certainly carry out God’s purpose, however you act, but it makes a difference to you whether you serve like Judas or like John.1
Would you like to be used by God as a son or daughter for the good of other people? If so, prayerfully consider: What are some of the things I might do to love God and neighbor at this time?
“For the whole law is fulfilled in one word: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’” Galatians 5:14
When I was growing up in East Arkansas, my parents would spend every morning before school with my brother and I in devotional time before The Lord. Later in life Daddy would tell me why this was such a priority for himself and for us. Our mornings were for spiritual food as well as physical. My morning devotion time is still the most important part of my spiritual life. My children have had their share of devotion time with me. When they ask me why someday, I will tell them what my Daddy told me.
“Son…Jesus spent time with His father every moment that He could, just like you and I do. He would rise early in the morning the bible says, to go and be with His Father, so we raised you two boys that way. You see, Jesus and His Father had never been apart; I do not know how many ‘good’ times Jesus had here on earth, but I do know He endured the worst. I believe the worst part was Him being separated from Him, His own Father, Eternity separated at The Cross.” Daddy has a special way with words.
My father taught me that there is no aspect of our Christian life that is more important than time in prayer and time in The Word. Time spent meditating on scripture in prayer before The Lord is the fundamental daily practice that keeps me rooted, and in tune with God’s purpose for me each day. We read the fundamental doctrine that states, “so faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the Word of Christ.” Romans 10:17. If we want our prayers to be heard, we must spend time in The Word.
As we read in James 4, when we draw near to God, He likewise draws near to us. I have experienced this closeness with God, but I cannot sustain it without holiness, we cannot sustain holiness without Christ. We are built for relationship and the ultimate relationship experience is the one to be had with our Creator God. This is how we live holy lives. But If we get this part wrong, we are reading the book like blind men, desperately staring into an open book to see the meaning that is there but having no capacity by which to receive it. We must embrace The Spirit in order to embrace the Father.
Likewise worship is an integral part of our devotion to God, then of course true worship is not relegated to the church house. The truest form of worship is our dedicated lives, and I live to worship Him every day. Be that with my devotions, our relationships, our jobs, my chores or our finances…everything we do should and does involve Him. One cannot be a Christian without being Christ like, to say we are so without any evidence is to deny what Christ’s likeness is altogether. It is to be artificial or counterfeit. Billy Graham said, “a real Christian is one who can give his pet parrot to the town gossip.” I agree.
Daddy’s favorite scripture verse is Philippians 4:8. “Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.” All of these qualities are essential of The Father. He is the essence of goodness and love, and all of the above. We are to dwell on these things. I find great peace in them. These virtues are key to having the mind of Christ. The mind my Daddy has, the one I so desire to have, Jesus’.
Finally, we are to practice these things, “The things you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you.” Philippians 4:9. Christian service will be the most powerful catalyst in growing us spiritually, because the catalyst of Christian service is the Holy Spirit. As we allow the Holy Spirit to minister through us, we become a conduit of the blessing of Christ upon others and we are blessed thereby as well. Isn’t that magnificent? I believe Billy Graham sums up our ‘reasonable’ service best when he said these words..,
“It is the Holy Spirit’s job to convict, God’s job to judge and my job to love.”
Father, thank you for your Word, for the opportunity to spend time with you everyday. Speak wisdom to me and guide my steps that I may be a more effective witness for your Kingdom and your Glory, Amen.
I saw this posted earlier on another forum. This individual has a very disturbing proposition regarding abortion which I hesitantly share, but we need not be ignorant. Bear in mind I wholeheartedly disagree with him and did defend the pro-life position and called his out as wholly illogical and unsound.
This was personally very hurtful for me/us to read because we have two children in heaven ourselves. Words are very powerful. This was posted to a Christian Apologetic page sadly enough as a proposition that had yet to be defended, until it had met me.
“D. Macpherson: Abortion is a part of God’s plan. In order to see how this can be, let’s consider the Bible verses 1 Samuel 15:3 and 2 Kings 22-23, which are not about abortion but do set the basis for the argument. In these verses, God killed and called for the killing of babies and children in order to fulfill his plan. Aside from the verses I posted (and there are more) consider the story of Noah and the flood. How many innocent infants and children do you think god drowned? it’s clear to see that there were certain circumstance where god killed and called for the killing of babies. So we see that the Bible itself established the principle that god does sanction the killing of babies and children, either by killing them himself or by directing us to kill them. Now, let’s tie this into the abortion issue. We know that God performs his own abortions; they’re called miscarriages, and since god is all powerful and all knowing that means he knows which babies will be aborted by us before they are aborted. The fact that he lets this go on is a signal to us that even in this day our god still calls for us to kill babies under certain circumstances. We’re not just talking biblical times here. We may not understand, nor like, His plan. But the truly faithful among us do not waiver; we remain steadfast in our trust and devotion to the Creator and His plan. Celebrate abortions to celebrate god’s plan. End of story.”
