Trees

“The righteous flourish like the palm tree and grow like a cedar in Lebanon. They are planted in the house of the Lord; they flourish in the courts of our God. They still bear fruit in old age; they are ever full of sap and green.” – Psalm 92:12-13

Psalm 92 is titled, “A Song for the Sabbath,” and I can think of nothing better to reflect on during a sabbath than trees. Annie Dillard wrote this:

“Concerning trees and leaves… there's a real power here. It is amazing that trees can turn gravel and bitter salts into these soft-lipped lobes, as if I were to bite down on a granite slab and start to swell, bud and flower. Every year a given tree creates absolutely from scratch ninety-nine percent of its living parts. Water lifting up tree trunks can climb one hundred and fifty feet an hour; in full summer a tree can, and does, heave a ton of water every day. A big elm in a single season might make as many as six million leaves, wholly intricate, without budging an inch; I couldn't make one. A tree stands there, accumulating deadwood, mute and rigid as an obelisk, but secretly it seethes, it splits, sucks and stretches; it heaves up tons and hurls them out in a green, fringed fling. No person taps this free power; the dynamo in the tulip tree pumps out even more tulip tree, and it runs on rain and air.”

Amazing. And we walk by these things all the time. In the ancient near east, palms and cedars meant something special: in a dry and arid climate, they were images of strength, longevity, and beauty. Their leaves were green all year round. The palm here is likely the date palm, which bore fruit that was a dietary staple, and represented the presence of life-giving oases of water (Exodus 15:27, Numbers 33:9). The cedars of Lebanon grew to be immensely large and lived for thousands of years, symbolizing royal power and wealth. They were both literally in the house of the Lord: wood from the cedars of Lebanon were imported by Solomon to build the temple (1 Kings 5). Palms were used in the décor of the temple (1 Kings 6:29), were in Ezekiel’s vision of the new temple (Ezekiel 40:16), and were used to welcome Jesus, God tabernacled on earth, to Jerusalem (John 12:13).

We have four giant redwood trees in our back yard. When I get too caught up in the dramas of daily life, I go outside and look at them. I think, these trees will be here long after we and this house are gone. Here they are, quietly but constantly flourishing, spitting out bud and pine, heaving up tons of water. The wicked are like the grass, here today and gone tomorrow, but the righteous are like a tree in God’s presence. We will last past these times and ever bear fruit. These trees live in an entirely different scale of time and matter, and in our sabbath-rest pauses, it’s good to remember that.

Gratitude

“It is good to give thanks to the Lord.” – Psalm 92:1

Why is it so hard for me to give thanks? I become preoccupied with cares. I grow desensitized to what I have. I fail to notice small graces. I’m too busy complaining about what I don’t have. I’m in too much of a hurry. I’ve fallen out of the habit. I’ve conformed to a consumeristic culture. 

All of those may be true. But I think perhaps John the Baptist said it best. He said, “a person cannot receive even one thing unless it is given him from heaven” (John 3:27). Not even one thing. Every single thing in your life is an act of grace. It is a gift. It is something to be noticed and received with gratitude. Our ability to give thanks will extend as far as we see the grace in our lives, as far as we see this reality. Nouwen writes, “Gratitude… claims the truth that all of life is a pure gift. In the past I always thought of gratitude as a spontaneous response to the awareness of gifts received, but now I realize that gratitude can also be lived as a discipline. The discipline of gratitude is the explicit effort to acknowledge that all I am and have is given to me as a gift of love, a gift to be celebrated with joy.”

There is an Estonian proverb that says, “Whoever does not thank for little will not thank for much.” Sometimes, I think, it’s okay to start with small steps. At first, thankfulness feels like conscious effort. Slowly, it becomes a little easier, a little freer, a little less self-conscious. Slowly, we find that those small things themselves reveal the reach of God’s grace, like truths worked from outside in. “Acts of gratitude,” writes Nouwen, “make one grateful because, step by step, they reveal that all is grace.”

Need Of Grace

from a puritan prayer of prayers

O Lord,

Thou knowest my great unfitness for service,

   my present deadness,

   my inability to do anything for thy glory,

   my distressing coldness of heart.

I am weak, ignorant, unprofitable,

   and loathe and abhor myself.

I am at a loss to know what thou wouldest have me do,

   for I feel amazingly deserted by thee,

   and sense they presence so little;

Thou makest me possess the sins of my youth,

   and the dreadful sin of my nature,

   so that I feel all sin,

   I cannot think or act but every motion is sin.

Return again with showers of converting grace

   to a poor gospel-abusing sinner.

Help my soul to breathe after holiness,

   after a constant devotedness to thee,

   after growth in grace more abundantly every day.

O Lord, I am lost in the pursuit of this blessedness,

And am ready to sink because I fall short of my desire;

Help me to hold out a little longer,

   until the happy hour of deliverance comes,

   for I cannot lift my soul to thee

   if thou of thy goodness bring me not nigh.

Help me to be diffident, watchful, tender,

   lest I offend my blessed Friend

   in thought and behavior;

I confide in thee and lean upon thee,

   and need thee at all times to assist and lead me.

O that all my distresses and apprehensions

   might prove but Christ’s school

   to make me fit for greater service

   by teaching me the great lesson of humility.

In and Out of the Cistern

“So they took Jeremiah and cast him into the cistern… letting Jeremiah down by ropes. And there was no water in the cistern, but only mud, and Jeremiah sank in the mud.” – Jeremiah 38:6

I don’t know about you, but it feels painful at times to read about the life of Jeremiah. There’s no greater proof, I suppose, that following God can mean suffering. In this, Jeremiah points to and fleshes out the life of Jesus himself. F. B. Meyer writes, “Jeremiah has always a fascination to Christian hearts because of the close similarity that exists between his life and that of Jesus Christ. Each of them was ‘a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief’; each came to his own, and his own received him not; each passed through hours of rejection, desolation, and forsakenness. And in Jeremiah we may see beaten out into detail, experiences which, in our Lord, are but lightly touched on by the evangelists.”

