To the left of my desk is an original oil painting by an award-winning artist named Audrey Strandquist. Unless you live about an hour west of Minneapolis and are above the age of fifty, I doubt you’ve seen her work. Audrey was my wife’s maternal grandmother, and her awards were conferred mainly at regional fairs. She typically painted landscapes, but in the painting next to me, titled “Threshing” and dated August 8, 1940, she beautifully captured a portrait of her tall, strong 24-year-old soon-to-be farmer husband, Wally, standing next to a bin of freshly threshed grain. In the background is a field of mature corn. Audrey was 23 when she applied the oils to this old canvas.

Audrey passed away in October 1998, and Wally in April 2013. Both are buried a short distance from the farm they worked from the time they married well into their elder years, in a small cemetery next to the little evangelical country church they faithfully attended and served for most of their lives. They were what we might be tempted to call “ordinary folk.” But that would be a misnomer, an oxymoron of colossal proportions.

There actually exists no such thing: an ordinary human life. To think a life ordinary is to believe a delusion. It reveals the shameful fact that we can barely bear true beauty — we who tire quickly of sunsets, often curse the rain, find wind an inconvenience, and define boring as watching the grass grow. How strange that we find violent virtual deaths in our films more captivating than the gentle life that miraculously awakens when buried, pushes up through the dark soil, catches the sunlight for food, and grows into a brilliantly green brushstroke of beauty in the very real landscape art we view every day.

“As for man, his days are like grass” (Psalm 103:15). Perhaps that is why we find the lives of men boring and ordinary. Watching a man is like watching the grass grow.

Lives Like Grass

Wally and Audrey were like grass. But being farmers, they found the adventure of grass less boring than most of us. Year after year, in a choreographed dance of collaborative labors, they tilled the dark soil, buried the seeds, and watched the epic of nourishing life slowly unfold. They endured the suspense and sometimes the tragedies of storms, droughts, and pestilence. They knew that the flower of the field was both fiercely resilient and fearfully fragile.

Like the grass they so carefully tended, their lives were a portrait of unassuming beauty. In the landscape of reality, you likely wouldn’t notice them unless you took the time to look. Wally was strong yet gentle, and his voice was calm and soothing. Audrey was kind and encouraging, and the bounty of her dinner table was unsurpassed. They moved like the slow, steady rhythms of the seasons. They were human poetry in motion. But we frenetic twenty-first-century Westerners, who have largely lost the patience required for poetry, might call it slow motion.

“There actually exists no such thing: an ordinary human life. To think a life ordinary is to believe a delusion.”

With unpretentious drama, they both came to faith in the living Christ while young, being raised by faithful parents and in faithful church communities. They met, fell in love, got married, and then faithfully loved one another for more than half a century. That alone is a marvelous feat, given how many dangers, toils, and snares half a century brings to anyone. The lyrics of these living poems tell of how Wally patiently and tenderly cared for Audrey through the numerous health challenges she faced throughout her adulthood, and how both of them, in thousands of ways over many decades, served the saints of Oster Covenant Church.

But the most profound effect they had on me was how they faithfully raised a daughter who came to embrace the faith she saw them live out in the so-called ordinary ebb and flow of life, which of course is where all the truly epic events of life occur. They had no idea the priceless gift this would be to me since their daughter would become my godly mother-in-law — 48 years after Audrey put her brush to canvas on that hot, midsummer, threshing day.

The Grass Withers

Wally and Audrey were like grass. Grass might seem to grow slowly, but in reality, its poetic life is brief. Which is why this painting moves me deeply, this portrait of a hardworking young man crafted by his gifted, hardworking young soon-to-be wife, both in the flower of their youth. That was 84 years ago. The painting is still with us, but the mortal bodies of the artist and her subject are not.

These blades of the grass of God flourished in the morning, but in the evening, they faded and withered (Psalm 90:6). Scorching winds of disease eventually passed over Audrey and then Wally, and now they are gone (Psalm 103:16). Two more casualties of the curse. Another reminder of the ignoble prosaic ending to the poem so noble and full of wild glory that tongues of neither men nor angels can fully capture it: a human life. An ordinary human life.

All flesh is grass,     and all its beauty is like the flower of the field.The grass withers, the flower fades     when the breath of the Lord blows on it;     surely the people are grass.The grass withers, the flower fades,     but the word of our God will stand forever. (Isaiah 40:6–8)

Where Grass Withers No More

I was there on the mournfully joyful days when we sowed the perishable remains of that kind, encouraging, artistic woman, and then, fifteen years later, the remains of that gentle, down-to-earth man, like seeds, into the hallowed ground beside the meeting house of the church they loved.

But make no mistake: we indeed sowed them. For it is the core of the Christian hope, the hope Wally and Audrey treasured in their souls, that what is sown perishable will be raised imperishable, what is sown in weakness will be raised in power, what is sown natural will be raised spiritual (1 Corinthians 15:42–44). They died in the hope all believers share: that the Sun of righteousness, the bright Morning Star, will make it possible for us, even though we die, to live in the eternal morning where the grass of God withers no more (Malachi 4:2; John 11:25–26; Revelation 21:4; Revelation 22:16).

And a day is coming when we will know that the epic stories of these quiet, grass-like saints have always been far more thrilling than the best novels and the greatest films. We will marvel at our former dullness, having ever considered such lives ordinary.

Someday, the curse will be reversed, and we will not have the patience to watch the millisecond epics of cinematic mass murder that have captured the imagination of fallen man. We will not have the capacity to find such dim phantasmal shadows entertaining at all. Not when what is playing out before us in vibrant colors now inconceivable is the gloriously wild real story of everlasting grass that, having burst from the ground, is alive with the light of the undying Star.

Audio Transcript

We love to focus our attention here on the podcast on international missions. I know this is a high priority for you, Pastor John, which is evidenced in where you speak and invest your life. Everyone here at Desiring God has high respect for frontier missionaries laboring in the remotest parts of the world. So, how do global missions and the local church work together? That’s the question today. “Hello, Pastor John. My name is Jack, a seventeen-year-old high school student in the U.S. with a passion for world missions. My question is this: Given the recent decrease in long-term career missionaries, and recent increases in church support for short-term missions, who should the local church be partnering with today to promote biblical missions? In other words, what do you think is the best blueprint for biblical world missions in a local church today?”