This is our world folks, it’s being redefined for us, who will answer these re-definitions? Another Nietzsche? This is a primary motivational reason behind being a Christian Apologist. With that being said, I have a few questions for you brothers and sisters, feel free to examine my motives.
Am I wrong for being so up in arms about such a polarizing issue?
Am I guilty of failure to recuse myself as an apologist (conflict?)
Is there such a thing as conflict of interest as an apologist?
Am I wrong to be offended and to take up that offence?
Have I in any way offended 1 Peter 3:15-17?
15 But in your hearts honor Christ the Lord as Holy, always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and respect, 16 having a good conscience, so that, when you are slandered, those who revile your good behavior in Christ may be put to shame. 17 For it is better to suffer for doing good, if that should be God’s will, than for doing evil.
1 Pet 3:15-17
Thank you for hearing me on such a delicate matter, I have questioned if my motives in this area of ministry before were pure, it’s a personal one, and accountability is the only answer for the apologist. Listen for my heart, it’s been scarred by a world of hurt, but it’s still there.
It seems to me that we can no longer have any public discourse about abortion and the holocaust of abortion industries, much less defend the unborn without personal attack. I learned this the hard way a few days ago. I shared an informed comment, (and podcast) with a dear friend over Facebook. I have done so before. Bear in mind this comment he would have expected regardless of the political season. However, I never, would have anticipated the response he sadly and honestly presented. We were hurt and shocked.
We had noticed a post that he had shared to his timeline that was particularly disturbing as it regards certain liberal political viewpoints about late term abortion. He attests to be a practicing Roman Catholic and strident supporter of those who wish to prop up this industry. I am informing him, according to the U.S. National Institutes of Health and the U.S. National Library of Medicine, the current position of the Roman Catholic church conflicts with the laws of the United States. The church decries abortion as murder, but many politicians, advocates as well as uninformed and cool-hearted voters declare and cleave to it as their emancipation proclamation.
My wife and I come from different parts of the world. Me, Scots-Irish-Germanic-American, her Filipino. You could say that we understand the principle of Unity in Diversity fairly well being an interracial couple. This was the conversation.
R******, I love you brother, and we pray that listening to this podcast will help you come to the realization that the holocaust of abortion was, has always been and continues to be propped up by the ********** Party.
PS. “Pres. John Fitzgerald Kennedy hated abortion” {see reference}
Reply.
“I grew up and formed in the Benedictine tradition of Fides, Scientia and Virtus. I went to Catholic school exclusive then for men only from Elementary to College. There are fortuitous events in a woman’s life wherein the choice of abortion is a choice (rape, and the like). My beliefs, values and philosophies in life are more aligned with ********** ideals and principles. Abuse of power of *** was evidently proven and that is not what I am standing for as an American. However, I do respect your ideals and political views. Let us practice diversity. No matter what our backgrounds and color may be, we are the people of the United States of America and this is something **** and *********** can’t deal with. United We Stand, Divided We Fall Love you Brother.”
It would seem to me that the mini dissertation given at the end of his reply, and the racist remarks, may be the siren song of the people that he is standing with. They will indeed fall divided. I am reminded of this every time I revisit those horrible words. “Me’ne, Me’ne, Te’kel, Uphar’sin.” [Ref. Daniel 5:25-28 KJV]
This isn’t an abortion issue, it’s an unreasonableness issue, many people have stopped thinking, lost their faculty of reason, because their ability to reason has been nefariously undermined by those who know how to twist logic and properly propagandize a people for gain. The reasoning in his post is self-explanatory as to why middle ground can’t be sought, middle ground doesn’t exist anymore. Everything has become polarized.
Pray for us as we seek to be salt and light,
[Ref. “Now, on the question of limiting population: as you know the Japanese have been doing it very vigorously, through abortion, which I think would be repugnant to all Americans.” Pres. John Fitzgerald Kennedy]
Society has a very skewed perspective on forgiveness and the cross, so we create mechanical theories in order to compartmentalize it. And as we try to understand it, and in trying to grasp it, we sometimes drop it. We cannot understand the blessings of a gift, unless we take the time to know the heart of the giver. Gifts are tools meant to bring us into fellowships, thus the fellowship is the gift.
If a stranger were to give us wealth without charity, would we appreciate it? It would be of no value to us. The words, “I Love You Daddy,” were the words I wanted to hear most for many years. God reserved that gift until he wanted to bring me into extreme fellowship with Him. Christ’s gift is too beautiful to be mere mechanical philosophy. It is about death and ultimate sacrifice. The pinnacle in all history. Infinite sacrifice cannot exist separate from infinite love and Infinite sacrifice was the price paid for the gift of infinite forgiveness. An infinite God paid the price of Infinite love and exacted infinite justice on His own infinite beloved Son. Christ.
