In most cases, cruelty — not wisdom — would have told them to cut the baby in two. How many kings in history would have had the sword brought, not to draw out the true mother, but to violently end the matter? Who would have imagined that thousands of years later, we’d still hold up such a brutal scene as a beautiful model to imitate — as a masterclass in conflict resolution?

Two women came to King Solomon, like so many others, to settle a dispute. They were both prostitutes, so deciding whom to trust wouldn’t be easy. Both had recently given birth to sons, within just a few days of each other. One boy was now dead because of a horrible accident. His mother woke to find she had smothered him while the two were sleeping. Can you imagine the horror when she realized what she had done?

Desperate, she added horror to horror. She took the living son from her roommate’s breast, and laid the cold body of her carelessness there instead. She stirred the heavy storm of guilt into a hurricane. When the other woman woke up, she found the child at her side was dead. After examining the baby more closely, though, she discovered what evil had happened (like any mother would). But how could she prove it? She couldn’t; they “were alone” (1 Kings 3:18). So the two went to court, both declaring, “The living child is mine, and the dead child is yours” (1 Kings 3:22).

We know what the king does next — the jarring way he uncovers the truth. Who would have guessed he’d threaten to have the child cut in two? When Israel heard of the judgment Solomon rendered, they stood in awe of him, perceiving that the Spirit of God was in him (1 Kings 3:28). Can you explain, however, why he was wise to reach for a sword?

Needful Conflict

We might say Solomon was wise because it worked. The true mother proved herself by pleading that the boy be spared, even if that meant he would be raised by another woman (1 Kings 3:26). Likewise, the selfish response of the other woman exposed her treachery. That it worked, however, doesn’t explain why the king was wise (only that he was). Surely the same strategy would have failed in lots of other crises.

What made Solomon wise, in this case, was that he knew to lean into the conflict between them to prove who was who. He pressed on the sensitive issue at hand until each woman revealed what kind of woman she really was. The apostle Paul offers a similar piece of wisdom to the church when he writes,

When you come together as a church, I hear that there are divisions among you. And I believe it in part, for there must be factions among you in order that those who are genuine among you may be recognized. (1 Corinthians 11:18–19)

There must be factions among you. In other words, some conflict is necessary for churches to remain healthy. Why? Like Solomon with the prostitutes: to prove who is who. Who’s really here to worship, obey, and enjoy King Jesus — and who’s here for some other reason?

Isn’t Division Bad?

Aren’t all divisions in the church to be avoided, though? After all, the apostle himself says (earlier in the same letter, even),

I appeal to you, brothers, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same judgment. (1 Corinthians 1:10)

I appeal to you that there be no divisions among you — not some or few, but none. And then later in the same letter (just a few verses after chapter 11, in fact),

God has so composed the body, giving greater honor to the part that lacked it, that there may be no division in the body, but that the members may have the same care for one another. (1 Corinthians 12:24–25)

So God himself has built the body in such a way as to avoid and remove all division. Elsewhere, Paul calls division a “work of the flesh” (Galatians 5:19–20). He says to those who cause and stoke such conflict, “I warn you, as I warned you before, that those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God” (Galatians 5:21).

How then could he possible say, “There must be divisions among you”? The answer lies in the rest of the verse: “There must be factions among you in order that those who are genuine among you may be recognized” (1 Corinthians 11:18–19). To prove who in the church is really the church. The conflict that inevitably comes in the life of any church serves to confirm and refine those who are really his. In this way, like so many thorns we suffer, it’s both an awful consequence of sin and a precious instrument of mercy.

What Does Division Prove?

But how would division in a church prove anything good about anyone? In the way the sword did for the mothers. It drew coldhearted selfishness out of the grieving woman, and warm-hearted selflessness out of the other. This is what conflict does: it draws out whatever’s inside of us — for better or worse. This is true in churches, in marriages, in friendships, in any relationship. The fires of strife will make those enslaved to sin act all the more sinfully, and those captive to grace act all the more graciously. This makes division a revealer and a purifier.

“This is what conflict does: it draws out whatever’s inside of us — for better or worse.”

What sets the godly apart in these divisions? A few verses after Paul warns us about the weeds of divisiveness, he tells us what grows in gardens watered by the Spirit: love, not loathing; joy, not grumbling; peace, not agitation; patience, not irritability; kindness, not cruelty; goodness, not corruption; faithfulness, not flakiness; gentleness, not harshness; self-control, not indulgence (Galatians 5:22–23).

And the presence (or absence) of any of these qualities is felt more acutely in conflict, isn’t it? We may not really notice love or peace until they’re surprising. We may not appreciate someone’s patience until we expected them to be impatient, their kindness until we expected them to be harsh, their faithfulness until we expected them to give up and walk away. Division harvests whatever has been growing within us, whether good or bad, and displays it for others to see.

Preciousness of Genuineness

We need to see what conflict reveals (“there must be factions among you”). Sometimes, we’ll discover that someone we thought was genuine was not. Even this is a mercy, though, because it allows us to lovingly confront that person and call them to believe and repent. If someone has been captured by sin, and no one around him knows, how will he be set free? How will he taste the grace he can only pretend to know? Conflict will draw sin out of all of us that we can help one another put to death (Hebrews 3:12–13).

But conflict will also uncover secret beauty. It will prove the genuineness of the genuine — the hidden holiness we may not always notice in one another. Isn’t God kind to give us glimpses of the good he’s doing in us? This is why followers of Jesus can rejoice even in the midst of our trials:

In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials [could this have included relational conflict within the church (see 1 Peter 1:22; 3:8; 4:8)?] so that the tested genuineness of your faith — more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire — may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. (1 Peter 1:6–7)

Why has God allowed for conflict in the church? In part, so that we might see the gold he’s beautifying within her. How dull might the gold of genuine faith seem without a fire to refine and illuminate it?