We see in these chapters the details of Jeremiah’s prophetic word being rejected by his own people. We witness the stratagems of murderers who did not want Jeremiah’s blood directly on their hands. We see the vicissitudes and cowardice of a king who, like Pilate, sat back and let it happen. We see in the life of both Jeremiah and Jesus the words of Stephen: “which of the prophets did your fathers not persecute?” (Acts 7:52). As Jeremiah is lowered into the cistern, we hear words from Psalm 69: “I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold… Deliver me from sinking in the mire… Let not… the pit close its mouth over me” (69:2, 14-15)

But God rescues his prophet. In Jeremiah’s case, salvation came from a nobody: an Ethiopian foreigner who was a slave and likely emasculated. We may not even know his real name: “Ebed-melech” simply means “servant of the king.” This nobody, despite majority opposition from those with greater power, publicly confronts the king and rescues Jeremiah. Not only that, he cares for his body, finding linens and rags to pad Jeremiah’s armpits as he was lifted up, not unlike Joseph of Arimathea, who cared for Jesus’ body by wrapping it in linens. God too rescued his son, by raising him from the pit of death to life. Because of this, we who also suffer can do so with the hope of new life. We can have courage like Ebed-melech to act against injustice. We can learn to care for our bodies and be kind to others. We can cry out in prayer and eventually come to say, “you who seek God, let your hearts revive. For the Lord hears the needy… Let heaven and earth praise him” (69:32-34).

Spiritual Fitness

“Train yourself for godliness; for while bodily training is of some value, godliness is of value in every way, as it holds promise for the present life and also for the life to come.” – 1 Timothy 4:7-8

People where we moved from in the suburban south talk about losing weight; people in the Bay Area talk about being fit. Yoga pants are considered acceptable general wear. Gyms and parks are numerous and even within walking distance. The weather (and lack of mosquitos) enables an entirely new dimension of outdoor life. Healthy groceries and options for eating out are readily available. Regular exercise is normative behavior, and perhaps it is not surprising that, despite not having had a regular habit of it before, we all became more active after moving here.

But after the pandemic muted subconscious cultural cues and disrupted routines, I’ve had to think through how, and why, I exercise. I’ve relearned why getting my heart rate up is good for my mood. I’ve been reminded that cardiovascular fitness and muscle strength is something that either builds or atrophies over time; there is no middle ground. I’ve had to test my resolve by at times getting creative with workout equipment or online classes, or being disciplined about exercising outside even if I prefer the gym. 

Dave tells his patients that their goal, for improved health outcomes, should be to reach 70-85% of their maximum heart rate for 150 minutes per week. This is not something that happens without significant focus, flexibility, and commitment. It does not happen without intentional investment of resources. How much more so our spiritual health! Paul puts it plainly: spiritual fitness is more important than physical fitness. We should care about it more than we care about our physical health. We should invest more in it than we invest in our physical health. We should create more of a culture and community for it than we do for physical health. His reasoning is simple: your physical health lasts this lifetime. Your spiritual health will impact eternity.

Do you have a clear idea of what your spiritual goals are? Do you have a routine for spiritual fitness? Does someone close to you see measurable signs of spiritual growth over time? Train yourself for godliness, Paul urges Timothy. It holds promise not only for this life, but for the life to come.

Self-Care

“For I will satisfy the weary soul, and every languishing soul I will replenish.” – Jeremiah 31:25

There’s a scene in the show Never Have I Ever where Ben’s mom says to him as she’s strolling out the door, “Hey sweetie! No time to talk; I’m going to a self-actualization retreat in Santa Barbara.” “Didn’t you just do that?” Ben asks. She replies, “No, I went to a mindfulness workshop in Santa Clara. Very different philosophies, but equally important.” “Okay, sure. Uh, have fun.” “It’s not fun, Ben. It’s work. On me. So I can be a better mom, to you! Gotta run!”

It didn’t take me long after moving here to realize the Bay Area has its own particular brand of self-care. One article describes it as the counterpoint to mindfulness. If mindfulness is noticing what is happening around you to more fully experience it, self-care gives you permission to ignore exactly that in the focus on yourself and your feelings. The irony of that scene, of course, is that Ben’s mom is so busy taking care of herself that she’s never there for her son. For a while, I eschewed the term because it smacked of wealth and privilege, of aphoristic band-aids for pervasive anxiety, of yet another thing to optimize or look to for affirmation or identity.

But the truth is, we do have to learn how to take care of ourselves. Especially now, moms are struggling with burnout, as we take care of our kids without breaks for an unprecedented length of time. Self-care itself is not bad, but Bay Area self-care and Biblical self-care differ in one important regard: their origin. Bay Area self-care originates from the self: you are the one endorsing yourself as vulnerable and worthy of care; you are the one extending yourself compassion. You are using self-care as a way to help yourself become the person you want to be. 

Biblical self-care, on the other hand, originates from God. God, not yourself, has endorsed you as being vulnerable and worthy of care. God is the one, and the only one, who can extend you the forgiveness and compassion you need. God has created you for regular rhythms of rest, and through it he allows you to become the person he created you to be. Self-care is not escape from anxiety. It is not indulgence for indulgence’s sake. It is always, at its heart, an experience of God, of receiving His grace as shown us through our rest and life-giving activities, and then of experiencing his glory through it. It occurs in the context of our relationship with Him, and that is why it goes beyond something that simply helps us “feel good” or “get away,” to something that gives life, that not only satisfies but replenishes. Listen to the repetition in that verse: “I will… I will…” Do you hear that promise? Do you hear that invitation? Do you make time to care for yourself? Do you know what is not merely entertaining, but life-giving for you? What keeps your soul? What reclaims who you are as God’s beloved, to whom he gives his rest?

Enduring Monotony

“Therefore we ourselves boast about you in the churches of God for your steadfastness and faith in all your persecutions and in the afflictions that you are enduring.” – 2 Thessalonians 1:4

The kids have an amazing capacity for dealing with monotony. They genuinely don’t seem to mind being at home every day, all day. They play “orphans” (who are in the wild having to build tents and scavenge), “restaurant” (menus, play food, waiters), “family” (everyone wants to play the baby), “the capture game” (they put each other in jail), “animals in the zoo” (we pay to see them and have to feed them), “pick your favorite” (they flip to a random page in the picture encyclopedia and choose their favorite animal or thing on it), “soldiers in the trench” (they hide between the couch and wall), “fighting invisible bad guys,” and on and on.

