As a type-A, calendar and to-do list kind of person, I like to remember that those who plan act a little like God.

We resemble, in some small measure, the Maker who built his world from a six-day blueprint. We share a likeness with him who “planned from days of old what now I bring to pass” (2 Kings 19:25). We embody in creaturely form the ways of him who acts beyond whim, against randomness, and always according to a “definite plan” (Acts 2:23). We are made in the image of a planning God, and those who plan act a little like him.

But wait a minute. As a type-A, calendar and to-do list kind of person, I need to remember something else too: sometimes, those who plan act a little too much like God.

Sometimes, we plan as if we were not vapor and mist, flower and grass, here by morning and gone by night. Sometimes, we reduce planning to prayerless reason and pro-con lists, tools of self-reliant minds. Sometimes, we don’t even say under our breath, “If the Lord wills . . .” (James 4:15). We are made in the image of a planning God, and those who plan sometimes take the image and forget the God.

So, as another calendar closes, and a year of blank days falls open before us, how might we reflect our planning God without planning as if we were God?

1. Plan like a mortal.

Whenever we plan, whether for next year or next week, we bring something of tomorrow into today. We run ahead on the trail of time, charting courses and planting flags, considering what we might do now to reach goals then. In the process, however, our imagined tomorrows can feel more real than they really are; we can find our hearts already inhabiting our future plans. But as James reminds us, we “do not know what tomorrow will bring.” We are “a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes” (James 4:14). We are mortal.

Partly because eternity rests in our bones, and partly because lingering folly does too, we often fail to plan like mortals. We are mists who dream like mountains, lilies who plot like oaks. As we mentally walk the trails of tomorrow, deciding where we’ll go and what we’ll do, we forget that such trails may never be. Humility gives way to type-A “arrogance” (James 4:16).

Rightly felt, a sense of our mortality does not discourage planning, but it does chasten and reframe planning. When eternity presses close, we live (and plan) more wisely in time. We also remember what our best plans really are: drawings and rough drafts, penciled sketches at the mercy of God’s eraser. So, even as we think and scheme and dream as if we may have months or years ahead, we stamp every plan with mortal wisdom: “If the Lord wills” — and not otherwise — “we will live and do this or that” (James 4:15).

2. Plan like a child.

Pride can take several shapes in our planning. It can appear in our quickness to say, “I will . . .” rather than “If the Lord wills . . .” It can appear also in a prayerless reliance on our own reason.

I often need help remembering that Christian planning is never a matter of mere common sense. Of course, common sense holds great value (as much of Proverbs testifies), and most of us could stand to have more. But our world is too complex a place for pro-con lists to master. More than that, God’s own priorities are often too counterintuitive for worldly wisdom to trace.

Planners like me would do well to heed the words of John Newton: “It is a great thing indeed to have the spirit of a little child, so as to be habitually afraid of taking a single step without leading” (Letters of John Newton, 184). We are not only mortals — our time short, our days numbered. We are also children — our wisdom small, our foresight fallible. So, as those who know our own ignorance, who sense our utterly limited perspective and our proneness to plausible folly, we plan in the presence of God. We saturate planning with prayer.

We might, for example, root our planning in Paul’s prayer for the Philippians:

It is my prayer that your love may abound more and more, with knowledge and all discernment, so that you may approve what is excellent, and so be pure and blameless for the day of Christ. (Philippians 1:9–10)

Rightly done, planning is a way of looking at the competing claims for our time and attention, and approving not only what is good or worthy, but “what is excellent,” what is best. And approving what is best calls for more than common sense. We need nothing less than abounding, discerning love, a gift that comes from the Spirit in response to prayer.

3. Plan like a worshiper.

Praying as we plan may guard us from the pride that James warns so strongly against (James 4:16). But what about the next day, the next week, the next month, when we wake up with plan in hand, calendar filled, to-do list ready? How will we protect ourselves, in an ongoing way, from acting like immortal adults rather than mortal children? We can plan like worshipers.