Factions Can Strengthen Families

Over time, division in healthy churches produces unity, not division. Don’t let the good fruit of conflict silence the apostle’s clear charge: “I appeal to you, brothers, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree, and that there be no divisions among you.” Christians don’t aim for conflict; we aim for agreement and harmony in Christ. We can’t let the usefulness of divisions make any of us divisive.

“Over time, division in healthy churches produces unity, not division.”

After all, Paul’s comment — “there must be factions among you” — comes clothed in a vision for togetherness. He’s writing about the Lord’s table (1 Corinthians 11:33–34). There is one body, one Spirit, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one Table — so put away whatever is separating those that God has joined together.

Factions will come, and they must, but they come as catalysts to a deeper, more meaningful sense of family. So as far as it depends on us, let’s pursue togetherness in the truth — and receive church conflict as an invitation to explore and experience more of the oneness we have in Christ.

As surprised as we might be by divisiveness in the church, and as uncomfortable and maddening as it may feel at times, such cracks in the walls have dogged us from the beginning.

The kinds of cracks have varied from age to age and culture to culture, but give any congregation enough time — even the best of them — and cracks will emerge. They’re side effects of making covenants with fellow sinners — as unpleasant as they are unavoidable. It’s just part of keeping a home in a fallen world.

Many have tried hard to diagnose and treat the current cracks in our walls — politics and elections, mask mandates and rebellions, racial disparity and superiority, men’s and women’s roles in the home and beyond, domestic abuse and other moral failures, and so on — but many of them have overlooked or marginalized a missing ingredient to harmony. In fact, I can’t help but wonder if the wildfires in some pews are as fierce and contagious as they are because this piece seems so small in many of our eyes.

When God planted the first churches, he knew the cracks he’d find. He wrote them into our stories, in fact, because he knew that cracked but loving churches served his purposes better than ones with brand-new walls and pristine floors. He had planned the cracks, and he had plans for the cracks, and one of those plans was called deacons.

Strong Enough to Help

We first encounter deacons during a meal (which, as any normal family knows, is when fights often break out). As the early church began to meet and grow, Greek-speaking Jews who had been scattered outside of Israel (“Hellenists”) returned to Jerusalem to join the church and follow Jesus. After a while, though, they came and complained to the Hebrew-speaking apostles because Greek widows were not receiving the food they needed (Acts 6:1).

Urgent needs like this, as any church knows, require time and attention, pastoral sensitivity, and careful follow-through. This meant the leaders would have less time and attention for teaching and prayer, and they knew the church would suffer even more if that were the case (Acts 6:2). So, the apostles called the church to appoint seven men to make sure all were fed well. And because they did, “the word of God continued to increase, and the number of the disciples multiplied greatly in Jerusalem” (Acts 6:7).

How much or little we think of diaconal ministry today rests, in significant measure, on what problem we think those first proto-deacons were solving. Was this merely a matter of entrées and sides for some lonely and vulnerable women, or was the church facing a deeper, more sensitive threat?

Matt Smethurst, in his introduction to deacons, draws our attention to the greater dangers hiding beneath the dining tables:

How our churches react to conflict can make all the difference in whether our gospel witness is obstructed or accelerated. Acts 6 is a story of church conflict handled well. . . . The seven weren’t merely deployed to solve a food problem. Food was the occasion, sure, but it wasn’t the deepest problem. The deepest problem was a sudden threat to church unity. (Deacons, 44, 52)

“How could the church win the war for souls if there were wars within her walls?”

Cracks were suddenly surfacing and spreading. How could the church win the war for souls if there were wars within her walls? How could the word run if its people were mired in swamps of bitterness? The church didn’t merely need better waiters; it needed peace and healing. It needed men strong and wise enough to help mend fractures in the family.

Giants Bowing Low

Many might hear deacon and immediately think of dull or menial tasks that few people want to do — building maintaining, budget crunching, nursery cleaning, furnace repairing, meal serving. They might imagine a sort of junior-varsity team that relieves the pastors of lesser work. When the apostles saw those seven men, however, they saw something different in them — a stronger and more vibrant force for good, a noble and vital ministry.

We know how much they thought of diaconal work because of the kind of men they appointed: “Pick out from among you seven men of good repute, full of the Spirit and of wisdom, whom we will appoint to this duty” (Acts 6:3). They weren’t content with someone who was handy around the house or good with spreadsheets; they wanted men filled with the Spirit and abounding in wisdom. These were remarkable men doing difficult and precious work. “The apostles did not delegate this problem to others because it wasn’t important,” Smethurst observes, “but because it was” (53).

Because they knew how much food could poison fellowship, they set spiritual giants-in-the-making like Stephen over the tables. “And Stephen, full of grace and power, was doing great wonders and signs among the people” (Acts 6:8). The Jewish leaders “could not withstand the wisdom and the Spirit with which he was speaking” (Acts 6:10). And yet feeding widows was not beneath him. In fact, the faith and humility that freed him to quietly serve tables was the same faith and humility that freed him to boldly die for Jesus (Acts 7:58). Like Jesus, he knew that those who bow down lowest get to see more of God and his glory.

Diaconal ministry is not merely about checking boxes next to tasks, but about helping to maintain a home where a family not only lives but thrives.

Office of Tedious?

What do deacons do? In short, they assist the elders by meeting needs in the life of the church. They unleash the word of God by allowing the elders to focus on praying, teaching, and governing. And in doing so, the deacons guard and encourage the church’s love for one another. For the church of Acts 6, that meant making sure everyone was fed. In our day, it might still be feeding the hungry in our congregation, or it might be maintaining the church budget, or overseeing ministry to children, or taking care of the building, or leading a small group.