In a way, what they have done is marvelous: they’ve taken the same few resources and let their imagination thrive within the limits they have. As adults, we seem to have a harder time of it. I’ve burned through various covid-hobbies, but in the end I keep coming back to this fatiguing, indefinable sense of monotony, the unavoidable specter of days stretching on interminably, all minor variations of the same thing. 

Handling monotony requires a different skill set than those most of us are used to. It requires the ability, not to necessarily achieve immediate gratification or visible progress, but to simply endure. Monotony, if faced without distraction, forces us to ask ourselves, what is the point of life? What is my hope, what keeps me going, where does my joy really come from? Are my answers to those questions rote and cerebral, or are they truly what I believe and sometimes experience? Enduring monotony requires an even greater sense of purpose, an even more intentional centering in Christ, an even greater attention to what that monotony unearths in me, than I might otherwise have. Centering myself in the real hope and joy I have in Jesus takes more discipline and creativity than before. 

But Paul here talks not only about enduring, but thriving, the kind of thriving that comes when you endure. He says, we brag about your endurance, because “your faith is growing abundantly, and the love of every one of you for one another is increasing.” When I look back on this time, will I say that my faith grew? That my love for others increased? Paul is able to look through the suffering and affliction to see people thriving in the ways that really matter. May we do the same.

Bloom Where You're Planted

“Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce… multiply there, and do not decrease. But seek the welfare [shalom] of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare… Do not let your prophets and your diviners who are among you deceive you, and do not listen to the dreams that they dream, for it is a lie… For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord…”  - Jeremiah 29: 4-11

Jeremiah’s letter comes during one of the worst parts of the story of God’s people. They were in exile. The land was lost, the temple plundered, the law long ignored. Most people would probably be thinking: we’re not where we’re supposed to be. It was not supposed to be like this. Life will be better when we get out, when things change. And false prophets like Hananiah (Jeremiah 28) were promising that very thing: liberation within two years.

But Jeremiah says something radically different. Don’t live life in a holding pattern, fixating upon when your circumstances will change. It won’t be two years, but seventy. Stop thinking about how to get out, and start being present where you are. His definition of being present is, on one hand, imminently practical: build and live. Plant and eat. On the other hand, it’s imminently spiritual: don’t seek cultural norms or the dreams of the majority. Be intentional about how you define meaning and success. Seek shalom, wholeness, peace and realize that this only comes from God. Be engaged in prayer. Don’t lose your worldview.

The reason we can be present is because we know how the future will ultimately go. Jeremiah is basically saying, look, your current circumstances are going to be worse than you were told. But your ultimate future is going to be far better. Circumstances are secondary to relationship. In your worst place, God visits you. His thoughts are towards you. He hears you. Call on him, come to him, find him with all your inner self, all your understanding and will and feeling. You will have hope, not based on circumstantial manipulation, but hope that is given to you.

It’s ironic that verse 11, one of the most oft-quoted verses from this book, is so easily interpreted in an individualistic, prosperity-focused fashion, when in reality, it’s a promise given to a community in one of their worst moments, many of whom would die in exile. The verse is less about fortune than about a God who is radically faithful. Who keeps all his promises to us solely because of who he is. Who is completely sovereign. Who reached out to a people crushed by circumstances, through a man who had himself suffered repeatedly for the sake of what he believed, to renew a covenant and hope. The same covenant and hope we have now through the Prophet to whom all other prophets pointed, Jesus Christ.

The Struggle for Holiness

“Hold fast what is good. Abstain from every form of evil. Now may the God of peace himself sanctify you completely, and may your whole spirit and soul and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. He who calls you is faithful; he will surely do it.” – 1 Thessalonians 5:23

Often at the heart of our grittiest struggles with temptation are the same lies. You’ll feel better if you do this. God is withholding something from you. You aren’t getting what you deserve. So go ahead.

C. S. Lewis writes in one of his letters: “I think one may be quite rid of the old haunting suspicion—which raises its head in every temptation—that there is something else than God—some other country… into which He forbids us to trespass—some kind of delight which He ‘doesn’t appreciate’ or just chooses to forbid, but which would be real delight if only we were allowed to get it. The thing just isn’t there. Whatever we desire is either what God is trying to give us as quickly as He can, or else a false picture of what He is trying to give us—a false picture which would not attract us for a moment if we saw the real thing.”

My own struggle for holiness, to not nurture temptation in any form, is a struggle to believe this truth: that there is no such thing as real goodness apart from God. There is truly no good thing which he withholds from me. That idea is a mirage, an illusion, which far from offering real happiness or freedom merely entraps or entangles me, spiraling down to a place of increasing self-pity, bitterness, anger, and addiction. 

It does no good to try to talk oneself out of these lies: the only way to begin to extract oneself, to begin to see the lie for what it is, is to fix on the truth. And the truth is not an idea: he is a Person. In the end, temptation is not a matter of self-control, but of relationship. Only love for Jesus, willingness to suffer for him, and trust in the love he has for me, can turn me from temptation. And the promise God offers is this: he himself will sanctify me completely. No matter my feelings, no matter my mess-ups. He who has called me is faithful. He will surely do it.

Jesus, I My Cross Have Taken

By Henry Lyte, 4th stanza:

Go, then, earthly fame and treasure,

Come disaster, scorn and pain

In Thy service, pain is pleasure,

With Thy favor, loss is gain

I have called Thee Abba Father,

I have stayed my heart on Thee

Storms may howl, and clouds may gather;

All must work for good to me.

Words Fitly Spoken

“A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in a setting of silver. Like a gold ring or an ornament of gold is a wise reprover to a listening ear.” – Proverbs 25:12

One thing about sheltering in place is that it’s given us a closer view of our oldest daughter edging into adolescence. She’s become in some ways more opaque and private; in others more vulnerable and close. It’s a push-and-pull feeling that reminds me of the swimming pool analogy Lisa Damour uses in her book “Untangled”: it’s like the world is a swimming pool, and you are the wall. She’ll be unexpectedly warm and intimate one moment, clinging to the wall, then want to push off again the next moment, even if that comes off in a rude way. Enjoy the closeness, but don’t take the push-off’s personally, Damour writes. “Your daughter needs a wall to swim to, and she needs you to be a wall that can withstand her comings and goings.”