I really want to speak to this question because I think God is doing something very unusual in our day with respect to frontier missions. And by frontier missions, I mean missionary efforts that attempt to get to places in peoples or language groups that don’t have any ordinary access to the gospel and don’t have any Christian churches that could build up such a movement of gospel spreading. Everywhere they look — everywhere the people in those groups look — they see unbelievers like themselves. And most likely, they’ll be born, they’ll live, they’ll die without ever knowing a Christian or hearing what God has done in Jesus to save sinners from destruction.

“God is doing something very unusual in our day with respect to frontier missions.”

It seems to me that God is awakening his people today in a fresh way to this unfinished mission Jesus gave us. It seems to me that, alongside historic mission agencies that have been doing great work for a long time — decades — God is raising up new conferences, new mission organizations, new online ministries, churches with the kind of biblical theology and ecclesiology and cultural strategies that are freshly empowering for advancing Christ’s global mission at the present time.

When I say biblical theology, I have in mind Reformed theology that puts a high premium on the sovereign grace of God in saving sinners who would never turn from their traditional religion to Christ apart from God’s work of unconditional, omnipotent regeneration. They must be born again. It’s a sovereign act of God. God is gloriously sufficient in his grace to save the hardest of sinners in another religion.

And when I say ecclesiology, I mean putting a high premium on planting healthy biblical churches among peoples of the world that can carry on the mission for decades, if needed, before Christ comes.

Five Assumptions for Missions

I’m going to mention a few of these newer works that I alluded to because I think that that’s what Jack is asking for. Where should we look for partnerships? But first, let me name some assumptions that I have in seeking to answer the question about long-term career missionaries compared to short-term missionaries. Five assumptions.

First, all human beings, apart from the saving grace of God in Christ, are under the just wrath of God and are perishing and will spend eternity in hell if they are not reached with the saving message of the gospel. That’s assumption one. It’s a massive assumption that gets minimized in so many kinds of churches and theologies that don’t like to talk about that truth.

Second, there is no other way for people to be rescued from the wrath of God than by the provision that he himself has made in sending his Son to bear the punishment of sinners and absorb the wrath of God and cover the guilt of the lost and free us for forgiveness and justification by faith alone in Jesus. There’s no other way for people to be saved than Jesus.

Third, therefore, they must hear the good news, and we must take it to them so that they can hear. We have news. I love this word news. It’s not first an ideology. It’s news — spectacular, breathtaking, glorious news about what God has done in his Son Jesus Christ in history to rescue sinners from all the peoples of the world. The task of missions is to take this news to all the unreached of the world — all the unreached peoples and languages of the world — whatever the cost. That’s number three.

Fourth, it is essential to the missionary task that biblical, worshiping, obedient, soul-winning, healthy churches be planted so that the ongoing Christian life can be lived out over the decades the way it’s described in the New Testament. And so, the work of evangelizing the local people group can be carried on even when the missionaries are not there anymore. Churches, that’s number four.

Fifth, translating the Bible into indigenous languages is crucial. If such churches — the ones that I just described — are going to flourish spiritually in the long run, we all know how precious and utterly crucial it is for growing in Christ that we immerse ourselves day by day in the Bible. That’s why the Bible is needed in the people’s heart language, wherever the mission goes.

Our Primary Task

Now, so much more could be said besides those five assumptions. But because of those alone, I would say short-term missions has a secondary place of value in recruiting, motivating, and supporting what is primary. But what is primary — the primary effort of the local church, the primary investment of our resources for missions, the primary challenge of the pulpit, the primary strategy for finishing the mission of Jesus — is to raise up, send, support, nurture, and hold the rope for career missionaries.

If churches are to be planted and the Bible is to be translated and an ongoing movement of evangelism is to be sustained, short-term missionaries are probably not the main means by which that’s going to happen.

Four Commendable Partners

So, Jack asks, “Who should we be partnering with?” Now, you’ve already heard where I’m coming from theologically, so that governs what I’m going to suggest here. And please understand that there are dozens of movements and agencies and ministries that are faithful and that can help you and your church become a launching pad for the kind of missionaries I’m talking about. But I would mention, I think, four particular agencies or groups that you should pay attention to.

“The task of missions is to take this news to all the unreached of the world, whatever the cost.”

First, Reaching & Teaching International Ministries is a sending agency that shares these convictions.

Second, Radius International. It’s not a sending agency but a remarkable training organization preparing the kind of missionaries I’m talking about.

Third, Radical, the ministry of David Platt, which waves the banner for the unreached of the world, and teaches and inspires and trains for the sake of sustainable, radical commitment to planting the church globally.

Fourth, two conferences: The Missionary Conference this fall in Jacksonville, on October 16–18, 2024. And the CROSS Conference, a missionary conference for 18- to 25-year-olds in Louisville, on January 2–4, 2025. I’m going to be at both of those conferences. And I would love to see you, Jack, and lots of others of you who are listening at those conferences.

God is up to something amazing in our day. It’s thrilling to be a part of it.

Although Jesus was not the first to use parables in his teaching, his extensive use of them was a distinct feature of his teaching style. But why? Some suggest that he simply harnessed the power of story to enhance his teaching. But Jesus himself explains why he used parables, and he grounds his explanation in a network of Old Testament texts, with Isaiah 6:9–10 as the star of the show.

Grasping Jesus’s purpose provides valuable lessons for our understanding and proclamation of the gospel.

Lest They Turn

Jesus’s explanation for why he teaches in parables is embedded within the parable of the sower and soils. (Although this parable is recorded in all three Synoptic Gospels, we will focus on Matthew’s version.)