The tasks may seem tedious to the untrained eye, but imagine how much our churches would be crippled if no one stepped up to do them well. Imagine how horribly distracted and worn out our pastors would be, trying to cover all those bases themselves. Imagine how the preaching and teaching would inevitably suffer, leaving the church starving in far worse ways.

“The apostles recognize a fundamental truth,” Smethurst writes.

A church whose ministers are chained to the tyranny of the urgent — which so often shows up in “tangible problems” — is a church removing its heart to strengthen its arm. It’s a kind of slow-motion suicide. A church without deacons may lack health, but a church without biblical preaching cannot exist. There is, in fact, no such thing. (47)

Sent into the Cracks

What should churches look for in a deacon? I believe both men and women can serve as deacons (though I don’t have space to argue for that here). Scripture is not as clear on that question as we might like, so I understand why others come down differently. Whether we ordain women as deacons or not, though, Scripture does give us a clear picture of what marks a good deacon: dignity and honesty, self-control and generosity, conviction and faithfulness (1 Timothy 3:8–10). The men must also be devoted husbands and fathers, raising their families in the discipline and instruction of the Lord (1 Timothy 3:12; Ephesians 6:4).

“When they see something that needs to be done, deacons love to help see that it gets done.”

Beyond the biblical qualifications, Smethurst shares some practical counsel for recognizing good deacons in the wild: “Pastor, when eyeing future deacons, look for godly saints who see and meet needs discreetly (they don’t need or want credit), at their own expense (they sacrifice), and without being asked (they take the initiative to solve problems)” (76). These qualities prepare a man (or woman) to anticipate and heal cracks in the church by meeting practical needs.

Sincere Humility

First, good deacons serve discreetly because of their deep-seated humility. The public nature of preaching and teaching means pastors get greater amounts of attention and encouragement (and criticism, with it). Doing diaconal work well requires a kind of humility, ready to forfeit the attention and affirmation others may receive. By all means, we should regularly encourage our deacons, but the very nature of their ministry means that many will not see or fully appreciate what they do.

Generous Sacrifice

Second, good deacons are strangely quick to sacrifice. I say strangely because all Christians should be quick to sacrifice. To follow Jesus Christ at all is to lay down our lives and pick up a cross (Matthew 16:24). Deacons, however, are examples in cross-bearing. Sacrifice is not an occasional blip on the radar of their decisions, but woven deeply into their lifestyle. They rejoice to spend and be spent for the sake of others (2 Corinthians 12:15), and especially for the church (Galatians 6:10).

Creative Initiative

Third, good deacons are creative problem-solvers. They’re solution-initiators. While others in the church might walk past problems (or even fail to notice them), deacons are drawn to these opportunities. How might that need be met? What might resolve this tension? What would it take to repair that wall or appliance? What is keeping my pastors from their most important work? When they see something that needs to be done, deacons love to help see that it gets done. When possible, they resist the impulse to leave a need at someone else’s feet, and they’re especially sensitive to how much pastors already have on their plates.

Durable Happiness

Good deacons are humble, and sacrificial, and creatively constructive — and they’re also deeply happy. Their humility is a happy humility. Their sacrifices are glad sacrifices. Their initiative is not just willing, but cheerful and eager. They have found, like the Servant they follow, that joy not only fuels ministry to others, but blossoms from that ministry. Jesus, after all, was betrayed, mocked, beaten, and slaughtered “for the joy set before him” (Hebrews 12:2). Likewise, as 1 Timothy 3:13 promises, “Those who serve well as deacons gain a good standing for themselves and also great confidence in the faith that is in Christ Jesus.”

If there was a wedding, it had to be one of the most awkward ones in history.

Plenty of marriages begin blissfully and then crash into misery years in (maybe even months), but this was different. This marriage wasn’t destined for disaster; it was a tragedy before the dress touched the aisle. The whole town knew what kind of girl she was. Many of the men knew firsthand. As the groom said his vows, “I take you for better or worse . . .” the idea of worse, even at the altar, seemed like some dreadful understatement. And the idea of better, like some naive fantasy.

As he stood there, he knew exactly what he was getting into. He knew tears were waiting to be shed. He knew how many long nights he might sleep alone, wondering where she could be, whether she was safe, what man might be holding her in his arms. He knew the excruciating conversations he might have to have with their children. He knew — and yet he married her anyway. He took her to be his. Why?

The Lord said to Hosea, “Go, take to yourself a wife of whoredom and have children of whoredom, for the land commits great whoredom by forsaking the Lord.” So he went and took Gomer, the daughter of Diblaim. (Hosea 1:2–3)

Bitter Paradox

We don’t know whether Hosea and Gomer had a typical Hebrew ceremony, but their marriage would have received lots of attention. It was meant to. As the two became one, God was seizing the wandering eyes of his unfaithful people.

When God told Hosea to take this loose woman as his lawfully wedded wife, he was making a statement — a loud and offensive statement. “Why her, Lord?” Hosea might have rightly asked. “Because the land commits great whoredom by forsaking the Lord.” Their love toward me has grown cold and complacent, they take my grain and wine and protection for granted, and they’ve crawled into bed, again and again, with the gods of this world. Not just whoredom, but great whoredom. They worship passionately at the altars of carnal pleasure, of plenty, of comfort, of pride, and then dare to come home and offer me whatever little they have left.

And God had warned them. But they would not listen, so he painted them a picture instead — a dark, shameful, and painful picture. He planned a wedding no one would want to attend. He held up a mirror and made them want to look away. He sent Hosea to love and cherish Gomer, “a wife of whoredom.” A bride who could not be trusted. A bitter paradox.

The Kind of Whore He Loved

What made Gomer such a whore? We’re not told much, but we meet her through the adultery of God’s people.