Talking with her, I’m realizing, means reading where she is in the pool: heading towards the wall? At the wall, waiting for me? Pushing off or already out in the water? There isn’t necessarily a consistent rhythm to it. Even practical skills seem to develop at an uneven pace: she might insist on doing something complicated entirely on her own, yet want me to help with a simpler task. I need to relearn when to give her space and when to reinforce boundaries, when to just listen and when to speak—and all of that requires studying her carefully, and sifting and re-sifting through my own motives.

Eugene Peterson translates this verse, “The right word at the right time is like a custom-made piece of jewelry.” Making custom jewelry requires that you study the subject, that you understand their personal style and preferences, yet also know what would look good on them. It means you have a vision for how they could look. It means you take time in crafting and giving thought to what you will make. But there’s something wonderful about the idea that our words, even (or especially) our reproof, can make someone more beautiful than they already are. That is how I want my words to my adolescent to be: this word fitly spoken. Surely the work that would go into that is worth it.

Rejoice

“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice.” – Philippians 4:4

If one word could sum up the book of Philippians, it would probably be “rejoice.” In this book, the words for joy and rejoicing appear sixteen times in only 104 verses. Yet Paul is writing from imprisonment, a forced shelter-in-place (with the possible outcome of death). 

The dictionary defines “rejoice” as “to feel or show great joy or delight.” It isn’t merely joy, but the feeling of joy and gladness, the rising of it up to the surface such that it can be perceived by others. What feeling have you most displayed during your shelter-in-place? What would the people living with you say rises most to the surface? Would it be frustration, grumbling, weariness, complaint—or joy?

What does Paul rejoice in? He rejoices in other people who share the gospel (1:5), grow in faith (1:25), have the mind of Christ (2:2) and reunite with each other (2:28). He rejoices in Jesus who is proclaimed (1:18), who provides deliverance (1:19), who gives meaning to everything in life (2:16). Most frequently, he rejoices in the Lord (3:1; 4:4, 10). Nothing that Paul rejoices in is fixed in his circumstances; it is rather—as he repeatedly emphasizes—fixed in the Lord. He commands us in a present-tense, ongoing imperative: find and show your joy in the Lord. Find and show your joy in how the Lord works in and through other people.

Paul speaks in this book about a God to whom he can constantly pray. Who is sure to complete the good work he begins in us. Who fills us with the fruit of righteousness. Who gave up everything he had for us, who made us his own, who is of surpassing worth to know, who supplies every need of ours, through whom we can do all things. Whom he cannot wait to leave life and be with. If I truly grasped these things, would not my joy in this God be evident to all? Would I not say, like Habakkuk:

“Though the fig tree should not blossom,

   nor fruit be on the vines,

the produce of the olive fail

   and the fields yield no food,

the flock be cut off from the fold

   and there be no herd in the stalls,

yet I will rejoice in the Lord;

   I will take joy in the God of my salvation.

God, the Lord, is my strength;

   he makes my feet like the deer’s;

   he makes me tread on my high places.”

The Helmet and the Sword

“...and take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.” - Ephesians 6:17

We come now to the last two pieces of armor that a soldier would take up before battle. The Roman helmet was made of bronze fitted over an iron skull cap lined with leather or cloth; it had a band to protect the forehead, plates for the cheeks, and extended down in back to protect the neck. Strapped into place, the helmet exposed little besides the eyes, nose and mouth. Virtually the only weapons which could penetrate it were hammers or axes.

With the impressive coverage of both the shield and helmet, one would expect that the “sword” Paul refers to here is some kind of broadsword, but in fact it was the machaira, a short sword or dagger, a “cut and thrust weapon for close work.” Similarly, the term Paul uses here for “word” is not logos, which refers to generalized messages and statements, but rhema, which refers to individual words or particular statements. One commentator writes, “While logos embraces nearly everything, rhema has a slighter weight. It really means ‘a saying,’ in this case, a particular, specific portion of God's written revelation.”

The armor we wear tells us about the nature of the attacks we face. We have shields that protect against long-range attacks, but often the battle is closer. Paul says we “wrestle” against the powers of darkness: this is the same type of wrestling we know today, a body-to-body grappling in which opponents attempt to throw each other down. We must “take” the helmet and the sword: that verb is in a Greek tense which suggests urgency, more like “grab.” We must grab the salvation God offers, we must have a precise knowledge and understanding of specific truths from the Bible, lest we be thrown when our fights with evil come close. What specific verse do you have with you today? Do you have hope in the helmet of salvation (1 Thessalonians 5:8)? Even if you've had losses in the past, will you get back up, take up the armor, and fight again?

The Shield of Faith

“In all circumstances take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one.” – Ephesians 6:16

Martyn Lloyd-Jones points out that there is a shift here. The first three pieces of armor are more passive and preparatory: you put them on and keep them on. But the last three pieces suggest immediate activity. “The soldier may be sitting down in his room in the barracks,” he writes, “and taking a period of rest, but he still keeps on his girdle of truth, his breastplate and his sandals. Then suddenly an alarm is given that the enemy is already attacking, and he immediately takes hold of his shield and his sword and puts on his helmet and rushes out.”

Understanding what this shield is makes it immediately obvious one would not carry it about all the time. This was not the clypeus, a smaller, round shield about 2.5 feet in diameter. This was the scutum, an oblong shield shaped like a door, with a convex surface, measuring about 2.5 by 4 feet. It was large enough to cover not only the entire body, but all other parts of armor. It was a hand’s breadth in thickness, made of two wooden planks glued together with the outer surface covered first with canvas, then with flame-retardant calf skin. Metal edged the top, bottom, and center front so that most stones and arrows would glance off. Often before battle, the entire shield would be immersed in water to make it further resistant to fire.

What is our shield? It is our faith. Faith is not hoping or wishing. It is not believing something is true even though it may not be. It is believing in an object so true that, even if we may not see or sense or feel it all the time, we are willing to live it out. When missionary John Paton was translating Scripture for islanders in the South Pacific, he found there was no word in their language for faith. One day he was working in his hut when a local came running in and flopped in a chair. He said to Paton, “It’s so good to rest my whole weight in this chair.” Paton decided he had found the word to use in his translation. Faith is resting your whole weight in God. It’s like that scene in Onward when the main character walks across the chasm upon an invisible bridge. His belief was only as true as his willingness to put one foot in front of the other, as true as his willingness to rest his whole weight upon it.