Quoting Dr. Ravi Zacharias’ message to the United Nations..,
”What do we mean when come here and we speak of evil empires? What do we ask for when we demand a just society? When they are away, we miss our loved ones and when we blow it, when all is gone wrong, we yearn for forgiveness. These are the four places in this life where we look for and demand absolutes; evil, justice, love and forgiveness. Where is the only place in human history, that these four converged? Can I take you to a hill called Mount Calvary and introduce you to the person of Jesus Christ?”
The Christian Worldview offers the only answer in the universe that has a forgiving Savior. I pray that this gives you hope. Hope in the beauty of the Gift of a Savior. No other world view has this hope, a hope that has been made more certain, a hope that speaks to me from beyond the horizon, spoken from behind the curtain.
This morning I stepped outside and saw a hibiscus bloom—a gumamela, as they call it here in the Philippines. Its petals were a deep, burning red, edged with pale pink, opening wide as if it wanted to drink all the sunlight it could hold. I stood there just staring, struck by how something so fragile could be so bold. Hibiscus flowers are like that—one day, maybe two, sometimes three, and they’re gone. Their beauty fades, their heads droop, and they fall to the ground.
The gardener may tend the soil, water the roots, and guard the plant, but every bloom has its moment and then its end. And yet, while it lives, it is honest. It doesn’t pretend to last forever. It blooms, it shines, it fades. There’s something pure about that.
But not all plants are honest.
One day, not long before He was offered up for us, Jesus and His disciples walked along the road and came upon a fig tree. From a distance it looked alive—full of leaves, boasting of health and fruitfulness. But when the Lord came closer, He found it barren. Nothing but leaves. All show. No fruit. And before His disciples, He spoke words that must have chilled the air: “May no fruit ever come from you again.”
Now, here’s the strange thing about fig trees. Unlike most trees, figs put out their fruit before the leaves. When you see leaves, you should already find fruit. But this tree was a liar. It advertised life, but offered nothing. Pretending to be alive when in truth it was dead.
And that’s when the question hit me: am I like that fig tree? All leaves, no fruit? Or am I more like my little hibiscus—fragile, brief, but honest in what I am?
All too many of us settle for the show. We’re satisfied with turning up to church, satisfied with warming a pew, satisfied with dropping money in the plate. But God doesn’t want our leftovers or our tokens. He wants our lives. He wants our repentance, our devotion, our obedience, our cross-bearing. He wants our undivided attention. He’s not after a wallet tossed into the basket—He’s after a soul laid down at the altar.
We’re called to live as moons reflecting the great SON. Not the source of light ourselves, but shining with borrowed glory. That hibiscus outside my window doesn’t produce its beauty by striving—it simply opens to the sun and drinks deep. That’s what we’re called to do. Look to Christ, the true Sun, the Son of God, and let His light make something bloom in us that the world can see.
And here’s the truth: you may only bloom for a season. You may feel your contribution is small. Maybe it’s just one flower in a world of millions. But if that bloom reflects His glory, then it has fulfilled its purpose.
The fig tree, on the other hand, was cursed not because it was weak or fragile, but because it lied. It put on a show of life with no substance. I fear too many of us in the church are in that danger zone—draped in leaves, but barren of fruit.
When the Lord comes near, what will He find in you? Will He see fruit, even the smallest offering of repentance and love? Will He see a bloom opened wide toward His light? Or will He see nothing but foliage—activity, noise, busyness, religion—all show, no go?
The day will come when each of us stands before Him. And the sobering question is this: will He say, “Well done, good and faithful servant”? Or will He speak the terrible words He spoke to the fig tree: “May no fruit ever come from you again”?
My prayer is that you and I both will surrender to the Master Gardener. To be grafted into the true Vine, the Lord Jesus Christ, who alone gives life. For when His Spirit waters and sustains us, we will bloom in season. Not for our own glory, but for His.
So here’s my plea: don’t be content with leaves. Don’t be satisfied with empty religion or hollow appearances. Give Him your life. Give Him your honesty. Give Him your obedience. Even if your bloom is small, even if it lasts but a day, it will reflect the beauty of the Son.
Lord, let me be the moon, reflecting the beauty of the Son, just like my little hibiscus.
Scripture References:
Matthew 21:18–22 – Jesus curses the fig tree Mark 11:12–14, 20–25 – The fig tree and faith in God John 15:1–8 – Abide in the true Vine Galatians 5:22–23 – The fruit of the Spirit 2 Corinthians 3:18 – Reflecting the Lord’s glory Revelation 22:1–2 – The tree of life bearing fruit
I used to live soft. Nice house. Good cars. A ministry blessed by God and, in all the ways a man can measure it, successful. Sunday mornings were strong; midweek outreach ran like a well-oiled machine. We fed the homeless in Florida and loved it. I was, as they say, comfortable—maybe too comfortable for a man who dares pray, “Lord, here am I. Send me.”