Wayward Israel shows us that Gomer was the kind of woman who says, “I will go after my lovers, who give me my bread and my water, my wool and my flax, my oil and my drink” (Hosea 2:5). In other words, I’m not getting what I want at home, so I’ll look for a man who will give me what I want. She was the kind of woman who took what her husband provided and used it to attract and please other men (Hosea 2:8; see James 4:3). She was the kind of woman who gave other men credit for all her husband had done for her (Hosea 2:12). She was the kind of woman unworthy of a good man.

And yet he loved her. Hosea chose her, sought her, bought her, and loved her. “So I bought her for fifteen shekels of silver and a homer and a lethech of barley. And I said to her, ‘You must dwell as mine for many days. You shall not play the whore, or belong to another man; so will I also be to you’” (Hosea 3:2–3). Can you hear the sermon God had prepared? Israel, let me show you who you really are — and let me show you who I really am. If it were not for the devotion of Hosea, their marriage, like so many marriages, would have only preached worldliness, selfishness, and alienation. It may have painted sinful Israel well, but it would have been graffiti across the love of God.

The relentless love of a faithful husband, though, made the whore into an emblem of mercy, and their marriage into a miracle of grace.

Heaven’s Wedding Homily

Their wedding would have been jarring not mainly because of Gomer’s bruised and tattered history, but because of the strange and unexpected brightness in his eyes, eyes that were shadows of the loving eyes of heaven. Feel the sudden contrast halfway through these verses:

I will punish her for the feast days of the Baals     when she burned offerings to themand adorned herself with her ring and jewelry,     and went after her lovers     and forgot me, declares the Lord.

Therefore, behold, I will allure her,     and bring her into the wilderness,     and speak tenderly to her. (Hosea 2:13–14)

She dressed up for another man. She slid off the ring I bought for her. When she left, she walked right past our kids. And even when the other man would not have her, she chased him. She spent it all to have him. And she forgot me. Therefore . . . what? How would you finish that sentence in the wake of such betrayal?

“God wants the wife no man would want. He woos the woman most men would have deserted.”

Therefore, I will allure her. That’s the climax of this sermon called marriage: God wants the wife no man would want. After all she’s done to make him leave, his love burns warm. He woos the woman most men would have deserted. And he will have her, even though it will cost him in the worst way possible. One day soon, his Son would come and bear the name No Mercy (Hosea 1:6), so that we, the wife of whoredom, might be called beloved.

Scandal of Betrothal

As God watches the bride he saved out of slavery plunge herself into adultery, he knows full well he will one day bring her home. He promises to find her, rescue her, and woo her.

I will betroth you to me forever. I will betroth you to me in righteousness and in justice, in steadfast love and in mercy. I will betroth you to me in faithfulness. And you shall know the Lord. (Hosea 2:19–20)

He repeats himself three times because he knows how inconceivable, even scandalous this love would be: “I will betroth you. . . . I will betroth you. . . . I will betroth you. . . .” The repetition drives a stake of hope into all our fears that God might not forgive us. “I can forgive. . . . I will forgive. . . . I will love you as if you had never left.”

Notice he says, “I will betroth you,” not just, “I will take you back.” Ray Ortlund presses on the wonder of this love:

The mystery of grace revealed here is a promise of covenant renewal — although even the word renewal is weak, for this oracle promises not merely the reinvigoration of the old marriage but the creation of a new one. . . . The ugly past will be forgotten and they will start over again, as if nothing had ever gone wrong. (God’s Unfaithful Wife, 70)

The wife of whoredom was received like the epitome of purity — like the most desirable bride. The night of forgiveness and reconciliation was as a wedding night. No matter what she saw in the mirror, his eyes now told her she was new and irresistible, his “lily among brambles” (Song of Solomon 2:2). When Hosea went to the altar and resolved to delight in his adulterous wife, he preached a text that had not yet been written:

Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her, that he might sanctify her, having cleansed her by the washing of water with the word, so that he might present the church to himself in splendor, without spot or wrinkle or any such thing, that she might be holy and without blemish. (Ephesians 5:25–27)

Premarital Counseling of a Prophet

What might Hosea’s love for Gomer mean for marriages today? While we are not prophets commissioned to marry prostitutes, our marriages are prophetic in their own way.

Like Hosea’s countercultural love, every faithful Christian marriage resists and confronts a world in love with sin. Every loyal spouse is a foil for the ugliness and destructiveness of our mutiny against God — and a lighthouse alluring more sinners into his mercy. Every vow that holds, despite all the reasons to leave, tells someone that real Love exists, that forgiveness is possible, that there’s more to life than Satan can offer.

“Who might see your marriage and be shaken free from worldly and empty ways of living?”

We don’t know how many in Israel saw Hosea, realized the pitiful thinness of their earthly lives, and went deep with God again. Who might see your marriage and be shaken free from worldly and empty ways of living? Who might finally meet God because you stayed, loved, forgave, and pursued your spouse?

If Hosea and Gomer teach us anything about marriage, though, it’s that the love of God shines brightest through us when marriage is hardest. Can you bear to believe that? Happy, flourishing marriages may sing the gospel in big, bright major chords, but the minor chords of difficult and devoted marriages are often all the more arresting. Their beauty is haunting for being so much harder to explain.

The uniquely challenging aspects of our marriages really can become the greatest stages for true love — for displaying what it means to be chosen, forgiven, and treasured by God through Christ. This is the glory of the marriage covenant, and its beams are strongest when they shine through our marital weaknesses and struggles.

Complacency falls softly, even pleasantly, on a sleeping soul. It’s the secret to its appeal and power over us. The complacent crave comfort, quiet, ease — an inner life resembling a calm lake just after sunset. The birds have fled, the fish descended, the other animals have hidden themselves away for the night. Even the water stops to rest. Serene. Peaceful. Undisturbed.