Worshipers remember that, among all priorities, “one thing is necessary” (Luke 10:42). Among all requests, “one thing have I asked of the Lord” (Psalm 27:4). Among all ambitions, “one thing I do” (Philippians 3:13). Sit at Jesus’s feet. Behold his beauty. Press on toward heaven.

Worshipers not only saturate their planning with prayer; they also plan to saturate their days with prayer (and God’s other means of grace). Pursuing God becomes one of the main parts of their plans. What will Bible reading look like this year? When, where, and how will I commune with God in prayer? In what ways will I deepen my fellowship with brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers in my local church?

“Above all priorities, prioritize worship. At the heart of all plans, plan to pursue God.”

When we daily pursue God according to a prayerful, thoughtful plan, we will have a harder time taking our to-do lists too seriously. God’s providence, not our plans, will seem like our great unshakable guide. We will also find ourselves more attuned to when our priorities should change. As we seek him, the discerning love of God will often lead us to approve some excellence other than the one we had planned.

So, above all priorities, prioritize worship. At the heart of all plans, plan to pursue God.

4. Plan like a dreamer.

Can creatures of dust craft five-year visions? Can mists like us dare to imagine not just tomorrow but a thousand tomorrows? As long as we live like mortals, pray like children, and pursue God like worshipers, yes, we can. And indeed, sometimes love will compel us to do so. God created us “in Christ Jesus for good works” (Ephesians 2:10), and some good works are so wonderfully audacious, so beautifully complex, they reach beyond the pages of this year’s calendar.

Consider a remarkable passage near the end of Romans, where Paul outlines his travel plans:

I hope to see you in passing as I go to Spain, and to be helped on my journey there by you, once I have enjoyed your company for a while. At present, however, I am going to Jerusalem bringing aid to the saints. For Macedonia and Achaia have been pleased to make some contribution for the poor among the saints at Jerusalem. (Romans 15:24–26)

In a time when traveling from Achaia to Jerusalem to Rome to Spain would have taken months and perhaps years, Paul outlines a surprisingly complicated, long-range plan. Of course, we know from Acts that Paul remained sensitive to God’s redirecting hand (Acts 16:6–10, for example), but he did not for that reason stop planning. With Christlike love burning in his heart, he set his sights across years and seas.

Some good works call for far-seeing vision, bold ambition, and the willingness to embark on a path whose end lies over the horizon. Global missions and church planting are two such good works. We could mention many others: adopting children, evangelizing a city, starting a God-glorifying business, ending abortion, even raising a child in the discipline and instruction of the Lord.

Often in Scripture we find the wicked laying wicked plans (Esther 8:3; Psalm 21:11; 33:10; 62:4). Will not the righteous lay counter-plans for righteousness? Will we not think on our beds, and dream with open calendars, and dare to fill future days with penciled plans for good?

5. Plan like a sub-planner.

Perhaps the best test of a planner’s heart comes later, outside the moment of planning, when we realize that God’s plans were different from ours. “Many are the plans in the mind of a man, but it is the purpose of the Lord that will stand” (Proverbs 19:21). And sometimes, even often, the purpose of the Lord undoes our plans.

Our God is the great intervener, the great redirector, the one who “frustrates the plans of the peoples” (Psalm 33:10) and who sometimes, for kind and wise reasons, frustrates our own plans as well. Our wisdom in such moments is to receive the frustration of our plans without frustration, to hold our torn to-do lists with humble, trusting hands — and in the more trivial cases, maybe with even a self-deprecating laugh.

Every ruined plan is an opportunity to remember that we are sub-planners, planners with a lowercase p. God gives us the dignity of dreaming — and sometimes too the gift of seeing dreams come true. But above that dignity, he gives the assurance that even when our plans fail, he folds the failures into his own plans for our good (Romans 8:28).

So far as we know, Paul never made it to Spain. And so with us, some of our most seemingly God-glorifying plans will not come to pass. But those crossed-out hopes, those unchecked boxes on our to-do lists, have the potential to push us deeper into our mortal creed: “If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that” (James 4:15). They can bid us to say with more sincerity, “Not my plans, but yours, be done.” Best of all, they can teach us to receive God’s interruptions as better than our best-laid plans.