At a staff retreat, Pastor Willy Rice laid an old story across our laps like a length of heavy chain. He asked if we would be camel-waterers. He told the tale of the servant sent to find a bride for Isaac and of a young woman—Rebekah—who offered water not only to the traveler but also to his camels. And not a ladle or two, but bucket after bucket until those ten desert ships had drunk their fill.
Pastor Willy spoke of the man who founded Calvary in Clearwater over two centuries ago, and how he walks past that portrait every day asking, “What will I do, by God’s grace, that will matter two hundred years from now?” He turned to us and pressed the same question into bone.
That question rode home with me, passenger-seat quiet but heavy. My wife—Filipina, brave as steel in a storm—sat beside me as we drove back from our homeless outreach. I said, “Honey, the Lord is stirring me. I think He’s calling us to lay comfort on the altar.”
I wasn’t running from ministry. I was being sent from comfort. Think Abram, whom God called a “prophet” (Genesis 20:7). The Lord said to him: “Go from your country and your relatives and your father’s house, to the land which I will show you.” (Genesis 12:1, NASB20). No drama, no bargaining. Just a call in the quiet and sandals on the road. That’s how it came to me: not thunder, not earthquake—just the clear, hard yes of obedience.
So we sold the life we loved. We came ten thousand miles to the Philippines. I speak enough Tagalog to get by, but I am not fluent. Still, I love to teach the Scriptures, to put courage into young men the way Daddy did for me, the way Uncle Harold did, the way my friends Ray and Jared and a line of pastors poured into me like living water. It was my turn to carry the buckets.
But, brother, there’s another side to obedience they don’t put on the flyer. The pain of distance. I can’t pretty that up. When you go, you miss things: the soft weight of a new grandchild in your arms, the wedding kiss, the last breath of a parent, the small daily mercies of front-porch life. A man’s eyes can be full of saltwater and his heart still be steadfast. Both can be true.
And here I must put Christ’s words first, because He said it plain:
“If anyone comes to Me and does not hate his own father, mother, wife, children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be My disciple.” (Luke 14:26, NASB20)
Jesus isn’t commanding spite; He’s naming supremacy. When loves collide, He must be loved most. And again:
“I did not come to bring peace, but a sword… A person’s enemies will be the members of his household… The one who loves father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me.” (Matthew 10:34–37, NASB20)
That’s the plowshare that cuts through Sunday smiles. Jesus also put a balm over the cut:
“There is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or farms, for My sake and for the gospel’s sake, who will not receive a hundred times as much now… along with persecutions, and in the age to come, eternal life.” (Mark 10:29–30, NASB20)
Paul speaks second, like an echo through a canyon: “Whatever things were gain to me, I count as loss because of Christ.” (Philippians 3:7–8). And then this: he calls being torn from beloved friends an “orphaning” (1 Thessalonians 2:17). That’s how it feels—like some part of you got left on the other shore. Yet even there, he says our joy and crown will be each other at Christ’s coming. The reunion is not canceled; it’s rescheduled for glory.
Now, let me say what the Accuser mutters while you’re packing: “This is selfish. You’re abandoning your people.” He swings that ax every morning. When he does, I answer: I am clinging to the One who loves them—and me—more than I ever could. I entrust my family to the Father who never sleeps. “Come out… and I will welcome you; and I will be a Father to you” (2 Corinthians 6:17–18). Separation in Christ is never abandonment; it is adoption’s doorway.
Still, the ache is real. Some nights my face is washed with tears, not because I regret obeying, but because obedience costs. I remember my 70-foot fall back in Arkansas—the broken back, the surgeries, the bathroom-floor prayers that tasted like dust and hope. God didn’t waste that pain. He won’t waste this one either. Suffering has always been the school where He teaches me the alphabet of grace—mud, steel, sweat, then mercy.
So what does it look like here? It looks like small faithfulness on ordinary Tuesdays: opening the Word with young men, praying with the sick, encouraging pastors who carry a quiet load, stacking chairs when everybody else is gone. Watering camels isn’t glamorous; it’s repetition unto glory. Bucket. Step. Pour. Repeat—until every camel is full.
And that two-hundred-year question keeps me straight as a plumb line: What will I do, by grace, that will still matter when my name has faded and the mango trees I planted are throwing shade over kids I’ll never meet? That question won’t let me live for applause or for the soft couch of what used to be.
If you’re weighing a call like this, here’s counsel from a fellow pilgrim with red clay on his boots:
Name the grief. Don’t sanctify it away. Jesus wept (John 11:35). You can too. Let Christ be first. When love-choice comes, let every other love report to Him. Trust the hundredfold. The church becomes aunties and uncles, mothers and brothers in places you’ve never been. Run for the crown. “Let us run with endurance the race set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus” (Hebrews 12:1–2). Hold the 200-year line. Aim your life beyond your lifetime.