Complacent people may still do a lot of things — just not what matters most, what requires more of us. Few of us, of course, think of ourselves as complacent. Life is “full” and “hard” and often overwhelming. But underneath there’s an eerie stillness — not the stillness of peace and security and joy, but of a spiritual stagnancy. Like a child in a car seat during rush hour, the harried rhythms of life slowly lull our souls to sleep.

The Bible stays closed for days at a time. Prayers are quicker and less frequent. We keep one eye on our email, our texts, our feed. Conversations linger near the surface and feel inconvenient. Excuses multiply for missing church. Needs around us go unnoticed. We go to sleep and wake up anxious and distracted, and we’re not sure why. The spiritual seas within us go from restless to sluggish to dormant.

Unless, of course, God lovingly sends a storm to awaken us:

Let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works. . . .

Provoking Good

The pastoral charge in Hebrews 10:24–25 can easily become so familiar that it’s no longer provocative. The storm it describes can begin to sound more and more like a gentle breeze.

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.

The Greek for “stir up” means “to provoke” or “to agitate.” The same word is used just one other time in the New Testament, and it’s used (surprisingly) to describe the “sharp disagreement” that arose between Paul and Barnabas over John Mark (Acts 15:39). There’s a kind of sharpness in the imagery. Shake one another, unsettle one another, upset one another — with a holy interruption — until love spills over and good works spring to life.

“Shake one another, unsettle one another, upset one another until love spills over and good works spring to life.”

Why reach for such strong language to describe ordinary life together in the church? Because, like any good preacher, the writer of Hebrews knows how easy it is for any of us to settle into lives of little love and few good works. He knows how deeply and regularly we need brotherly storms to keep our souls alert and alive to God.

First Step in Good Stirring

How do we send these brotherly storms in love? The first step in stirring one another up may be so obvious we miss it. It comes in the next verse: “not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some. . . .” The first step in stirring up one another is simply to see one another face to face — to consistently gather in the same place with the explicit purpose of enjoying and obeying Jesus.

Many of us tasted the painful absence of this over the last couple of years during lockdowns and social distancing. We tried hard to bridge the gap with technology, but we all felt its inadequacy. One of the many good lessons God was teaching us amid all the confusion, tension, loss, and heartache was that we need to be stirred, we need more than Zoom calls and livestreams, we need to meet. God has given presence a soul-stirring power that texts and screens cannot replace.

And yet some, then and now, neglect the gift and necessity of presence. Why had some made a habit of avoiding the gathering? The excuses may have been many and varied, but they likely shared a common root: some unrepentant sin (next verse, Hebrews 10:26). They knew deep down that sin went to church to die, and so they found ways to stay away from church. Maybe it was secret sexual sin. Maybe it was bitterness over past hurt. Maybe it was envy over another’s marriage, or children, or home, or success. Maybe it was an idol of me-time. First, they had a bad morning and missed worship once. Then a couple times in a month. Then most of a summer. Over time, absence was no longer an anomaly, but the norm. A habit.

“The storms we all need only come when we each keep investing what it costs to meet.”

The storms we all need only come when we each keep investing what it costs to meet. Week after week, we need to be awakened. We need to be reminded that God exists. We need to be reminded that he really came in the flesh, died a sinless death in our place, and three days later broke out of the grave. We need to be reminded that all the burdens and responsibilities that feel so heavy and demanding are small and light next to our coming reward. We need to be reminded that sin will ruin us. We need to be shaken free from the sleepy spiritual fog that so easily sets in. In other words, we really need to meet.

Love Prepared for Us

When we stir one another up to love and good works, we join God in something he has been conceiving over centuries. We’re being used by God to enact a plan he outlined before the world was born. “We are his workmanship,” the apostle Paul writes, “created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them” (Ephesians 2:10). Any good work we do today is a good work that God himself has prepared for us.

“God chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him” (Ephesians 1:4). And he knew precisely what shapes and colors that holiness would take. He knew and planned the details of our love, our patience, our kindness, our generosity and hospitality. The good steps we take, with his help, are steps he placed in front of us. Before God poured the Pacific Ocean, he had planned ways for us to step in and sacrifice ourselves for others. Before God laid out the sunflower fields in Italy, he had planted needs that we would uncover and meet. Before he formed the Himalayas or carved out the Grand Canyon, he had prepared fruitful conversations for us to have, even this week.

And we get to help one another walk into those good works, works written out for us, specifically for us, before we knew what one was. In fact, our stirring others up into this Christ-like love is one of the many good works God prepared for us beforehand.

Consider One Another

Perhaps the most overlooked dimension of the command to stir one another up, however, is how personal it is: “Let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works.” Literally, “one another” is the object of the verb consider: “Let us consider one another . . .” Provoking one another well begins with studying one another well. It means paying close enough attention to know each other’s particular abilities and plans, temptations and fears, challenges and opportunities. These are the kinds of questions we might regularly ask as we consider one another:

What strengths or abilities has God given you?
What specific callings has he placed on your life?
What other needs has God put around you?
Who, in particular, has he called you to love? And who do you struggle to love?
What are areas you excel in where I could affirm grace in you?
What are areas you struggle in where I could come alongside and encourage you?
What fears keep you from taking good risks and making sacrifices in love?
How might God use me to help you carry out the good works he’s planned for you?

Often, just asking good questions is enough to spark the right kind of awareness, selflessness, creativity, and love. And asked consistently enough by people who love us and know us well, they can serve as something of a spiritual alarm clock, calling us out of cycles of sleepiness.

So, who stirs your heart out of the soothing calm of complacency? Whose friendship awakens the right kind of conviction, ambition, and joy? And who might need you to be that loving storm for them?

Your home may be someone’s hallway out of hell. There’s a spiritual power that pulses through the floors and walls and furniture of a Christian home — a strong, even overpowering aroma, a wild and compelling story unfolding for anyone who comes close enough to hear. Beneath the dirty clothes, behind the unwashed dishes, just below the dusty surfaces, a glory hums and unsettles and woos. A 1,500-square-foot sermon.