All Scripture is God-breathed . . .

This often-quoted Scripture about Scripture in 2 Timothy 3:16 gets a lot of attention today (and it should). Many fine defenses of the classical understanding of these three Greek words (pasa graphē theopneustos) have been published in recent decades. The God-inspired, or God-exhaled, nature of holy Scripture is worth receiving and defending and — as the rest of the verse reads — putting to use. Theorize and argue about it as we might, a second foot lands that makes this a strikingly practical text:

All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness . . .

Take up Scripture, and use it, Paul writes. It is profitable, that is, valuable, beneficial, useful (Greek ōphelimos). We might even say it’s doubly useful — not only for those who are taught, reproved, corrected, and trained, but also for the teacher himself. That’s the purpose Paul gives: “. . . that the man of God (the teacher himself!) may be complete, equipped for every good work” (2 Timothy 3:17). Scripture not only profits the people; it equips the teachers. Christian pastors dare not feign to teach and preach to God’s people apart from using Scripture — with the kind of use (and not abuse) that God intends.

Are the Four in Order?

Now, ancient letter-writing was an expensive and time-consuming endeavor (we shouldn’t assume the kind of speed and carelessness with which we dash off emails today). Skilled craftsmen like Paul would thoughtfully plan and draft and rewrite and edit and proof their epistles before those words hit the Roman roads.

So, when an apostle lists a sequence like the last part of 2 Timothy 3:16 — “for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness” — he means it. He thought of this list, ordered it, drafted it, reviewed it, and finalized it. The Theological Dictionary of the New Testament goes as far as to say that this is “obviously a planned sequence in this list of nouns.”
While guarding against over-reading the order, we can look for reasons why Paul chooses these particular words and arranges them like he does.

Let’s consider, then, this planned sequence for the pastoral use of Scripture in the local church. How might these specific activities clarify our calling and practice as pastor-teachers?

First and Foremost: Teach

It’s no surprise that Paul would begin with “teaching.”

Teaching is the distinctive, central labor of the pastor-elders in the life of the local church. The risen Christ gives his church its pastors and teachers (Ephesians 4:11), leaders who speak the word of God (Hebrews 13:7), overseers who not only exercise authority but do so mainly through teaching the gathered church (1 Timothy 2:12). Good pastor-elders “labor in preaching and teaching” (1 Timothy 5:17). The heart of their calling is not their own wisdom or life hacks or executive savvy, but feeding souls through teaching and preaching God’s word.

So, Paul takes a deep breath after verse 17 and then says, after a long, loaded preamble, “preach the word” (2 Timothy 4:2). And such pastoral preaching in the life of the local church is clearly bound up with teaching:

preach the word . . . reprove, rebuke, and exhort, with complete patience and teaching. For the time is coming when people will not endure sound teaching . . . (2 Timothy 4:2–3)

Let’s not miss the prevenient nature of Christian preaching and teaching: ideally, instruction in sound doctrine begins before the church encounters error. Preaching the word and teaching the Scriptures is steady-state, everyday Christian pastoral ministry. We feed the souls of the sheep on God’s words. His Scriptures are the green pastures and still waters to which good shepherds lead their flock. First comes faithful, heartful preaching and teaching, as daily bread and water; then comes the defense of the flock as various threats arise.

If the sequence of nouns in 2 Timothy 3:16 represents four distinct aspects of the pastoral use of Scripture, then it is hard to imagine another activity appearing first. Teaching is the pastors’ first and foremost call, and its coming first helps us to recognize what we might call a “didactic order” — a logical sequence here that lists teaching first, then rebuke, then correction, then training.