The parable comes at the beginning of an extended section of parables focused on the nature of God’s kingdom (Matthew 13:1–52). After Jesus tells the crowd the parable of the sower (Matthew 13:1–9), the disciples ask him privately why he speaks to the crowds in parables (Matthew 13:10). Jesus responds by highlighting their privileged position as disciples: God has chosen to reveal the secrets of the kingdom to them (Matthew 13:11–12, alluding to “mystery” language used in Daniel). He then directly answers their question:

This is why I speak to them in parables, because seeing they do not see, and hearing they do not hear, nor do they understand. Indeed, in their case the prophecy of Isaiah is fulfilled that says: “You will indeed hear but never understand, and you will indeed see but never perceive.” For this people’s heart has grown dull, and with their ears they can barely hear, and their eyes they have closed, lest they should see with their eyes and hear with their ears and understand with their heart and turn, and I would heal them. (Matthew 13:13–15, citing Isaiah 6:9–10)

Jesus’s statement that he teaches in parables alludes to Psalm 78:2 (which Matthew cites explicitly in Matthew 13:35), but the sensory malfunction language (ears that do not hear, eyes that do not see, hearts and minds that are dull) anticipates the quote from Isaiah 6:9–10. Why does Jesus turn here to explain his purpose to the disciples?

Unseeing Eyes, Unhearing Ears

In its original context, Isaiah 6:9–10 is part of God’s commission to Isaiah as a prophet. In response to seeing Yahweh exalted on his throne, Isaiah responds to Yahweh’s question, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” with an emphatic, “Here I am! Send me” (Isaiah 6:1–8). Verses 9–10 then give the content of Isaiah’s message to rebellious Israel. God commissions him to denounce their spiritual deafness, blindness, and hardness of heart — the realities that keep Israel from responding to God’s call to repentance and restoration.

This was not a new response for Israel. It had been this way since Moses’s day, who used similar sensory malfunction language to describe Israel (Deuteronomy 29:2–4). Elsewhere, Scripture connects this sensory malfunction language to the effects of idolatry. Those who worship idols become like them, having eyes that cannot see, ears that cannot hear, and hearts that do not understand (Isaiah 44:9–20; Psalm 115:3–8).

“The parables are more like thermometers than thermostats; they reveal a person’s spiritual condition.”

But when Jesus cites Isaiah 6:9–10 and applies it to the listening crowds, he is doing more than simply identifying a recurring pattern in redemptive history. Notice that Jesus introduces the words of Isaiah 6:9–10 by saying, “Indeed, in their case the prophecy of Isaiah is fulfilled” (Matthew 13:14). The sensory malfunction and hardness of heart directed toward Jesus is the culmination of that pattern. The climactic nature of God’s revelation of himself in Jesus leads to a heightened level of sensory malfunction and hardness of heart that fills up the significance of previous occurrences of this pattern.

Wrapping Pearls in Parables

Jesus teaches in parables in order to expose a person’s spiritual condition. The parables are more like thermometers than thermostats; they reveal a person’s spiritual condition more than they determine it. That is why Jesus repeatedly says, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear” (Matthew 11:15; 13:9, 43). Those who have been made spiritually alive and are now able to hear the voice of the Son of God (John 5:25–26) must respond by obeying Jesus’s word. They must be not merely hearers of the word, but doers (James 1:22).

By contrast, the parables further harden those whose spiritual eyes, ears, hearts, and minds have malfunctioned because of their idolatrous rebellion against God. “For those without ears to hear, parables seem to conceal more than they reveal, so that superficial hearing and seeing do not lead to true spiritual understanding or perception,” Craig Blomberg writes (Commentary on the New Testament Use of the Old Testament, 46). The parables are thus a way of speaking the good news of the kingdom to the crowds while at the same time not casting pearls before swine (Matthew 7:6). As D.A. Carson puts it, Jesus teaches in parables “in such a way as to harden and reject those who are hard of heart and to enlighten — often with further explanation — his disciples” (Matthew, 309).

John also uses Isaiah to explain the people’s rejection of Jesus (John 12:36–43). Despite all the signs Jesus did, they did not — in fact, could not — believe in him, which fulfilled the words of Isaiah 53:1. Indeed, the reason they could not believe in him is explained by a citation of Isaiah 6:9–10. After quoting the prophet, John explains that “Isaiah said these things because he saw his [Jesus’s] glory and spoke of him” (John 12:41). In other words, the exalted Lord whom Isaiah saw sitting on the throne of heaven was none other than Christ himself (Isaiah 6:1–5). Thus, Isaiah foretold the rejection of Jesus nearly seven hundred years before he was born.

Simply put, Jesus teaches in parables to demonstrate the need for divine revelation to understand the mysteries of the kingdom and to reveal the spiritual condition of his listeners. Both of these realities are grounded in his understanding of Isaiah 6:9–10.

Eye-Opening God

The way that Jesus and the New Testament authors use Isaiah 6:9–10 teaches us at least three important lessons.

First, the gospel was hidden in plain sight in the Old Testament but is now revealed through the person and work of Jesus Christ. On the one hand, the New Testament makes it clear that the good news of Jesus Christ is the fulfillment of the Old Testament hope. At the same time, the way that Christ fulfills the Old Testament hope is unexpected in many respects.

Second, God must open a person’s spiritual senses to rightly perceive the gospel. By fallen nature, we come into this world as spiritually dead sinners with hearts of stone (Ephesians 2:1–3; Ezekiel 36:26). Apart from God’s Spirit making us spiritually alive (Ephesians 2:4–6), giving us eyes to see (2 Corinthians 4:6) and hearts that are responsive to God (Ezekiel 36:26–27), no one ever comes to faith in Christ. If we trust in Jesus, our hearts should be filled with gratitude that God has opened our eyes to see the beauty of Christ, because none of us deserves such a privilege. There is no room for arrogance in the kingdom. No one comes to know Christ because he is smarter or wiser than others. As believers, we should marvel at the fact that God has opened our eyes to see “the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ” (2 Corinthians 4:6).

Finally, truly understanding these realities will make us people of prayer. All our efforts to share the gospel with others should be bathed in prayer. Learning how to respond to common questions about Jesus, the Bible, and Christianity is wise, but our ability to explain and defend the gospel is not what enables people to repent and believe in Jesus. This truth frees us from the anxiety that comes from thinking a person’s response to the gospel depends on how well we communicate.

Instead, we can confidently pray for God to do what only he can do. We can pray that, as he did with Lydia (Acts 16:14–15), God would open our hearers’ eyes to see the beauty of Christ, open their ears to hear the good news, and replace their heart of stone with a heart of flesh that responds to God in faith and obedience.

One of the reasons that we love Jesus is his paradoxes.