When God saves us, he takes our ordinary homes and renovates them with purpose, love, and power. The place may have lain spiritually dormant for years, even decades — utterly dark and cold — but then a voice suddenly calls, “Let there be light.” The walls, the appliances, the paint colors might all look the same, but the home soon becomes almost unrecognizable. A flag has been planted, an address transfigured. And within these four walls, eternities are altered.

This phenomenon is the call and wonder of Christian hospitality.

Humanity and Home

Home has always been a vital part of being human. When God made man, he “planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and there he put the man whom he had formed” (Genesis 2:8). In other words, he gave the man a home.

And at the end of time, how will humans cross over into a new and renewed history? “Behold, the dwelling place of God” — his home — “is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God” (Revelation 21:3). The human story begins and ends in homes. We’re all born into a home, and we all live to find home. It’s no wonder, then, that so many find healing, forgiveness, redemption, and true life in a normal house filled with faith.

“Your home may become someone’s hallway out of hell.”

Rosaria Butterfield has captured such hospitality as well as anyone I know. “Radically ordinary hospitality is this: using your Christian home in a daily way that seeks to make strangers neighbors, and neighbors family of God” (The Gospel Comes with a House Key, 31). Have you ever thought about your home, your neighborhood, your schedule that way? Have you imagined your home as a hallway out of darkness and into Christ?

Hospitality to the Church

Effective hospitality to the lost, at least in Scripture, often begins with effective hospitality to the church. Much of what the New Testament has to say about hospitality is, first and foremost, about life together in the family of God — how well we welcome one another into our hearts and households (Romans 12:13). “Welcome one another,” the apostle Paul writes, “as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God” (Romans 15:7). Those who have been invited into heaven become people who love to open their front doors, especially to others who have already been welcomed home by God.

That the apostle needs to give the command, though, suggests that our welcoming, even within the church, won’t always feel warm and cozy. There are obstacles to hospitality, lots of them. Those obstacles are the context of Paul’s command to “welcome one another”: “We who are strong have an obligation to bear with the failings of the weak, and not to please ourselves” (Romans 15:1). Open homes invite the weak and often failing — the kinds of weaknesses that will inconvenience us, the kinds of failings that will disappoint and wound us. Faithful, consistent welcoming of one another will mean faithful, consistent bearing with one another.

“Those who have been invited into heaven become people who love to open their front doors.”

This patient and resilient love is actually the special ingredient in the recipe. It’s what makes ordinary Christian hospitality extraordinary — why the divine drama of the gospel seeps through everyday interactions and simple meals. Godless people don’t bear with one another, not for long. They get angry. They hold grudges. They grumble. Until God brings them home, and then makes their homes into a home for others.

In a world bereft of Christian hospitality and crowded with grumbling, Peter encourages the church, “Show hospitality to one another without grumbling” (1 Peter 4:9). Surprise your neighbors by regularly opening up your home, despite the costs that come with open doors. And then confound them by bearing those costs, again and again, without complaining. They’ve likely never met someone who rejoices to spend and be spent like this, who welcomes the discomforts of hospitality with a warm smile (and a fresh pot of coffee).

Front Door of Escape

This kind of hospitality within the church bears lots of good fruit, but one often overlooked is in the war against temptation. Butterfield presses on the sin-defying power of an open front door:

Consider with me the tension of 1 Corinthians 10:13: “No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.” This passage speaks to the intensity, the loneliness, and the danger of temptation. . . . Have you ever thought that you, your house, and your time are not your own but rather God’s ordained way of escape for someone? (109–10)

Ordinary hospitality undercuts Satan and his schemes in a hundred ways and more. Sin is horribly deceitful, and all the more so when we’re distant or disconnected from one another. A brief greeting in passing on Sunday probably isn’t penetrating through those lies. However, just an hour in your home might be enough to convince a brother or sister to say no (and keeping saying no) to sin.

Another conversation at your table or on your couch might be the spiritual escape route someone desperately needs.

Hospitality to the Dead

As we welcome one another within the church, the world will be drawn to this unworldly love. It’s happened since the first doors opened:

Day by day, attending the temple together and breaking bread in their homes, they received their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having favor with all the people. And the Lord added to their number day by day those who were being saved. (Acts 2:46–47)

The kind of community that practices hospitably is irresistible. Even just reading about the early church, and imagining what it was like, makes me want to join them — day-by-day friendship, familiar meals shared and enjoyed, prayers asked and answered, spontaneous singing, and sweetest of all, real people meeting and following Jesus for the first time. Strangers became neighbors, and neighbors became family, all because someone opened the front door.

As we begin to see our homes through God’s eyes and loosen our grips on our schedules, our budgets, and our possessions, we might begin to think of our homes as spiritual hallways — for fellow believers, out of sin and into deeper freedom and joy — and for not-yet believers, out of hell and into life.

Perhaps the word that finally draws someone out of sin, shame, and eternal destruction would simply be “Welcome.”

Let everything that has breath praise the Lord! Praise the Lord! (Psalm 150:6)

The first and last psalms tell us a great deal about what God wants us to see and hear in all the psalms. The first is quoted far more often than the last:

Blessed is the man     who walks not in the counsel of the wicked,nor stands in the way of sinners,     nor sits in the seat of scoffers;but his delight is in the law of the Lord,     and on his law he meditates day and night. (Psalm 1:1–2)

Psalm 1 tells us that the happiest and most fruitful people, anywhere on earth and at any point in history, will be those who delight most in the words of God. The words of this book — and every other book in the Bible — are meant to be read slowly, wrestled with, and savored. And not just for a few minutes each day, but throughout the day. The psalm is an invitation into the rich and rewarding life of meditation.