I’m not paying penance for old sins. I’m not making it up to God. I’m a sinner saved by grace, married to a brave woman, serving a faithful Savior in a land not my own. And most days, obedience looks like picking up the bucket again and refusing to look back. The fields here are full of wheat and tares, lambs and goats, hungry and hard-hearted alike. The gospel is for all of them. Some will turn. That is enough to keep my boots laced.
If you’re standing at your own well—comfortable, respected, fruitful even—hear this brotherly word: It’s a small thing to carry water when you know the King who asked for it. Rebekah’s arms must have ached. But heaven was writing history in those trips between well and trough. Maybe it will be the same for you.
As Calvin put it, “Our hearts are a perpetual factory of idols”—which is why we must keep handing them to Christ to smash and remold for His use. One smashed idol at a time, one bucket at a time.
I don’t know what your “Philippines” is. It might be across an ocean or across the street. It might be a missionary call, or it might be laying down the bottle, reconciling with your son, discipling a handful of restless men every Friday morning before dawn. But I do know this: obeying Jesus will cost you, and He will be worth the price.
When the tears come—and they will—let them baptize your face in remembrance: the aim is greater than the address we left behind. The race is eternal, the prize imperishable. And one day, after the last bucket and the last breath, we will see Him face-to-face. On that day, we will not wish we had kept more for ourselves.
So rise up, brother. Lift your eyes to the horizon and your bucket to the well. Love your family deeply, but love Jesus most. Plant something that will still be bearing fruit two hundred years from now. Go water those camels.
Scripture References (NASB20)
Genesis 12:1; Genesis 24; Luke 14:26; Matthew 10:34–37; Mark 10:29–30; Philippians 3:7–8; 1 Thessalonians 2:17–20; 2 Corinthians 6:17–18; Hebrews 12:1–2; John 11:35.
Call to Men
Men, lay your comfort on the altar. Guard your households with prayer. Put your hands to the work God sets in front of you and don’t flinch. Holiness, family faithfulness, endurance—that’s the narrow road. I’ll see you on it, bucket in hand.
Prologue: Why Chesterton (and Why I Had to Learn to Read Like a Man)
At the feet of giants
Before we step into Paul’s arena—with its leather straps, chalked hands, and the hard mercy of training—permit me a porch confession about books and the breaking of a boy’s will.
When I was young, my strength was all elbows and appetite. I could run a roofline and sling a shovel, but I could not sit still before a page. The Bible sat there like a stubborn mule—holy, yes, but bristling with Greek bones and Hebrew sinew—and I was a farmhand trying to saddle thunder. Daddy saw it. He was a deacon and a dirt road saint, a man who could eyeball a plumb line by the lay of his shadow. He did not often beat his sons, David and I; he did something worse: he loved us. And because he loved us, he handed me not excuses but Scripture and set the terms of my freedom plain.
“Son,” he’d say, “you’ll face God’s judgment upon your sinful spirit in the pages of Scripture now, or you’ll experience His Judgment at the end of all the ages. Choose the easier meeting.”
So he watered me like a tender plant—with chapter and verse and the steady drizzle of daily discipline. He made me read, then read again. The World Book Encyclopedia was not a river to me then; it was a quarry. He set me to cutting stone there, too. When I failed, he did not simply say “try again.” He made me handwrite the Word—line after line until the letters were not just shapes but stakes driven into my ground. In time I discovered the old miracle: the hand that copies learns what the mouth will someday preach.
Then came Uncle Harold—bigger than life, built like a county, running like a road, always with aim and determination. Shaped by the world he explored, and the great teachers who walked our orb, with a crooked grin that made truth look like mischief, he with the gravel in his guts and in his voice, echoed: “Tolle lege, Matthew, tolle lege…” I eventually learned what he meant. He was a crafty professor.
He said a young man’s mind must be yoked to great minds or it will wander into the swamps and go to seed. He did not flatter me with sugar; he fed me with steel. “Train your mind on Chesterton, on Augustine, on C. S. Lewis,” he said. “Walk with Tozer and Packer and Sproul till their boots leave prints in your head. Learn how they think, and you’ll learn how to think—not as a parrot, but as a man.”
What Uncle Harold knew (and I only later learned) is that the Scriptures come to most of us like mountains, and good teachers hand us ropes and an axe. Holy Writ is not difficult because it is cruel; it is difficult because it is dense with glory. Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic—these are not locked doors; they’re heavy doors that open slow to the patient. The masters sharpen doctrine like blacksmiths shaping a blade, and with those blades they cut a way for us through the thickets of our own confusion. Sit with such men—even dead ones—and you will find they are not dead at all. The grave cannot silence a teacher whose sentences have been set on fire by the Spirit.
It is my birthday as I write this, and I find myself counting my blessings and my blessed teachers the way a poorer man might count precious coins, and a pauper discovered jewels.