In Jesus in particular, we see realities come together that our human instincts do not expect to be together, and then we see, with surprise and delight, that they do indeed fit together, contrary to our assumptions — and it makes our souls soar with joy.

The beautiful paradoxes of Christ expose our false and weak and small expectations. They remind us that we did not design this world. We do not run this world. And we did not design God’s rescue of us. And we cannot save ourselves, but God can — and does, in the Word made flesh.

As Christians, we confess that Jesus is Lord. That is, he is fully God. He is the towering, all-knowing, all-wise, all-powerful God. As God, he formed and made all things, and every knee will bow, and every tongue confess, that Jesus is Yahweh — the sacred old-covenant name of God revealed in Exodus. Jesus is creator, sustainer, supreme Lord of heaven and earth, almighty in power, infinite in majesty, our Lord and our God.

And we confess that Jesus is our Savior. Without ceasing to be God, Jesus took our full humanity: flesh and blood, human body and reasoning soul, with human mind and emotions and will, and with all our lowliness and ordinariness. Jesus had a normal Hebrew name: Yeshua, Joshua. In the incarnation, he added to his eternal divine person a full and complete human nature and came among us, as one of us, to save us.

So, Jesus is glorious as sovereign Lord, and Jesus is glorious as our rescuing, self-sacrificing Savior. And we come to Revelation 5 to linger in the paradox and beauty of majesty and meekness, of might and mercy, of grandeur and gentleness, in this one spectacular person.

Our Longings Met in Jesus

In verse 1, the apostle John looks and sees — in the right hand of God, the one seated on heaven’s throne — “a scroll written within and on the back, sealed with seven seals.” These are the eternal and hidden purposes of God to be unfolded in history, the mystery of his manifold wisdom to be revealed in the fullness of time, judgments against his enemies and salvation for his people in the coming chapters of Revelation. Centuries before, God had said to his prophet (in Daniel 12:4), “Shut up the words and seal the book, until the time of the end.” Now the sealed scroll is in the hand of God, in full view of all of heaven, ready to be unsealed.

John is riveted. He wants to know what’s in the scroll. What mysteries does God have to reveal? What wisdom of God, what purposes for history, might now be made known in this scroll? Then John hears in verse 2 “a mighty angel proclaiming with a loud voice, ‘Who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seals?’”

Now, at this point, it might be tempting to run right through verses 3 and 4 and miss the weight of this moment in heaven. Not so fast. This is what the seasons of Advent and Lent are for: to slow down and feel the weight in the waiting. Instead of racing ahead to Christmas, or Easter, we prepare our hearts by pausing to feel some of the ache of what God’s people felt for centuries as they waited for the promised Messiah. Or the horror and utter devastation of what his disciples felt in the agony of Good Friday and in what must have seemed like the longest day in the history of the world on Holy Saturday. The pause, the waiting, helps us see and enjoy the risen Christ as the supreme Treasure he is.

So, the angel asks, “Who is worthy to open the book?” And verse 3 says, “No one in heaven or on earth or under the earth was able to open the scroll or to look into it.” No one in heaven. None of the four great creatures around the throne. None of the angelic elders who lead in worship. None of the angels, in all the heavenly host. Not Gabriel. Not Michael. And get this: not even the one sitting on the throne opens the scroll. Not the Father. Not the Spirit. So, heaven waits.

And if no one in heaven, then of course no one on the earth or under the earth. None living or dead is worthy to open God’s scroll. Mere humans like us are not worthy to unveil his great mystery. And so, heaven waits. “No one in heaven or on earth or under the earth was able to open the scroll or to look into it.”

Weep No More

John begins to weep, loudly. Perhaps he even wonders, What about Jesus? Verse 4: “I began to weep loudly because no one was found worthy to open the scroll or to look into it.” John doesn’t tell us how long he wept, but mercifully, the announcement soon came.

In verse 5 — what an amazing moment — one of the elders turns to John and says,

Weep no more; behold, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered, so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals.

So, now through the lens of verses 5–6, let’s look together at three aspects of the longing and aches of our souls fulfilled in Jesus, our Treasure.

1. We long for majesty and might.

We long to see and admire and benefit from greatness. And the voice rings out in verse 5, “Behold, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered.”

“Lion of Judah” signifies that this is the long-promised king of Israel, the Messiah. In Genesis 49, as the patriarch Jacob neared death, he prophesied over each of his twelve sons, and said to Judah that his tribe would produce the nation’s kings:

Judah, your brothers shall praise you. . . . Judah is a lion’s cub; from the prey, my son, you have gone up. He stooped down; he crouched as a lion. . . . The scepter shall not depart from Judah, nor the ruler’s staff from between his feet, until tribute comes to him; and to him shall be the obedience of the peoples. (Genesis 49:8–10)

Like a lion, Judah’s offspring will rule the peoples. Lionlike he will be king, with majesty and might.

“Root of David” is much the same, prophesied centuries later, in Isaiah 11:1: “There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse [David’s father], and a branch from his roots shall bear fruit.”

So, Jesus is first shown to be majestic and mighty. He is king, ruler, the Lion. He is sovereign, and fulfills our longings for greatness, for a ruler strong and mighty to impress us with power and win our trust and protect us and provide for us and give us life.

But we long not only for a great human king. We long for God himself. And this Lion of Judah is not just Messiah, a human king. He is God himself.

Blaise Pascal (1623–1662) famously spoke of the “infinite abyss” in every human soul. We try to fill it with all the wonders and the worst this world has to offer — food, drink, luxuries, work, relationships, sports and championships, learning, children, and so much more. But that ache in us, that restlessness, that infinite abyss in us, can only be filled by the infinite God himself. As Augustine so memorably said, God made us for himself, and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in him.

“When majesty and meekness come together in one person, they accent each other. They burst with beauty.”

So, I ask you this morning: Have you found your soul’s rest in God? Have you found what your soul hungers for in his eternal, divine excellencies? Are you still searching? Are you still thirsty? Have you found the One in whom your soul, in all the ups and downs of this life, will be satisfied forever? Or perhaps, did you learn it in the past, but you now desperately need to come back to it? Behold the Lion of Judah.

God wired your soul for him. Hard as you may try, you will not be truly, deeply, enduringly happy apart from him.

We long for majesty and might, and Jesus is the Lion.