Roman soldiers often used the scutum in formation, holding their shields together to create a wall of shields on all sides. Here is a wondrous truth that we individualistic Westerners often miss: Paul is talking to a plural group of people. The “you” in 6:11 (“Put on the whole armor of God, that you…”) is plural. Why does Paul tell a plural group of people to put on singular pieces of armor? Perhaps because we plural people make up one singular body in the church. Perhaps because the armor all comes from one person, Jesus Christ, the God who is girded with truth, has feet that brings good news, and puts on righteousness as a breastplate (Isaiah 11, 52, 59). In writing this, Paul was looking not only to the Roman soldiers who were beside him during his house arrest, but these Old Testament images, fulfilled now in Christ and the church who embodies him. We are to actively take up our shields together, to lift them up against all the weapons of our enemy.

The Shoes of Readiness

“… and, as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace.” – Ephesians 6:15

In The Way of Kings, Kaladin begins training a group of men for battle by teaching them simply to stand: “‘We’re going to spend all day today—and probably each day this week—working on stances. Learning to maintain one, learning to not lock your knees the moment you’re threatened, learning to hold your center of balance. It will take time, but I promise you if we start here, you’ll learn to be deadly far more quickly. Even if it seems that all you’re doing at first is standing around.’”

Paul focuses on something similar. The point of putting on our spiritual armor, he says, is not to launch some complicated offensive tactic, but simply to stand and not be moved: “… that you may be able to withstand… stand firm. Stand, therefore…” In ancient times, battles were often won or lost based on the weight of one army thrown against that of another. “The one needful thing,” writes one commentator, “was that a man should stand firm and resist the shock of enemies as they rushed upon him.” A key piece of armor, then, were shoes. Roman soldiers wore heavy sandals, with soles two centimeters thick and studded with hobnails, to help them get a secure foothold.

What we are to put on our feet is not the gospel itself, but the readiness it gives us. God’s gospel, Paul emphasizes, is news of peace, and standing firm on this peace makes us ready to face whatever may try to shake us. “The peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:7). The peace of the gospel is like an armed force in our hearts, able to guard us against circumstances and forces that would otherwise overwhelm us or cause us to stumble. It gives us a preparedness of spirit and alacrity that like hobnailed boots help us stand firm, whatever comes.

Lately, I’ve found myself facing unexpected anxiety as things start back up. It feels like I’m still managing the ongoing demands of sheltering in place, in addition to now adapting to activities with new constraints and unclear outcomes. I always knew life wouldn’t be going back to the way it was before, but it takes equanimity to face the new measures and unknowns that come with resuming surgeries, social gatherings, sports, and eventually school. Our worlds continue to change. The foes we battle continue to come at us. But we can stand firm, having shod our feet with a readiness that comes from the peace we have in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The Breastplate of Righteousness

“… and having put on the breastplate of righteousness…” – Ephesians 6:14

The first outward piece of armor Paul mentions is arguably the most important. Sustain an injury to your extremities in battle, and you may be crippled, but you’ll live. The skull provides some measure of protection for the head, and there is possibility of recovery from concussion. But sustain a penetrating injury to your torso or gut, and you’re dead, either immediately if the heart or lungs are penetrated, or eventually but just as surely if the gut is lacerated. In the days before exploratory laparotomies or intravenous antibiotics, gut wounds meant a slow death from sepsis. Soldiers never went into battle without a metal plate worn over a leather jerkin or a coat of mail to protect the chest and the back. 

Paul says that our breastplate, the spiritual piece of armor that guards our heart and vital organs, is our righteousness. What is righteousness?

When the kids get into fights, it stops whatever we’re doing. Those involved in the fight, and often the rest of the family, can’t function as normal until the rift is repaired, which, depending on the degree of hurt, may require anything from a simple acknowledgement to a protracted discussion and handling of emotions. But it has to be addressed, because our being “right” in relation with each other is fundamental to our sense of self and ability to function practically. I think of righteousness like that: not so much “am I following God’s rules?” as “am I right with God?” 

This gets at the deepest, most vital question of our hearts. The Bible says the story of life is one of relationship. If worldviews ask the questions, “How are things supposed to be?” “What is the main problem with things as they are?” and “What is the solution and how can it be realized?”—then the Bible’s answers are that we are meant to be in relationship with God; the problem is sin which keeps us from God; and the solution is the salvation and grace we receive through Jesus to restore that relationship. Being right with God is something we receive through Jesus, that we put on, like a breastplate that covers our hearts and vital organs. If we don’t have that, we don’t have eternal life. We don’t have a story for life that really works.

Being right with God is fundamental, and it is something we receive, not earn. Yet once we are his, we also hunger and thirst for more righteousness: to walk out being right with God in our world, our community, our lives. We take active steps to do so. Resolving fights at home means being not just peacekeepers, but peacemakers: people who are willing to sacrifice, to be intentional, about restoring right relationship. Covered by the breastplate of our righteousness in Christ, we are then also able to move out into battle to live that righteousness out, even at danger or cost to ourselves.

In The Silence, Name Me

by Ted Loder

Holy One,

   untamed

      by the names

         I give you,

in the silence

   name me,

that I may know

   who I am,

hear the truth

   you have put into me,

trust the love

   you have for me,

      which you call me to live out

         with my sisters and brothers

            in your human family.

The Belt of Truth

“Stand therefore, having fastened on the belt of truth…” – Ephesians 6:14

In Greek, “having fastened on the belt of truth” is only two words, perizonnymi alethia, which means “girded with truth.” The word “belt” actually isn’t there, but it’s the closest modern corollary. In those times, the girdle on a Roman soldier was a “breech-like apron which hung under the armor, which was made of sewn leather for protecting the thighs, fastening articles of clothing, tucking in long skirts of a robe for greater freedom of movement.” It was fastened around the waist with a belt which held the sword; sometimes two belts were worn crossed, one for a sword and one for a dagger.

The belt and apron were the most intimate articles of armor: closest to the body, largely unseen. they had to be put on first. They functioned less for their own sake than to help provide scaffolding for the other parts of the armor: a place to store weapons, to fasten or tuck in clothing.