And among those tutors of the heart, one voice keeps lacing my boots: Gilbert Keith Chesterton, the round-bellied troubadour of common sense, who could call a spade a spade and then plant a garden with it. He refused to flatter our fashionable follies. He laughed at them, not to be cruel but because idolatry is so grotesquely unserious that it deserves a joke before the judgment.
Why Chesterton? Because he reminds me that sanity is not a stance but a discipline; that paradox is not a trick but a doorway; that to be orthodox is to be joyfully at odds with the suicide of our age. He teaches a man to see the comedy in our tragedies and the gravity in our jokes. He helps the preacher land a punch without losing his smile. He tells us that the world is wild with the glory of God, and that our business is not to repaint the sunrise but to throw open the shutters.
So, if my sentences today carry a hint of his mirth or his edge, blame Uncle Harold and a pile of books he set on my chest when I was too weak to lift them. I learned to read like a man—slowly, stubbornly—until the Spirit stitched words to muscle. And now, with the Apostle Paul’s warning running hot, and Chesterton’s wit like a whetstone at the ready, we walk into the arena where self-control is forged.
The Comic Tragedy of Israel
The Apostle Paul, in the ninth and tenth chapters of First Corinthians, gathers Israel’s story into a single metaphor: the athlete training for the wreath. He warns that Israel’s bodies were scattered across the sand as examples for us. They were not trained in righteousness, and so, like a fighter swinging at shadows, they were disqualified.
Chesterton loved to point out that sin is not only wicked but absurd. Israel had eaten angel’s bread, drunk from the Rock that was Christ Himself, and walked beneath a roof of cloud by day and fire by night. Yet the same people who had tasted eternity longed for garlic stew and Egyptian onions. They desired the very food of their slavery, as though the chain were more delicious than the manna.
This is what Paul means when he says “these things happened as examples.” The freed man with no self-control is worse off than the chained man who at least knows he is bound. The one boasts liberty but bows to lust, and so he becomes a fool with a golden idol in his tent.
The true slavery was never Pharaoh’s lash, but the idolatry of the heart. The true exodus was never merely across the Red Sea, but into a life trained in righteousness.
The Archetypes of Deliverance
Paul does not lecture so much as he paints. His brush strokes are swift and burning. Israel moved under the cloud and through the sea—a baptism into Moses, foreshadowing ours into Christ. They were spared by the blood of the lamb, the firstborn struck in Egypt while Israel’s sons slept safe beneath scarlet on the doorposts—a sketch of the Archetypal Sacrifice, ultimately embodied in Jesus. They drank from the Rock in the wilderness, and Paul thunders: “That Rock was Christ.”
Here is the marvel: God not only freed His people but fed them, washed them, carried them. Yet in the face of such lavish grace, they craved evil things. Their bellies longed for Egypt. Their eyes wandered after idols. Their hearts refused training.
It is not lack of provision that kills men, but lack of discipline to receive it rightly.
The Vine and the Boulder
God gave me a vision: sin as a creeping vine splitting stone. I cannot improve it, so I shall express it and tell the story exactly as He gave it.
I once saw an oak root tear through a sidewalk like a child snapping chalk. The stone was proud, but the root was patient. Sin is no different. Left untended, it finds the cracks of our life and grows until even granite is humbled.
The tragedy of Israel is that they never tended their vines. They let the creeping things grow wild until the altar was overrun with weeds. Discipline is the gardener’s knife. It cuts, prunes, and sometimes scars, but it keeps the stone from being split.
Chesterton once wrote that “an inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.” Likewise, self-control is only a burden wrongly considered. In truth it is the adventure of pruning—the fight to keep the creeping vine from strangling the soul.
The Mirror and the Lens
God does not call us to manufacture light, but to reflect it. We are mirrors, not suns. We are lenses, not flames. Our task is not to invent holiness, but to polish the glass so the divine light passes through without distortion.
Israel cracked its mirror. They reflected Egypt’s gods rather than Yahweh’s glory. And many a pastor today does the same, shining the cheap neon of his ambition rather than the blazing fire of God. Self-control is the polishing cloth of the soul, without which the reflection is lost in the grime.
As Chesterton might have said: The moon is most useful because it knows it is not the sun. We must be moons, orbiting the greater Light, trimmed lamps that burn not with our own oil but His.
Self-Control as a Muscle of Grace
Here lies the paradox: self-control is both a muscle we exercise and a fruit the Spirit grows. We fast, we pray, we bridle the tongue, we govern the eyes—but at the end we say, “Yet not I, but the grace of God that is with me.”
The man who fasts trains more than his stomach. He trains his eyes not to wander after lust, his tongue not to run into idle speech, his mind not to crumble before anxiety. Discipline in one place spills into another. The runner’s lungs strengthen the boxer’s punch. The pastor’s fast sharpens the pastor’s sermon.