Next: Expose Error to Light

Appropriately, “reproof” comes next. Now the term is negative and responsive, complementing the positive and pro-active endeavor of teaching. However well the pastors teach their people, errors and deceptions inevitably emerge, often related to prevailing errors in the world (or overreactions to those errors) that find sympathy in the church. We Christians also have plenty of indwelling sin to originate our own errors as well. Every church and all Christians are susceptible to both innocent and culpable mistakes, in belief and practice, that need to be exposed to the light.

Pared with teaching, this reproof, says Gordon Fee, is “the other side of the task; [the pastor] must use Scripture to expose the errors of the false teachers and their teachings” (1 & 2 Timothy, Titus, 13). Exposing error to light, through words, is the heart of this second activity (John 3:20; Ephesians 5:11, 13). Good preaching and teaching exposes errors, yet without letting error set the agenda. Teaching is the tip of the spear — and the advancing spear divides truth from lies (and half-truths), and sheds fresh light on unlit nooks and crannies, enlightening darkened minds and convicting compromised hearts.

Pastoral exposition, then, not only exposes our people to the light by faithfully teaching Scripture; it also exposes remaining pockets of darkness in us and in our habits of life. And such exposure of error need not be combative or heavy-handed. Rather, like pastoral admonition (an even stronger term in the New Testament), reproof is familial. The apostle Paul says he wrote to the Corinthians not to shame them, but as a father to beloved children (1 Corinthians 4:14).

If even admonition is to be brotherly (2 Thessalonians 3:15), rather than adversarial (and works hand in hand with teaching, Colossians 1:28; 3:16), then wise shepherds, as fathers and brothers to the flock, will expose errors with the same hope, patience, and Christian grace they exercise in their teaching. The call to reprove is no license to sin, abandon self-control, or to draw attention to the teacher’s own smarts as the one who knows better.

Good pastors lovingly expose error — however gently or severely the situation requires (Titus 1:13; 2:14) — because we have a clear, objective, fixed standard of truth, outside ourselves. In a world of endless shades of gray, how could we presume to claim to say what’s in error and what’s not? Because we have and teach the Scriptures. Not our own abilities, but God’s written word. As Robert Yarbrough comments, “On what basis does any pastor stand in undertaking such a daunting responsibility? It is the Scriptures that furnish guidance and divine authority for servants of that word to perform this necessary function” (The Letters to Timothy and Titus, 687).

Then: Envision the Path Forward

So, back to the sequence. Let’s say God’s word is being taught, and along the way error is exposed — now what? Then follows “correction.”

Correction (Greek epanorthōsis) moves from ideas to actions, from exposing false teaching to envisioning godly living and tactical hope. Correction charts a course for healing, for restoration, for reformation, shining light on the path that is an escape from the dark. According to Yarbrough, “Pastors do not merely rebuke: they restore and point in corrective directions.” Correction, says Philip Towner, is “the activity that follows” rebuke.

Hebrews 12:13 captures it, using the same root word (orth-, meaning straight): “make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed.” Correction re-sets the broken bone, that it might properly heal. It’s a companion to reproof that “emphasizes the behavioral, ethical side” (Fee). While reproof brings error to light, correction directs sinners toward recovery. When errors come to light — when you realize, Oh no, I’ve been wrong! — correction is the next step.

Tactical as it is, such correction is no less than the full application of God’s grace in Christ — both outside of us in Christ and his work, and in us through his indwelling Spirit. God’s word both announces his forgiveness of our exposed sins, and summons us to practical holiness, empowered by the Spirit. Christian teaching of God’s full word prompts sinners to cast themselves on mercy, and learn to stand and walk in grace as well.

Finally: Train Them to Live Well

Last of the four, and a fitting conclusion to the didactic sequence, is training — a freighted concept in the ancient world and New Testament (Greek paideia). Not merely verbal, but tactical, this “corresponds to correcting, as its positive side” (Fee). Training involves conditioning the inner person through “inculcating the acts and habits that will reflect God’s own character (his ‘righteousness’) in relationship with his people” (Yarbrough, 688).