Isaiah 11 says in reference to Jesus: “He shall not judge by what his eyes see, or decide disputes by what his ears hear, but with righteousness he shall judge the poor… Righteousness shall be the belt of his waist, and faithfulness the belt of his loins.” Here, the belt indicates qualities that are most inherent to, most centered in, the character of Jesus; the qualities by which he sees and judges the world around him.

Truth is like that for us. We fight against the schemes of the devil, the father of lies; the first thing we must do is be centered in the truth. We must see and judge the world by that truth, not by what our eyes necessarily see, or our ears necessarily hear. Truth is the place from whence we can draw our offensive weapons. Truth is what gives us freedom of movement; “the truth will set you free” (John 8). You probably couldn’t tell by outward glance whether a soldier had on his girdle and belt: but as soon as the fighting started, you could tell by the weapons he drew, by his nimbleness of movement, whether he had remembered to fasten those inner layers. So it is with us: we must begin by fastening on the belt of truth.

Children and Scripture

“Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. ‘Honor your father and mother’ (this is the first commandment with a promise), ‘that it may go well with you and that you may live long in the land.’” – Ephesians 6:1-2

Paul’s claim in verse two here is, strictly speaking, untrue. The second commandment is the first commandment with a promise; the one he cites here is the fifth commandment. Interestingly, I’ve yet to be in any bible study group where anyone is familiar enough with the commandments to notice the discrepancy. A survey by Kelton Research a decade ago found that the majority of Americans can recall the ingredients of a McDonald’s Big Mac hamburger more easily than the ten commandments. Less than half of 1,000 respondents could recall the fifth.

Why would Paul have made such a blatant error? No one knows for sure: perhaps he meant that the fifth is first in importance (which is what I tell my children), if not in sequence. Perhaps he meant the first among the second set of commandments. Perhaps he meant the first commandment learned by children. Perhaps the promise of the second commandment is not specific enough to count, or is more “a declaration of God’s character than a promise” (Stott).

Regardless, one fact is true: Paul addresses children directly. That means children were present at the reading of his letter. Children were active participants in house church gatherings. Paul encourages, if not assumes, some facility with Scripture. I scrawled in the margin of my Bible: “teach our kids the 10 commandments!” Do you know the ten commandments? Do your kids? It hits me so often (because I forget so often) that I am responsible for whatever exposure my children will have to the word of God during their formative years. They certainly aren’t getting it at their public school, or from their peers. It is up to me to crack open the Bible with them on some kind of regular basis. Paul doesn’t say, “okay, now bring the children back in here for this part”—he assumes they have been there, listening, all along.

Broken Cisterns

“… for my people have committed two evils: they have forsaken me, the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for themselves, broken cisterns that can hold no water.” – Jeremiah 2:13

Water management and distribution was a big deal in the arid ancient near east, and so wells and cisterns were commonplace. Wells were long tunnels dug down to reach groundwater. Cisterns, on the other hand, were shallower pits dug into the ground to catch and store rainwater. They had to be waterproof: otherwise, of course, the rainwater would simply seep out into the ground.

Cisterns were hewn out of rock. Why would anyone do that kind of backbreaking work when there is a fountain of water available? Why would anyone actually leave a fresh source of water for a stagnant one? Yet that is what we do. There is something in us that wants to have it our way, on our own terms, through our own doing. Soren Kierkegaard once said, “If I had in my service a submissive Jinni who, when I asked for a glass of water, would bring me the world’s most expensive wines, deliciously blended in a goblet, I would dismiss him until he learned that the enjoyment consists not in what I enjoy but in getting my own way.”

But the cruel truth is that our cisterns are not waterproof. Our work is in vain; the water ever eludes us. None of our toiling and achieving can ultimately or permanently attain for us that for which we thirst. Jesus, sitting at a well, said in John 4, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” The first step is to see that our cisterns are broken; they are beyond repair. The second is to return to the fountain of living water. If you know this gift of God, Jesus says in John 4, you would ask, and he would indeed give you living water.

Strength To Comprehend

“… that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may have strength to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.” – Ephesians 3:19

God’s love is so much beyond any love we have ever received. One commentator writes, “In the Greek, these four dimensions are governed by one article and are regarded as a unity. They are a totality, which is meant to evoke the immensity of the love of Christ. What Paul is saying is that all the expanse of creation cannot contain this love. If Christ’s love was measurable its height would exceed the heavens, its depth would penetrate the deepest seas, its breadth would span the universe, its length would be unending.” This love surpasses knowledge; yet Paul prays that we can know it.

What strikes me is that Paul’s main request is that we have strength. Why does it take strength to comprehend God’s love? Maybe because it is easier to settle for smaller loves. Stephen Chbosky writes in The Perks of Being a Wallflower, “We receive the love we think we deserve.” Maybe because in order to be “filled” with this love we must first be emptied of pride or self-sufficiency; we must first be able to name our longing for love. Maybe because the idea of “love” has been so parlayed into something we feel that we must have fortitude to believe it exists independent of our feelings. Nouwen writes, “You must believe in the yes that comes back when you ask, ‘Do you love me?’ You must choose this yes even when you do not experience it… You have to trust the place that is solid, the place where you can say yes to God’s love even when you do not feel it… keep saying, ‘God loves me, and God’s love is enough.’ You have to choose the solid place over and over again.”

This strength does not come from ourselves. The power to comprehend this love is granted us through the Holy Spirit in our inner being (3:16). We receive it like a plant drinking up moisture and minerals from the ground; like a building resting upon a solid foundation. This power to know the unknowable comes to us from the God who is able to do more abundantly than all that we think (3:20). May Paul’s prayer be true for us today.

Polluted Garments

“We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a polluted garment.” – Isaiah 64:6

I heard somewhere that the words “polluted garment” here actually mean “dirty menstruous cloths”—and if you look it up, that’s true. It’s like the translators couldn’t quite bring themselves to write that out in the English, so they went for something a little less shocking.