Israel failed to exercise this muscle. They sat down to eat and drink and rose up to play. They had strong backs from labor in Egypt but weak wills when freedom came. God will not be pleased with strong backs and weak souls. He desires hearts trained in obedience.
The Tragic Example of Israel
Paul does not whitewash their story. Twenty-three thousand fell in one day. Some were struck by serpents. Some swallowed by the earth. Some consumed by plague. These are not footnotes of ancient history; they are sermons etched in bone.
“Now these things happened to them as an example,” Paul insists, “and they were written for our instruction, upon whom the ends of the ages have come” (1 Cor. 10:11). If Israel could fall in sight of Sinai’s fire, pastors can fall in the comfort of their studies.
Chesterton would say it with wit: “It is possible to have manna for breakfast and lust for dinner.” God help the preacher who thinks yesterday’s sermon makes him safe from today’s temptation.
The Imperishable Crown
Here the image blazes bright. The runner strains for a laurel wreath that wilts in a week. The boxer throws fists for a purse that moth and rust will devour. But the minister of Christ runs for an imperishable crown.
Discipline is not drudgery, but training for glory. The runner trains not because the coach is cruel, but because the race is real. The pastor disciplines his body and soul not because God is a tyrant, but because the eternal kingdom is a reality more solid than stone.
Israel longed for Egypt’s onions. The athlete of Christ longs for the city whose builder and maker is God. And every mile of discipline, every punch landed on sin, every fast and every prayer is a step toward that city.
Coda: Daddy’s Wisdom, Harold’s Books, and Christ the Rock
I have spoken of Israel and the imperishable crown, but let me end as I began—on that porch where a boy became a reader, and a reader learned to become a man. Daddy watered me with Scripture; Harold armed me with tutors. Between them, the Spirit built a narrow road through the jungle of my appetites. I am not strong enough to boast. I have fallen more times than I can count. I have wept on a bathroom floor. I have learned that sin is quicker than I am and that grace is quicker still.
So when I speak of self-control, I am not prescribing medicine I have never taken. I am telling you how the Lord wired bones in a broken back and put a book on it. How He turned fasting from a fad into a furnace. How He taught my eyes to track holy things and my hands to do plain work. How He gave me teachers whose graves are not graves but gardens, and how He gave me a Rock that follows me yet.
Let the preachers remember: the arena is not out there; it is in here. The enemy is not only the world; it is the vine in the crack. The crown is not of laurel; it is of light. Train, then, like athletes of eternity. Laugh like Chesterton at the world’s doomed insanities. Pray like Augustine that your loves be rightly ordered. Read like Lewis with one eye on the myth and the other on the Maker. Work like Tozer on your knees. Think like Packer with your Bible open. Preach like Sproul with the text in your fist and grace in your tone.
And above all, run like Paul, who said, “I discipline my body and make it my slave,” not to earn Christ but because Christ has taken hold of him. The God who split the sea still splits chains. The Blood that spared Israel still shields your door. The Rock that poured water in the desert still follows the church today.
Let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall. But let the man who has fallen rise, for “No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to man,” and God—faithful, formidable, Fatherly—“with the temptation will also provide the way of escape.” That way is a Person. Walk Him.
Men, take up your training. Trim the lamp. Prune the vine. Shoulder the book. Kneel to the Captain. And when the cold wind cuts and the race feels long, remember the promise that outlives every winter: there waits an imperishable crown for those who finish in the faith.
Now go and live clean, love your family like a vow, and endure like men who mean to meet the King, Jesus.
M. S. Crawford – Sinner, thankful for Jesus and His Grace on my Birthday.
Thursday, December 4, AD 56 — near the ninth hour (~2:30 PM)
Gaius’s upper room, Corinth
“For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes, to the Jew first and also to the Greek. For in it the righteousness of God is revealed from faith to faith; as it is written: ‘But the righteous one will live by faith.’”
(Romans 1:16–17, NASB 2020)
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The afternoon light slanted low across the papyrus as Tertius bent once more to his task. The room had grown hushed, each breath held as Paul spoke words that seemed to shake the very air.
“Write: ‘For I am not ashamed of the gospel…’”
Phoebe lifted her eyes. “Not ashamed? Why draw the word into the open?”
Paul’s face did not waver. “Because the cross is mockery to the world. To Jews it is scandal; to Greeks it is madness; to Rome it is weakness. Yet here is God’s power. Not the sword, not Caesar’s seal — but the gospel.”
Power and Righteousness
Lucius shifted. “Power, yes. But what of righteousness? What does Rome know of that word?”
Paul’s voice deepened. “This is the heart: in the gospel, God’s own righteousness is revealed — not as a demand we cannot meet, but as a gift received by faith. From faith to faith, from beginning to end, it is faith. As Habakkuk said long ago: ‘The righteous one will live by faith.’”