If the first psalm tells us how to hear from God, though, the last psalm tells us how to respond. Humble, wise, happy souls let God have the first word, but encountering him eventually draws words out of them. Like the disciples, we “cannot but speak of what we have seen and heard” (Acts 4:20). How does God bring 150 psalms to an end? With a clear charge and refrain: “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord! Praise the Lord!”

The Closing Psalm

Anyone can discern what the last psalm wants us to do in response to what God has said. All thirteen lines make the same point: “Praise the Lord!”

“God doesn’t minimize or neglect our suffering, but his goodness to us always outshines the trials he hands us.”

No matter where we are, and how bleak or difficult our life becomes, we always have reason to praise our God — to stop and worship him for who he is and what he is done. “Praise him for his mighty deeds; praise him according to his excellent greatness!” (Psalm 150:2). Our reasons for praising him — his mighty deeds and his glory over all — always eclipse and outweigh what we suffer, and all the more so now that Christ has come, died, and risen. God doesn’t minimize or neglect our suffering, but his goodness to us always outshines the trials he hands us. And so the psalmist can say to every one of us, at every moment of our lives, “Praise the Lord!”

The psalms, however, are not a simple chorus repeated over and over again, but a symphony, filled with as many experiences and emotions as humans endure and feel. The five books that make up Psalms really are a master class in human adversity.

Praise Through Heartache

When we think of the psalms, we might be tempted to think they’re simple, positive, and repetitive, but they give voice to the entire spectrum of sorrow and suffering.

Do you feel abandoned by God? The psalms know what you feel: “O Lord, why do you cast my soul away? Why do you hide your face from me?” (Psalm 88:14).

Is some fear threatening to consume you? The psalms know what you feel: “When I am afraid, I put my trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I shall not be afraid. What can flesh do to me?” (Psalm 56:3–4).

Has someone tried to make your life miserable? The psalms know what you feel: “More in number than the hairs of my head are those who hate me without cause; mighty are those who would destroy me, those who attack me with lies” (Psalm 69:4).

Do you need wisdom about a hard situation or decision? The psalms know what you feel: “Teach me, O Lord, the way of your statutes; and I will keep it to the end. Give me understanding, that I may keep your law and observe it with my whole heart” (Psalm 119:33–34).

Have you ever been betrayed by someone you love? The psalms know what you feel: “It is not an enemy who taunts me — then I could bear it; it is not an adversary who deals insolently with me — then I could hide from him. But it is you, a man, my equal, my companion, my familiar friend” (Psalm 55:12–13).

And through mountains and valleys, through trials and triumphs, through ecstasy and agony, we hear one common, beautiful thread: praise. In the throes of fear, praise. In the vulnerability of uncertainty, praise. In the darkness of doubt, praise. Even in the heartache of betrayal, praise. The praise doesn’t always sound the same, but we still hear it, in each and every circumstance. And so the book ends, after every high and every low, with a call: “Praise him. . . . Praise him. . . . Praise him.” Can you praise him where you are right now?

With Whatever You Have

We might be tempted to overlook the verses in Psalm 150:3–5:

Praise him with trumpet sound;     praise him with lute and harp!Praise him with tambourine and dance;     praise him with strings and pipe!Praise him with sounding cymbals;     praise him with loud clashing cymbals!

There aren’t as many lutes and harps and tambourines in most modern worship. The specific instruments are not the point, however. The point is that God deserves more than our words.

“The purpose of breathing is praise.”

He does deserve our words: “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord!” God made lungs and vocal cords and oxygen, ultimately, so that we could use them to worship him. The purpose of breathing is praise. But words fall short of his greatness. We feel this when we pray and sing, don’t we? It feels true, and yet so inadequate. We should feel that way. The inadequacy of our worship reminds us God is always better than we can grasp or express, and it drives us to find more creative ways to tell him so.

We might pick up a trumpet or lute or harp. We might shake a tambourine or break into dancing. We might slam a couple of cymbals together. Even more than instruments, though, we “present [our] bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is our spiritual worship” (Romans 12:1). We make praise with our lives — with our decisions, our conversations, our spending, our time.

So, in whatever circumstances God has given you, and with whatever energy and resources he has given you, praise the Lord for who he is and for all he’s done for you.

Nearly every time I drive over the I-35W bridge near downtown Minneapolis, I think about the day it collapsed. If I happen to forget, there are thirty-foot memorials at each end to remind me of what happened.

At 6:05 in the evening on Wednesday, August 1, 2007, in the heat of rush hour, the heavily trafficked four-lane steel bridge gave way and fell eighty feet into the Mississippi River. In all, 111 vehicles were damaged or worse, 98 people were treated at local hospitals, and 13 died. After months of investigation, it was determined that the gusset plates (small sheets of steel applied to joints or beams for reinforcement) had been a half-inch too thin.

The support beams under bridges are life-sustaining, death-defying realities that we almost never think about unless they fail. Just imagine how many people drove over the I-35 bridge that Tuesday, the day before it fell — on average, some 140,000 cars — and casually looked left or right to enjoy the view. Knowing, afterward, just how easily it might have been their car among the rubble, I’m sure they all felt (and continue to feel) the preciousness of good bridges and the pillars that support them.

In that way, my drives over the new I-35W bridge (likely one of the strongest, most-inspected bridges in the world) also help me feel the preciousness of the church. As the apostle Paul tells Timothy,

I am writing these things to you so that, if I delay, you may know how one ought to behave in the household of God, which is the church of the living God, a pillar and buttress of the truth. (1 Timothy 3:14–15)

Unlikely Pillar

Again, we probably don’t think enough about pillars (much less buttresses, for that matter) to see and feel the beauty of what God has said about the church when he calls her “a pillar and buttress of the truth.” Just one chapter earlier, Paul highlights the significance of the truth:

[God] desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth. For there is one God, and there is one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus, who gave himself as a ransom for all. (1 Timothy 2:4–6)

God wants men and women everywhere to hear, believe, and enjoy the truth — the truth about God, about grace, about the cross. And under that truth, he has placed a chosen pillar, a buttress he himself designed and constructed for this global and eternal purpose: the church.