2. We long for meekness and nearness.

Look at verse 6. Having just heard with his ear the announcement in verse 5 about the worthiness of the Lion, John turns, and what does he see with his eyes?

Between the throne and the four living creatures and among the elders I saw a Lamb standing, as though it had been slain.

In verse 5, John hears Lion, but in verse 6, John sees Lamb. And this is no disappointment. This is not a loss. This is gain. This is addition, not subtraction.

Jesus is the Lion of Judah, and no less, but he is also the slain Lamb. The Lion became Lamb, and gave himself to slaughter at the cross that he might rescue his people from their sins. His lamb-ness doesn’t take away from his lion-ness; it adds to it.

Jesus is not only majestic and mighty. He is meek and near, lowly, among us, as one of us. We not only want to see greatness from afar; we long to know greatness personally. We not only want a hero to admire. We ache for a brother to be at our side, a companion, a friend. And Jesus, as Lamb, is Immanuel, God with us. With us as one of us. With us to sacrifice himself for us. With us to shed his own blood that our sins might be covered and we might be forgiven. With us to befriend us and defend us.

God designed our souls not only for his greatness, but also his nearness and his meekness.

You might ask, If Jesus is God, and has been from eternity, what does his humanity have to add to his being our Treasure? His divine excellencies are infinite. Yet we are human, and his becoming human exposes to our view glories we otherwise would not see. This is why we love the beautiful paradoxes of Jesus. His paradoxes don’t take away from his glory; they add to it — and give him distinct glory.

In 1734, Jonathan Edwards preached a famous sermon on “The Excellency of Christ.” In it, he says,

Christ has no more excellency in his person, since his incarnation, than he had before; for divine excellency is infinite, and cannot be added to. Yet his human excellencies are additional manifestations of his glory and excellency to us, and are additional recommendations of him to our esteem and love, who are of finite comprehension. . . . The glory of Christ in . . . his human nature, appears to us in excellencies that are of our own [human] kind, and are exercised in our own way and manner, and so, in some respect, are peculiarly fitted to invite our acquaintance and draw our affection. (emphasis added)

So, the Lion, in becoming Lamb — the eternal Son in becoming man — while not enhancing his divine worth, became an even greater Treasure to us, who long for meekness and nearness, for a brother and friend.

3. In Jesus, we have it all in one person.

It is one thing to see and enjoy the divine excellencies of unmatched strength and knowledge. And another to see and enjoy the human excellencies of humility and friendship. And then greatest of all is to see and enjoy the full range of divine and human excellencies in one person. Because when majesty and meekness come together in one person, they accent each other. They burst with beauty. As Edwards says, they “set off and recommend each other.”

We see it first in verse 6: John says he “saw a Lamb standing, as though it had been slain, with seven horns and with seven eyes.” This Lamb is not dead. He is not slumped over. He is not kneeling. He is standing, alive and ready. And he has seven horns — signifying the fullness of his strength and power. And seven eyes, meaning he sees and rules all. Nothing is hidden from him. That he is Lamb makes his lionlike work all the more glorious.

For the rest of Revelation, Lamb will be the main title for Jesus, as he displays his power and strength again and again. Here’s just a sample:

We’re told it is the Lamb who has conquered to open the scroll and seals (5:5; 6:1; 8:1).
The lowly Lamb ransomed people for God from every tribe (5:9).
This humble Lamb is declared worthy to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing (5:12–13).
The four living creatures and the angels of heaven fall down and worship the Lamb (5:8, 14).
Unbelievers tremble before the wrath of the Lamb (6:16).
The robes of the saints are made white in his blood, with the forgiving power of the Lamb (7:14).
The accuser of the brothers is conquered by the blood of the Lamb (12:11).
And this Lamb, in all his meekness, is seated on the throne of heaven (7:9, 10) and in the midst of the throne (22:1, 3).

And we not only admire the Lamb for his lionlike strength and power, but also the Lion for his lamblike gentleness and grace. He gives his own neck for our rescue.

We admire his greatness all the more in his nearness to us. And we enjoy his nearness all the more because of his greatness. Because he is the Lamb, and has drawn near to save us, we can enjoy his lionlike majesty and holiness without shaking in terror. And because he is the Lion, and wields the very power of God almighty, we can enjoy his lamblike humility and meekness and obedience to his Father — as man — without our worrying that he’s powerless to help his friends and brothers.

So, God designed our souls for Jesus. Not just a divine Father, and not just a human friend, but God himself in human flesh, fully God and fully man, in one spectacular person.

He is not only our Lord. And not only our Savior. He is our Treasure. He is the Pearl of Greatest Price. He is the one of surpassing value, for whom we consider all else loss. He is the Treasure hidden in the field worthy of selling all to have. Eternal life is to know him, the one true God, and Jesus Christ whom he has sent (John 17:3).

You were made not only for God, but for the God-man, for Jesus, who loved us and gave himself up for us and rose again to be our living, knowable, enjoyable King.

Do you ever feel too small for God, as though your worries don’t deserve his attention? As though he has more important things to do than tend to that tricky relationship, those hidden regrets, that dwindling bank account? If you’re tempted to believe such lies, consider an overlooked story in 2 Kings 6 — a story of small people, small problems, and a small miracle that can transform our understanding of God.

Small People

The story that comes just before this one is about a great man, a highflier, a Very Important Person: Naaman, the commander of Syria’s army (2 Kings 5). And the passage that immediately follows is about an even more important person: Naaman’s boss, the king of Syria himself (2 Kings 6:8–33). Both men have corner offices, fly first class, and live in gated communities. They’re big deals.

But not the people in this story. They’re referred to as “the sons of the prophets,” a group gathered around a prophet such as Elisha, learning from him and serving him. These are the guys who work in a cubicle, fly economy, and live where the houses are small and close together. They’re not famous or important — in fact, we’re not even told their names.

And yet this passage tells their story. In between the internationally significant narratives of a great military leader and a famous political leader is an episode about no-names involved in a purely local affair. This surprising interest in small people seems to have been a recurring feature of Elisha’s ministry (see the stories in 2 Kings 4). It’s also a hallmark of the larger biblical story (notice, for example, the focus on unnamed minor characters throughout the Gospel of Mark).