Recently I came across a book by Clay Jones in which he suggests that questions like “why does God allow suffering?” and “why do good things happen to bad people?” reveal an inadequate grasp of several aspects of theology, one of them a realization of how bad people really are, of what the fallen, sinful nature really means. It made me realize that I do tend to think of people as basically nice and good. It’s easy to separate ourselves from perpetrators of evil. But one has to come to grips with the fact that many of those involved in evil, or who stood by while allowing evil to happen, were ordinary people. Elie Wiesel observed of Auschwitz administrator Adolf Eichmann: he was “an ordinary man. He slept well, he ate well. He was an exemplary father, a considerate husband… I was shaken by his normal appearance and behavior.” As Langdon Gilkey writes, our niceness is so often “the thin polish of easy morality.” Even when we seem to be doing what is righteous, it’s often motivated by self-interest. We don’t engage in extramarital affairs, for example, primarily because we fear getting caught, while Jesus says that even lustful thoughts are adulterous. Jones writes, “We may think those who restrict their adultery to their minds are good, but they’re not. The world is full of such ‘good people.’ Ultimately, evil is a matter of the heart… Bad things aren’t happening to good people because there are no good people.” As R.C. Sproul quips, “Why do bad things happen to good people? Well, that only happened once, and He volunteered.”

This isn’t some brand of shameful pessimism; it’s simply an accurate view of our sinful nature. This verse is pretty unequivocal: all of us are unclean. It casts out in pretty graphic terms the idea that there is any such thing as a righteousness of our own. This must be grasped before we can comprehend what salvation means. We tend to think of ourselves as better than we ought, and then of salvation as less crucial and glorious than it really is. Martyn Lloyd-Jones writes, “Most of our troubles are due to the fact that we are guilty of a double failure; we fail on the one hand to realize the depth of sin, and on the other hand we fail to realize the greatness and the height and the glory of our salvation.” Or (to continue the torrent of quotes) as C. S. Lewis writes, “Christianity now has to preach the diagnosis—in itself very bad news—before it can win a hearing for the cure.”

Manifold

“... so that through the church the manifold wisdom of God might now be made known to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly places. This was according to the eternal purpose that he has realized in Christ Jesus our Lord.” – Ephesians 3:10-11

Paul has just written one of the most notable Biblical passages on reconciliation—outlining how two groups who called each other pejorative names, who were “alienated” from one another, now are not only on good terms, but are one body, united through Christ who has “broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility.” He then zooms out to how all of this is the very reason for his ministry (3:1). This message of unity is the very mystery that is now revealed through the gospel Paul seeks to preach. But then he zooms out even further: this is the message the church proclaims to those in the heavenly places. 

This message is, specifically, the “manifold wisdom of God.” The word “manifold” is Greek polypoikilos: poly means “many,” and poikilos means “rich colors woven side-by-side.” Altogether, the word means “marked with a great variety of colors, much variegated,” but you can see how it goes beyond that to suggest a woven work of art, a painting with colors intentionally and beautifully worked together. It’s hard to understand this word and not think about the preceding paragraphs on ethnic unity. The church is meant to proclaim through its diversity the many-colored unity and beauty of the very wisdom of God. I like how Dean said a recent sermon that wisdom is the embodiment of knowledge—we as the church have an opportunity to embody, to give form to, the wisdom of God. Not just God’s knowledge and truth, but how that knowledge is lived out in a wisdom that is manifold. And by doing so, we proclaim a message that goes not only to our community and our world, but to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly places.

Paul reminds us constantly that this is only possible through Jesus. Jesus is the one who joins us together as one body (2:21). Jesus is the one through whom God’s eternal purpose is realized (3:11). Jesus is the reason we do not lose heart even while we see our brothers and sisters suffer (3:13). May we all pray to be strengthened with power through the Holy Spirit during this time (3:16).

Guide Me Into An Unclenched Moment

by Ted Loder

Gentle me,

Holy One,

into an unclenched moment,

   a deep breath,

      a letting go

         of heavy expectancies,

            of shriveling anxieties,

               of dead certainties,

that, softened by the silence,

   surrounded by the light,

      and open to the mystery,

I may be found by wholeness,

   upheld by the unfathomable,

      entranced by the simple,

         and filled with the joy

            that is you.

God Works, We Walk

“For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.” – Ephesians 2:8-10

Logically, this verse should say, we are “created… for good works… that we should work in them.” Instead, it says that God has prepared our good works in advance that we may walk in them. Why is that? 

We tend to both stress over our work, then claim credit for whatever we do. But Paul’s choice of words argues against both those things. The most obvious reason for the word choice, perhaps, is that his point in this entire section is that God works, not us. Salvation is a gift. It is something we receive, not something we achieve. The good works we walk in are only possible because God both created us to do it and prepared it for us to do. We can claim credit for none of it.

But there’s also an element of fretful striving in our work that this choice of words encourages us to release. Walking is something we’re intentional about—we do have to put one foot in front of the other, and decide where to go—but that we don’t, barring injury, consciously stress about. It is something we live into and how we live everything out. It is the rhythmic, basic cadence of the every day. To walk in our works is to release our anxieties and fears and walk into what God has prepared us to do, step by step. To walk in our works is to see good work in even the smallest, most mundane tasks of our day. To walk in our works is to be persistent, to keep doing them regularly, to not give up. We are God’s workmanship—a work of art, from the Master Craftsman, and he has created us to walk in our good works.

The Glory of God

“My mouth is filled with your praise, and with your glory all the day.” – Psalm 71:8

What is the glory of God? We bandy the phrase about all the time, but what is it, really? Well, perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s hard to define. My favorite explanation at the moment is that God’s glory is not a single attribute that he has, but the sum of all of his attributes put together, and the excellence of each attribute—not just his wisdom, but the perfection and greatness of that wisdom; not just his beauty, but the perfection and greatness of that beauty. 

I recently came across a piece by Jonathan Edwards called “The End For Which God Created The World,” in which he does a great word study on how “glory” is used throughout the Bible. He expounds more on the idea of what God’s glory means in terms of each of his attributes by saying that God’s glory is the way God inwardly possesses them, the way he outwardly displays them, and then also the way our own knowledge and experience of them results in His praise and honor. He writes:

“The emanation or communication of the divine fullness, consisting in the knowledge of God, love to him, and joy in him, has relation indeed both to God and the creature: but it has relation to God as its fountain, as the thing communicated is something of its internal fullness. The water in the stream is something of the fountain; and the beams of the sun are something of the sun. And again, they have relation to God as their object: for the knowledge communicated is the knowledge of God; and the love communicated, is the love of God; and the happiness communicated, is joy in God. In the creature’s knowing, esteeming, loving, rejoicing in, and praising God, the glory of God is both exhibited and acknowledged, his fullness is received and returned. Here is both an emanation and remanation. The refulgence shines upon and into the creature, and is reflected back to the luminary. The beams of glory come from God, are something of God, and are refunded back again to their original. So that the whole is of God, and in God, and to God; and he is the beginning, and the middle, and the end.”