“God intended, from the beginning, to make the weak and wandering church the stage for his divine homily.”

Could any pillar have been more precarious? Could God have made the gusset plates any thinner? When Paul wrote his letter to Timothy, the church was only decades old, and it was embattled on nearly every front. Fragile. Sinful. Divided. Persecuted. Afflicted. Far from the picture of a weight-bearing beam. And yet God saw a reliable, even unshakable pillar in her — because he had promised to establish and reinforce her. He intended, from the beginning, to make the weak and wandering church the stage for his divine homily.

To me, though I am the very least of all the saints, this grace was given, to preach to the Gentiles the unsearchable riches of Christ, and to bring to light for everyone what is the plan of the mystery hidden for ages in God, who created all things, so that through the church the manifold wisdom of God might now be made known to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly places. (Ephesians 3:8–10)

“Through the church.” God could have revealed his unsearchable wisdom, the riches of Christ, the mystery of the ages in any number of ways, but he chose to unveil the truth through the church. Throughout all generations, God has made the church — the wobbly, stumbling, spreading, and prevailing church — the keeper and messenger of the truth.

Straying Pillar

How strange and tragic is it, then, when the truth we’re meant to hold up and draw attention to begins to take a backseat in the church — when we start coming to church for reasons other than the truth? Even then, Paul knew this would happen, and so he warned Timothy in his next letter:

The time is coming when people will not endure sound teaching, but having itching ears they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own passions, and will turn away from listening to the truth and wander off into myths. (2 Timothy 4:3–4)

The ears were already itching in his day, and they certainly haven’t stopped in ours. Our society has only given us more ways than ever to have our itches scratched — books, podcasts, social media, YouTube, and more, all constantly vying for our attention and devotion. Has it ever been easier to accumulate teachers to suit our unique passions, lusts, and fears? Has it ever been easier to wander after whatever’s trending (and away from the truth)?

This puts significant pressure on church leaders to scratch the same itches — to build churches and plan services and develop programs that compete with what people love and follow online. For our part, we may start choosing (or leaving) churches based on the Sunday morning “experience,” rather than whether they preach, live, and love what God says. The demand for entertainment subtly slides from the screen to the pew, and truth moves from the center of our life together to the margins.

Remember, these pressures and temptations are not new. The apostle was already warning the church in the first century, nineteen centuries before the first iPhone. Satan has always warred to make the truth seem boring, inconvenient, secondary. He knows how much earthly and eternal good a truth-loving church can do — and how much damage one can do that neglects or compromises the truth.

Unshakable Pillar

So if the church wavers on or fades from the truth, will the truth fall? Certainly not. Social media and online entertainment habits may have distracted many of us from the church and the truth, but they are no serious threat to either.

Remember, God chose and constructed this pillar (not the poor engineers responsible for the I-35W bridge). And Jesus promises that nothing and no one will fell her, not even the unfaithfulness within her: “I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it” (Matthew 16:18). So how do we join him in guarding and uplifting her? How do we, in our individual local churches, act like the pillar that we are? We feast on what bores itching ears.

God gave Timothy the remedy: “I charge you in the presence of God and of Christ Jesus, who is to judge the living and the dead, and by his appearing and his kingdom: preach the word; be ready in season and out of season; reprove, rebuke, and exhort, with complete patience and teaching” (2 Timothy 4:1–2). What makes the church a pillar and buttress of the truth? She holds up and lives out what God has said — whatever God has said, however he has said it, whatever it means for us. J.I. Packer writes,

Doctrinal preaching certainly bores the hypocrites; but it is only doctrinal preaching that will save Christ’s sheep. The preacher’s job is to proclaim the faith, not to provide entertainment for unbelievers — in other words, to feed the sheep rather than amuse the goats. (A Quest for Godliness, 285)

Faithful churches seek the words of God like silver (Proverbs 2:4). We meditate on them day and night — not because we have to, but because his words are a river of nourishment, contentment, security, and joy (Psalm 1:2–3). Whatever happens around us, we stare through the truth — his truth — like a window, until we see our realities as he sees them.

Pillars in the Pews

God has made the church the pillar of truth. So does it serve that purpose in your life and in the life of your church?

“The pillar doesn’t rise or fall just with preachers, but with ordinary people in ordinary pews.”

If you’re not sure, you might begin by asking what drew you to your current church, and what keeps you there. Has your time in this church deepened your understanding and enjoyment of the word of God? Is it a church that loves to hear from God in the Bible, even when what he says is confusing, uncomfortable, or convicting? Do the gatherings gladly lead with the truth — or with music, humor, and an atmosphere that softens the harder edges of the truth? Does your church consistently shy away from beliefs and verses that the world hates — on sin and hell, on sexuality, marriage, and abortion, on race and justice, on the sovereignty of God and election, on the cross? Or does your church have a manifest and growing love for the truth?

And then, even more personally, how are you contributing to your church’s pillar-ness — or not? Are you a thin and unreliable gusset plate waiting to break, or do you intentionally devote yourself week in and week out to the truth? How are you currently seeking to grow in the grace and knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ (2 Peter 3:18)?

God strengthens the pillar of the Church by building and fortifying individual churches, and he strengthens individual churches by building and fortifying individual souls — souls like yours. He steeps each of us in truth — through his word and in fellowship with other truth-lovers — so that the church stands firm in every age and circumstance. The pillar doesn’t rise or fall just with preachers, but with ordinary people in ordinary pews filled and overflowing with the truth.