What’s more, the Bible doesn’t just show an interest in small people for whom things are going well — people who might be a net gain, even in their own small way. Rather, it demonstrates genuine care for small people with problems. That’s certainly the case for the sons of the prophets in 2 Kings 6. In fact, they have two problems.

Small Problems

The first problem is a housing issue. “Now the sons of the prophets said to Elisha, ‘See, the place where we dwell under your charge is too small for us’” (2 Kings 6:1). I get this. Several years ago, with our kids getting older, our house felt cramped, so we moved to a larger one. I wouldn’t deem our housing needs worthy of inclusion in Holy Scripture. Maybe the sons of the prophets felt similarly. But here’s their story — in the Bible. Apparently, the small problems of small people matter to God.

In this case, the sons of the prophets come to Elisha not just with a problem, but with a proposed solution. “‘Let us go to the Jordan and each of us get there a log, and let us make a place for us to dwell there.’ And he answered, ‘Go’” (2 Kings 6:2). Sometimes God meets our needs through miraculous means (he’ll do that in this very story). Other times he helps us through our own activity. Elisha doesn’t make a new house appear out of thin air. Instead, the sons of the prophets mount a logging expedition and build a house.

God often works this way. According to Jesus, God feeds the birds of the air — but as one of my seminary professors used to say, you don’t see birds lying on their backs, waiting for God to drop worms into their beaks. He feeds them through their own worm-finding efforts. Yes, God can provide manna from heaven and bread by raven (1 Kings 17:3–6), but his normal means of provision is our own hard work (2 Thessalonians 3:10).

“Ask God for his help. Give him your burden. Surrender your problem. He wants you to ask.”

The second problem involves a lost axe head. “But as one was felling a log, his axe head fell into the water, and he cried out, ‘Alas, my master! It was borrowed’” (2 Kings 6:5). Of course, this is a tiny issue in the grand sweep of things. But when a problem happens to us, we don’t feel that way about it. When it’s our injured leg, our dented car, our negative job review, our extended sickness, the comparatively small problem can feel big. The unnamed man in verse 5 “cried out” — a term connoting real distress. He cries out, “Alas!” He can’t afford to replace that borrowed axe head.

Yes, it’s a relatively small problem — but not to him. Will God even notice? Look what happens next.

Small Miracle

“Then the man of God said, ‘Where did it fall?’ When he showed him the place, he cut off a stick and threw it in there and made the iron float. And he said, ‘Take it up.’ So he reached out his hand and took it” (2 Kings 6:6–7). The description of Elisha as “the man of God” reminds us that Elisha, though a prophet, is a man. He needs to ask where the axe head fell (apparently, the miracle doesn’t include actually locating it!). But the term “man of God” also reminds us that Elisha represents God, speaks for God, does miracles by the power of God. God himself, in the person of his prophet, is involved in this small miracle.

Elisha throws a stick into the water; the axe head floats. We’re not told why a stick is used, but this is undoubtedly a miracle. Iron doesn’t float. As miracles go, it’s a small one. No one is raised from the dead. The fate of a nation doesn’t hang in the balance. There are few witnesses. Even the ending of the story is undramatic. “And he said, ‘Take it up.’ So he reached out his hand and took it.” That’s it. End of story.

So, here’s a summary of this little story: Some small people have a couple of small problems, and God meets their needs — in one case through their own planning and effort, and in the other through a small miracle. Maybe the story doesn’t seem all that important, yet I’m glad it’s in the Bible. It demonstrates that God cares about us and our everyday problems. He acts on our behalf. If we’re attentive, we’ll see that in our own lives.

No Prayer Too Small

I’ve seen God act this way in my own life. I’m a pastor, and a few years ago, I agreed to lead a graveside service for the deceased brother of a friend who lives in town. My friend isn’t a follower of Jesus, so this seemed like a great opportunity to serve him and deepen our friendship. The service was scheduled for 1:00, but somehow, I got it into my head that it began at 1:30. That day, I drove to the cemetery and arrived at about 1:20, thinking I was early. But as I walked toward the grave, I saw many cars and a crowd of people. I looked at my notes, discovered I was in fact twenty minutes late, and felt sick to my stomach.

Surprisingly, though, as I neared the grave, I saw pallbearers pulling a coffin out of a hearse and carrying it toward the grave. My friend greeted me and told me what had happened. An out-of-town funeral home had driven the coffin to the wrong cemetery in our town. A grave had been dug at that cemetery for a different funeral the same day, and they had lowered the coffin into that grave. It took time to discover the error, get the coffin out of the grave and back into the hearse, and drive it to the right place. In fact, it took them twenty minutes. Which meant I arrived right on time. I believe that was the work of God. He knew every little detail, cared for me, and prevented an unintentional offense against my friend. God did a small miracle for a small person (me).

Psalm 147:3–4 says that God “heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. He determines the number of the stars; he gives to all of them their names.” God does big things (like creating and naming the stars) and little things (like binding up the wounds of sad people). So, here’s an invitation: Ask God for his help. Give him your burden. Surrender your problem. He wants you to ask. He sees and cares, no matter how humble and hidden the issue. God took on flesh and came to earth as a tiny, fragile, helpless baby born to a manual laborer. By doing so, he was saying, loud and clear, “I care about small people. I was one myself.” Let’s bring our problems, big and small, to him.

The sky was the kind of blue if blue could burn, blue on fire, lit by the sun blazing high above the hills in winter on a morning when there are no clouds. A sky like that makes it easier for a soldier to die. It’s the last thing he sees, and there is comfort in knowing some things will live forever. (The Well-Spoken Thesaurus, 16)

Have you ever seen a sky like this? A sky ablaze and serene, reaching down to dying men with the warmth of a mother’s arms or the caress of a wife’s hand? This sky, burning blue, eases the soldier’s passing. He is dying — he knows the wound. Among thoughts of loves lost, future days unlived, last words never spoken, he gazes up, and there, a painting more beautiful than he ever remembers. What a Sistine Chapel to canvas this theater of war — unsmeared, unshot. Beauty amidst death. Loveliness amidst terror. A flower sprouts in a bloody field. As his eyes begin to stare beyond this world, he almost smiles.

A sky like that makes it easier for a soldier to die.