Jason’s brow furrowed. “Faith — not lineage, not law, not Rome’s approval.”
“Exactly,” Paul replied. “Jew and Greek alike stand before God with empty hands. The only ground beneath us is faith in the Son who died and rose. To live is to trust Him.”
The Weight of Belief
Timothy’s eyes lingered on the parchment as Tertius wrote, ink carving eternal lines into fragile fiber. “So this is the center,” he murmured, “the thread that holds the whole letter.”
Paul nodded. “Yes. Without this, nothing else will stand. But with this, even Rome will one day bow.”
Phoebe wrapped her cloak tighter. Soon she would carry these words across the sea, into the city that crowned men with laurel and crushed them with shame. She carried more than a letter; she carried the power of God for salvation.
And What of Us?
Still today, the gospel draws the sneer of the powerful and the doubt of the skeptical. But in these verses lies our anchor: shame is silenced, for the gospel is God’s power; striving ends, for righteousness is revealed by faith. To live by faith is not retreat but courage — the steady step of those who know the cross is victory.
Tertius set down his pen. The ink dried black against the pale sheet. Outside, the shouts of merchants and the clang of hammers carried on, Rome’s world turning as if nothing had changed. But in Gaius’s upper room, the foundation had been laid: a gospel that cannot be shamed, a righteousness that comes by faith, a life that endures because God Himself sustains it.
When we pulled into Petit Jean Mountain that May, the hills were alive with spring. Dogwoods bloomed along the ridges, and Cedar Falls thundered into the canyon below, the same waterfall where Harold and I had shared countless walks and conversations. But this visit was different. This time, the sound of water was set against the hushed rhythm of sickness.
Inside the cabin, time moved slow. Steve was there, tending Harold with the careful steadiness of a son. Mary, Harold’s wife, stayed close, her love visible in every quiet gesture. And Harold—my uncle, my teacher, the man who had shaped me in more ways than I could count—was frail now. The cancer had done its carving, but not its conquering. His body was weak, but his eyes still held a kind of light.
The Bible
That afternoon, Harold motioned for something on the side table. With trembling hands, he lifted a Bible and placed it in mine.
It wasn’t a brand-new Bible with crisp leather and gold edges. Its cover was softened with years of use. Pages feathered and dog-eared, margins filled with thin pencil notes—little footprints from a lifetime of prayer and thought.
Harold didn’t have the strength for speeches. Pain kept his words short. But he didn’t need to explain. That Bible was Harold’s life bound up in one volume—his trust in God, his study, his prayers. Of all the gifts he could have given me, this one was the truest.
I remember brushing my hand over the worn cover. It felt heavier than paper and ink, as if I was holding Harold’s testimony itself.
Words Between the Pain
Most of the time, Harold was quiet. But sometimes, clarity broke through, brief and bright.
One moment he looked at me and whispered, “Stay in the Scriptures. They’ll never leave you.”
Another time, with Steve nearby, he murmured, “Don’t forget the mountain. God’s in the trees and the stones.”
They were fragments, not long speeches. But they carried the weight of a man summing up his life’s lessons. Handholds on the cliff. Anchors for the storm.
May 24
On May 24, Steve helped Harold toward his bedroom. Each step was deliberate, his frame frail, but he walked with dignity. At the door, Steve turned to us and said quietly, “He’s too tired to sit up anymore. We’ll lay him down, give him his medicine. He’ll rest.”
That was the last time I ever saw Uncle Harold upright.
The image is carved into memory: Steve steadying him, Mary watching close, the mountain air drifting through the windows. Outside, Cedar Falls still roared, the dogwoods still bloomed. But inside the cabin, time slowed to a hush.
The Weight of Waiting
Those last days were thick with silence. We moved softly, as if sound itself might break the fragile line between here and eternity.
The man who once told me, “I will die after a great eclipse,” was now lying just weeks beyond it. His Bible sat on the table by my side, his words echoing in my ears, his presence filling the room even in his weakness.
The mountain stood firm. The waterfall roared. But in the cabin, everything leaned toward an ending.
“The church in America has fattened herself on prosperity while starving herself of repentance. Once the saints trembled at the holiness of God, confessing sin daily as though their very breath depended on it. Now we chase sermons that promise increase, while the voice that once cried, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand,’ is drowned beneath applause. We measure success by buildings and budgets, not by broken hearts and contrite spirits.
This is the great delusion: that blessing without penance is possible, that gain without godliness is secure. But a church that exalts wealth over holiness is a church ripe for judgment. God will not inhabit temples built on greed. We may fill our pews, but we cannot fill them with power. We may have gold, but our souls are bankrupt.
Unless America’s pulpits recover the lost word repent, and unless her people learn again to bow low before the Cross, the light of our witness will sputter and die. Revival does not come through comfort—it comes through contrition. Prosperity may win the crowd, but only repentance will bring the presence of God.”
The Arkansas Traveler 