His explanation gets better at the relationship we have with God’s glory. Yes, God’s glory is the sum of all of God’s attributes and the nature and excellence of each—but it is experienced by us. That is by definition part of what it is. In fact, his glory is in every single experience we have, if we look for it, if we receive it. And we cannot receive it without returning it, reflecting it back to God and out to others. This is what it means to live for God’s glory: to see and experience that “the whole is of God, and in God, and to God.” That is how the Psalmist can write, “my mouth is filled… with your glory all the day.” All the day—every single moment, his mouth can speak of the glory of God.

Four Words for Power

“... having the eyes of your hearts enlightened, that you may know... what is the immeasurable greatness of his power toward us to believe, according to the working of his great might that he worked in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion.” - Ephesians 1:18-21

Ephesians has the highest percentage of power words of any New Testament book. In verse 19 alone, Paul uses four different words for power, which is remarkable: as one commentator writes, “in other New Testament texts where any of these four terms are found together, there are never more than two in a given instance; here there are four!”

The phrase “immeasurable greatness of his power” is Greek dynamis and means having the capacity or potential for power. The phrase “according to the working” is Greek energeia and means the active working out of power, power in action. The word “great” is Greek ischus and means endowed or inherent power. The word “might” is Greek kratos and includes inherent power but stresses the dominion of that power, its authoritative strength and ability to overcome resistance.

In his commentary, Hoehner writes, “By way of illustration, a bulldozer has the ability, capacity, and potential of routing out trees (dynamis). By looking at it, one senses its inherent strength (ischus) but when its engine roars and it begins to move, its power of mastery becomes obvious (kratos). However, when it comes to a tree and knocks it over, one sees the activity of its power (energeia).” Calvin illustrates these words by saying that ischus is like the root, kratos like the tree, energeia the fruit, and dynamis the more general term that all the others support.

This power is present in the resurrection of Christ. Jesus has inherent power as one who is fully God; he worked out this power through his resurrection from the dead; he was endowed with power from the Father; he now sits in a place of authority and dominion. These four terms contrast with the four hostile powers listed in verse 21: Jesus has the dynamis, energeia, ischus and kratos that is far above "all rule and authority and power and dominion."

Paul's prayer is not that we have this power but that we can recognize it. He spells it out so extensively because he wants us to see what we already have. May we, through the revelatory work of the Holy Spirit, indeed see and know this power today.

God Remembers

“Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.” – Isaiah 49:15

Breastfeeding has irrevocably changed how I read this verse. With each baby, I went through a period of painful engorgement that I distinctly recall thinking was worse than giving birth without anesthesia. Even after that eased, I was always physically uncomfortable, or at least unavoidably aware, when it was time to nurse. The body is pretty amazing if you think about it. It was literally not biologically possible for me to forget my nursing child. 

But there was an emotional tie as well. I would feel the milk come in when I heard my baby crying, or actually any baby crying, even if it was in between a feeding cycle. And there was so much more to the experience than simply the meeting of a physical need: there was the closeness and warmth, the little fist clutching my shirt, the dopey milk-high grins afterwards, the satisfying burps (and poops). There was the haven of time away, together, from the rest of life, the two of us in our own little world. I remember wondering if it was possible to hold someone for forty-five minutes every three hours, and not love them.

I remember how it felt too to have to pump at work. With our first baby, I was an office-less resident, hauling about pump, bottles, tubing, ice packs to every clinic and operating room I rotated through. There wasn’t any precedent for residents having babies in my program, and I remember rushing around in between cases and patients, trying to ferret out some kind of private space (with an outlet) to pump. Even at work, I could not leave breastfeeding behind.

It’s difficult to read this verse without those memories rushing back. No—biologically, emotionally, logistically—no, it is not easy to forget one’s nursing child. What other reassurance do I need, that God always sees and remembers me, in my fiercest and most vulnerable needs and laments, whether I feel it or not? Through every exile, through every tragedy and injustice, God will not forget us.

A Seal and Guarantee

“In him you also, when you heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation, and believed in him, were sealed with the promised Holy Spirit, who is the guarantee of our inheritance until we acquire possession of it, to the praise of his glory.” – Ephesians 1:13-14

The Holy Spirit is a seal and a guarantee. In classical times, a seal had four functions. It provided security: a sealed letter meant it had not been tampered with. It provided authentication: a seal was like a signature, carrying the full authority of its owner. It certified genuineness: it meant a document was the real thing, not a duplicate. It served as identification: the design of a seal was unique to its owner. The Holy Spirit signifies that we belong to God and are under his authority. He reassures us of our identity and of the genuine reality of our spiritual state. He both teaches us these truths, and displays them to others.

The Holy Spirit is also a guarantee. This word was a Semitic loan word that indicated a down payment that would be forfeited if the purchase was not completed or service not rendered. I think about how it feels to put down a nonrefundable deposit: that’s when I really know whether I want something or not, isn’t it? God has put the Holy Spirit like a nonrefundable deposit into us, a first installment and a sure promise of the inheritance to come. The word for “guarantee” in modern Greek also means “engagement ring”: something beautiful and of high value which proclaims one’s love and future intentions towards someone. 

The down-payment is not the purchase; the diamond is not the marriage. They foreshadow an experience that will be much greater in scope. The Holy Spirit works in us, and in the church as a body, the way God will one day work in the new heavens and earth: to secure it for his own, to stamp it with his authority, to bring about true eternal reality, to identify it in every way with his own radiant glory. The Holy Spirit, writes N. T. Wright, comes and takes “residence in the actual physicality of Christian believers as the advance statement of God saying, ‘I am doing this now because one day that’s what I am going to do to the world. This is how it is going to work.’”