As Jesus spoke about his disciples being trained during their time with him (Matthew 13:52; Luke 6:40), so we mean to disciple our people toward Christian maturity. And maturity, in any sphere of human life, does not come automatically, but through intentional conditioning (Hebrews 5:14). Discipling actually does something; it changes the disciple, it reshapes the soul and its patterns of thought and delights — and greatly so over time. And such training is typically not easy but requires persisting in moments of discomfort, even pain, to endure on the path toward the reward set before us (Hebrews 12:11).

Training doubtless includes what we might more narrowly call discipline (Hebrews 12:3–11), even as we note well the difference between discipline as a means and punishment as an end (1 Corinthians 11:32). The whole process of pastoral training is comprehensive and constructive, not just responsive. It’s holistic, not just intellectual.

This training in righteousness — in righteous living, Christian behavior — begins in our teaching, but doesn’t end with our words. To train our people, we pastors must be among them, and have our people among us (1 Peter 5:1–2). Together as pastoral teams, we teach the church how to live from Scripture and then model Christian conduct in everyday life (1 Peter 5:3; Titus 2:7).

In the midst of caring for the whole flock — through teaching, counseling, and example — we also “entrust [the central truths] to faithful men, who will be able to teach others also” (2 Timothy 2:2). That is, we disciple and seek to invest in future leaders, vocational and nonvocational, who we hope will join us in the work and do the same. We labor to raise up men who will use God’s word well to teach, reprove, correct, and train in righteousness even long after we’re gone.

I had read the account of the woman at the well countless times before, but never had it spoken so powerfully to a quiet pain I have often felt: loneliness.

I had always focused on the needs of the woman while reading John 4, but this time the needs of her Savior arrested my attention. In the familiar account, a weary and thirsty Jesus sits down beside the well of Sychar while his disciples, hungry after an exhausting journey, venture into the Samaritan town to buy food (John 4:6–8). In the next scene, a woman arrives to draw water from the well. Jesus asks her for a drink, and then he offers her a drink of another kind — a soul-satisfying draft of living water (John 4:13–14).

Presumably, Jesus drinks the water the Samaritan woman draws from the well, but after his disciples return with food, hungry as he almost certainly is, he does not eat. Instead, in another play on words, he tells his disciples, “I have food to eat that you do not know about” (John 4:32). The bewildered disciples conclude that someone else had given him food. Knowing their confusion, Jesus explains, “My food is to do the will of him who sent me” (John 4:34). Jesus had feasted on a spiritual harvest that day; so spiritually full was he that his physical hunger diminished.

Food for Lonely Hearts

Rereading this account was a hunger-diminishing experience for me. I was weary and thirsty from a journey of my own — another out-of-state move. If T.S. Eliot’s Prufrock “measured out [his] life with coffee spoons,” I could measure mine out with these moves, each one bringing fresh feelings of loneliness as I once again took on the identity of an outsider. I was hungry for friendship and belonging.

Jesus’s example at the well of Sychar gave me a plan for dealing with my loneliness-hunger. Jesus modeled the joyful obedience that suppresses lesser appetites. I learned that busying myself with the good works God had given me could fill me spiritually such that my hunger for belonging would recede into its proper place.

Just as Jesus experienced fullness through faithful obedience to God, I have learned to find joy and satisfaction in faithfully completing the work God gives me each day, whether preparing another meal, writing sample sentences for grammar class, responding to emails, arbitrating my children’s disputes, greeting a neighbor, sending up prayers of confession and pleas for help, or even cleaning a spill in the refrigerator. Each small act of faithfulness begins to fill my soul, much like the first bite each morning begins to fill my stomach.

Best and Dearest Friend

I am hardly alone in my loneliness. About one in four adults across the world suffers from a similar hunger. Bankrupt of any long-term solutions, the world suggests increased human interactions to alleviate the suffering. But for all our digital connectedness, the loneliness epidemic persists and grows.