This world has many such skies, skies (figuratively speaking) that make it easier for us to face death. They seem to say, in their own way, Everything is going to be alright. But earth’s burning skies do not always (or even often) tell the truth. As much as they may quiet the conscience at the end of a life we thought well-lived, we may still, in fact, be unprepared to die. Then, such skies deceive like a decorated hallway on our way to a place we never meant to go. Men, women, and children have slipped into death with a degree of consolation, only to awake in confusion. They died under the comfort of a burning blue sky that gave way to a living nightmare.

If our soldier could have heard the speech of the sky that day, he would have heard a fiery sermon about the glory of God (Psalm 19:1). A sermon rebuking his thankless and dishonoring life toward his Creator (Romans 1:20–21). A sermon pleading with him to turn from sin to a faithful God who remembers his own with mercy (Jeremiah 31:34–37). The sky burned blue-faced, yes, with earnest appeals: “Confess your sins; look to the perfect sacrifice — Jesus Christ — who died under a skyless night that sinners might wake to eternal Day. Trust in him completely, before you lose your soul forever!”

Earth’s Best Skies

Reader, do you know what sky would ease your death, if death came sooner rather than later? Is it trustworthy? Let us turn our gaze to some of the most vivid skies earth contains, skies that, apart from Christ, will cheat us in the end — the true, the good, the beautiful. These firmaments put man in touch with something beyond himself. Yet we can die beneath these heavenlies without being welcomed into heaven.

The True

Many men have died under the serene skies of a thoughtful life. They have wondered and thus wandered beyond the maze of carnal stupidity. They will not die as a cow eating grass. They are men, not beasts. They agree that the unexamined life is not worth living. They believe in true and false; they believe in logic and mathematics and science and philosophy, and even that a higher power must reign above.

Such men ask hard questions and cannot be satisfied with shallow answers. They read and listen and converse and challenge and will follow where the evidence leads. They think and test their thoughts. What they believe, they know, and what they know can correspond very well with God’s reality. They answer some questions correctly. They do not bow to Jesus as the Truth — they too have exchanged the truth about God for a lie, and for this they shall perish — but they stand more approximate to truth than their unthinking, unserious, uninterested, and easily distractable peers. To trap them, Satan must at least use the good cheese.

When they come to die, they recognize that they die in a nest perched on a higher branch. They have read better books, dined on better thoughts, lived more efficiently, productively, rationally, humanely. Worldly wisdom, perhaps, but better than worldly idiocy. They die under a sky of thought, yet never fearing the happy prayer of Jesus:

I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to little children; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will. (Luke 10:21)

The Good

Another brilliant sky is the virtuous one. The great Village of Morality boasts the most captivating atmospheres for sons of Adam to die beneath. Creeds and religions of all sorts coexist under these colors and pat themselves on the back till death.

These feed the conscience memories of goodness, offer their doubts the wine of good works — You weren’t perfect, but you did your best. They despised the pellets and dirty water left in the hamster wheel; they never ran after those lusts. They have learned some version of decency, civility, discipline, which, at points, overlapped with the right, agreed with conscience, acted in accordance with God’s law.

Such a man believes that without morality, he is no better than the dog he pets or the worm he puts on the hook. He may not get it all right, but he cannot live without attempting goodness. Reading C.S. Lewis, he cries amen:

The man without a moral code, like the animal, is free from moral problems. The man who has not learned to count is free from mathematical problems. A man asleep is free from all problems. Within the framework of general human ethics problems will, of course, arise and will sometimes be resolved wrongly. This possibility of error is simply the symptom that we are awake, not asleep, that we are men, not beasts or gods. (Essay Collection and Other Short Pieces, 313)

Such may conserve traditional ideals of right and wrong, may warmly embrace sanity and live in friendship with natural law, may still know the meaning of duty and honor, and thus sicken at the decadence of a culture bartering Christian constraints for pagan perversions.

“Faith in the Son — dwelling in him and under his blood — is the only safe sky for mankind.”

But still, they themselves do not follow Christ. Yes, obviously boys are boys and girls are girls. Yes, of course murdering children is an abomination ladled from the bottom of the pit of hell. Yes, our government should end its war on the natural family. But no, I personally don’t worship Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior of my life.

This is a pretty sky, prettier than the drab and polluted grey of the demonic ideologies of the time, but an unsafe sky to die beneath nonetheless.

The Beautiful

Overlapping with the first two, the beautiful is “an intrinsic quality of things which, when perceived, pleases the mind by displaying a certain kind of fittingness” (Jonathan King, The Beauty of the Lord, 9). As paint in the right place and proportion gives us a lovely painting, and as music in the fitting keys and proper sequence soothes the ear, so a life well-proportioned, bright with varying colors, gives off a sort of beauty, even if unredeemed.

Such lives unveil a father worth imitating, a friendship we want, a great romance we envy. They pursue high ideals; they live, in some sense, for others. This initially pleasing (but Christless) life fills the world’s novels, television series, plays, and movies. It is the beauty of the human experience: The replaying of moments — special and common — that make this life worth living. The beautiful contours of the human story that we relate to, know, and can glimpse as inexplicably precious. Our story — filled with tragedy and triumph, family and failure, music and misery — is still authored in pleasing font, still valuable.

And if we can look back at the four seasons of life and see love, or at the faces surrounding our deathbed and see it returned in their tears, this can soothe the sting of death as it overwhelms us. The burning blue sky is the wife’s hand or the memory of a beloved mother you hope to see again.

This compelling aesthetic is the hope of many. She is a smiling sky, a beautiful expectation. Yet while it imitates the second great commandment (loving your neighbor as yourself), it doesn’t pretend to attempt the first (loving God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength). The loveliness toward man is spoiled by the heart’s unloveliness toward God. The “love” is seen as idolatry in the end, a pleasing mural painted on a rotting house. More unjust is this love than a man who adores his dog and neglects his wife, or the woman who feeds her cat and starves her grandmother. Lightning will soon erupt from this clear sky.

Parting Clouds

Christ, dear reader, Jesus Christ. All loves inevitably fall and die and decay while we still serve the world, the flesh, and the devil. No matter what sky makes it easier for us to die, faith in the Son — dwelling in him and under his blood — is the only safe sky for mankind. “Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life; whoever does not obey the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God remains on him” (John 3:36).