Only in Jesus do we find a solution to the growing problem. He offers the hunger-suppressing plan of faithful obedience. But he also offers so much more. Jesus offers the presence of a sympathetic friend. If, as C.S. Lewis observes, friendship begins when one person says to another, “What! You too? I thought I was the only one” (The Four Loves, 78), then in Jesus we find the best and dearest friend. He fully “sympathize[s] with our weaknesses” and has experienced the pain of their accompanying temptations, “yet without sin” (Hebrews 4:14–16).

Acquainted with Loneliness

Jesus is a friend who, just like us, is intimately acquainted with hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and, yes, even loneliness.

Has anyone been more misunderstood than Jesus, whose divine proclamations of truth were met with ignorance and doubt? “We brought no bread” (Matthew 16:7). “He is out of his mind” (Mark 3:21). Who can forget the derision of his fellow Galileans after he authoritatively taught and powerfully performed miracles among them? “Is not this the carpenter’s son?” (Matthew 13:55). How about Peter’s brazen rebuke when Jesus revealed the wisdom of God’s salvation plan? “This shall never happen!” (Matthew 16:22).

Has anyone been more alone than Jesus, who “set his face to go to Jerusalem” (Luke 9:51)? While his friends and brothers carried on with their lives, he single-mindedly pursued the task his Father had given him. He wasn’t granted the gift of human marriage or children or property, as so many others had been. Instead, his was the lonely path to Golgotha. Who has been more alone than the one who, in his greatest hour of need, fell on his face, prayed, wept, and bled, only to find those dearest to him sleeping, unable to help shoulder his burden? “Could you not watch with me [for] one hour”?! (Matthew 26:40).

Has anyone endured more hatred than Jesus, whose bloodied body and anguished cries from the cross provoked the jeering of the violent mob who had gathered to satisfy their bloodlust? There, Jesus endured the lonely lash of public mockery: “He saved others; he cannot save himself. . . . Let God deliver him now, if he desires him. For he said, ‘I am the Son of God’” (Matthew 27:41–43).

Nor was Jesus a stranger to the loneliness of bereavement, likely having mourned his (adopted) father Joseph’s death. Matthew 14:13 also records his withdrawal “to a desolate place” after hearing the news of his cousin John’s beheading in prison. See his lament over the coming judgment on Jerusalem or his tears at the tomb of Lazarus (Matthew 23:37–24:2; John 11:33–36). Jesus knew and grieved the separation of death.

Misunderstood by family and friends, rejected by his countrymen, despised by the religious leaders, forsaken and betrayed by his disciples, Jesus understood loneliness. No one was more of an outsider, and no one could be more of a friend. To our own lonely hearts, the ever-present Jesus whispers the comforting words, “Me too. You are not alone.”

Glorious Through Loneliness

But more than offering the presence of a friend in loneliness, and more than offering a plan for alleviating the loneliness, Jesus offers purpose to the suffering of loneliness. If Jesus was perfected through suffering (Hebrews 2:10), will we not also be perfected through our own suffering? Loneliness is another of those “various trials” that may grieve us throughout our lives (1 Peter 1:6). But as we embrace the affliction, as we resist the temptations it brings, and as we pursue joy by faithfully doing the work God has given us, our faith is refined like gold, becoming more and more precious as the impurities melt away (1 Peter 1:7).

One of the purposes of loneliness — and indeed, one of the main purposes for every kind of suffering — is for God to make us glorious through it. And as we all in varying degrees share the sufferings of Jesus, so shall we also share in his glory.

Not Alone

Maybe yours is the loneliness of bereavement, or of being the outsider, or of being misunderstood or cynically judged. Maybe your life circumstances distinguish you, though not in the way you would prefer. Maybe you endure chronic snubbing in your neighborhood or chronic ridicule at school for being a Christian. Whatever the nature of your suffering, take heart, lonely soul! You are not alone. Jesus is with you.

Feast, as he did, on the “food” God has given you to eat. Be filled with “the peaceful fruit of righteousness” that enduring loneliness produces in this life (Hebrews 12:11). And wait in the company of your dearest friend for the coming glory, where his faithfulness has earned for you a share of his inheritance (Romans 8:17).