All truth is found in him — “I am . . . the truth” (John 14:6). All goodness is his, and he is “the righteous one” (Isaiah 53:11). All shafts of beauty beam from his crown to earth — “He is the radiance of the glory of God,” “the king in his beauty” (Hebrews 1:3; Isaiah 33:17). Apart from him, this world’s best truths, highest goodness, and most suggestive splendors spoil, fester, and stink. The corpse, though embalmed, decays, smells, and returns to dust.

But what a sky, burning blue and gold and silver, is Christ to the soul. Gaze up, as Stephen in his death, and prize not the horizon for its colors, but heaven for its Christ. “Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God” (Acts 7:56). Look to him — as Truth, Goodness, and Beauty himself — and die looking to him. He is the only sky that makes it not only easier to die, but far better.

Audio Transcript

Happy Monday, and welcome back to the podcast with us. We appreciate that you listen along each week. On this Monday, Pastor John, I want to look at Psalm 111. There we find a great promise for life: “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Psalm 111:10). I suspect this is a line that a lot of us know well — we know by heart, likely. A lot of listeners have memorized this verse over the years. Many of us have underlined or highlighted it in our Bibles, tweeted it or shared it online at some point. I’ve seen it on coffee mugs and wall hangings. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.”

But there’s a Christian Hedonist spin to this text I hadn’t noticed until I saw something you said about it a few years back. You quoted the text and then you said, “As so often in Scripture, what happens in the heart governs what happens in the mind.” So here, fear in the heart leads to wisdom in the mind. We so often approach things the other way around: from our head into our heart, getting things from our head into our heart. Explain how this works in the other direction — how our hearts govern what happens in our minds.

When I say that the heart governs the mind, I don’t mean that when our minds are renewed by the Holy Spirit, they can’t exert good influence upon our heart. I don’t mean to exclude that. They do. Renewed thinking helps renewed feeling. That’s true. All through the Bible, right knowing has the purpose of producing right feeling as well as right acting. We know God in order to love God.

Ten times in 1 Corinthians, Paul says, “Do you not know?” (1 Corinthians 3:16; 5:6; 6:2, 3, 9, 15, 16, 19; 9:13, 24) — with the implication, “If you knew rightly, then you’d think differently, feel differently, act differently about what you’re about to do.” And in 1 Thessalonians 4:5, Paul says to not give yourself over to “the passion of lust like the Gentiles who do not know God,” implying that a right knowledge of God would have a subduing effect upon the passions of our heart. So, I’m not denying that God has given us renewed, Bible-formed reason as one way of shaping the emotions of our heart.

Power of the Heart

Where do I get the idea that it works the other way around as well — namely, that a heart whose desires go after evil will be blinded from seeing the truth about God in his ways and works, and a heart that desires to go after God and what is good will see the truth more easily? In other words, the condition of the heart and its desires have a huge effect on whether or not we will be able to see God and his ways and his works for what they really are.

Let me just give some Bible passages that point to this power of our hearts — our desires over our mind’s thoughts.

Darkened Love

In John 3:19, Jesus says, “This is the judgment: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light.” They don’t come to the light. They reject the truth. They don’t embrace the truth with their minds. And the reason Jesus gives is not that they don’t have sufficient light or sufficient evidence or knowledge. The reason he gives is this: they love the darkness. Why don’t they see the light? Because they love the dark. It’s a love issue, right? It’s a heart issue. This is what I mean when I say the heart governs the mind. What the heart loves can blind the mind to the light, the truth.

Hardened Heart

Here’s the way Paul gets at the same thing. He describes the Gentiles who reject the gospel like this: “They are darkened in their understanding, alienated from the life of God because of the ignorance that is in them, due to their hardness of heart” (Ephesians 4:18). He moves toward the bottom of our problem, passing through four layers. Where does it end? What’s at the bottom of our problem, our darkness?

He says darkened, alienated, ignorant, hard. The bottom of our problem is not ignorance. There’s something beneath ignorance that brings about culpable ignorance and holds us in the dark prison of ignorance — namely, hardness of heart. That’s not primarily an intellectual problem; that’s a desire problem. Hardness of heart is stiff-necked resistance to God because we love our independence from God. We hate the idea of being under absolute authority. We love our autonomy, our self-sufficiency, our self-direction, our self-exaltation. We bristle with hardness, stiffness against any suggestion of absolute dependence on another, especially God.

Paul says that the effect of this hardness of heart is ignorance and alienation and darkness. But the root issue is not intellectual. It’s a love issue. It’s a desire issue.

Bent Will

Or consider this amazing word from Jesus in John 7:17: “If anyone’s will is to do God’s will, he will know whether the teaching is from God or whether I am speaking on my own authority.” This is one of the clearest statements in the Bible that right-willing precedes and enables right-knowing.

“Since proud hardness of heart is the root problem, God-given humility is the remedy.”

I remember hearing that for the first time in a chapel message at Wheaton College. I think it was 1966. I remember thinking, “That’s amazing.” I remember walking out thinking, “That’s amazing that my willing has to be changed in order for me to know the truth.” It’s not just the other way around. My whole mindset was that it’s the other way around. Knowing will change my will. “I’ve got to know. I’ve got to know.” Well, actually, no. Right-willing will enable right-knowing.

It was two years later, Tony — it was two years until my first year in seminary, where all the pieces fell together, and I realized we have to be born again. We have to have a new will, a new heart. Something has to happen to us to change us from the inside so that we can know things the way we ought to know them, which means God is sovereignly in control over rescuing me from my sinful heart, my bent will. I cannot will myself out of willing the wrong thing. It’s not going to work. My will is bent by nature. It’s called original sin. I love the wrong things, and I need God to intervene to change my will so that I can know God rightly.

Gift of Humility

So, the lesson is: apart from God’s Spirit, all of us have sinful hearts that are prone to take our minds captive and make them produce arguments that justify the sinful behaviors that we love. That’s the kind of control I’m talking about. We are all prone to self-justification — all of us. I really, really want to do something that’s sinful, so my desires exert a powerful influence on my mind to create arguments that show me it’s not sinful; it’s okay. That’s the way it works. That’s the way it’s working all through our culture today.

And since proud hardness of heart is the root problem, God-given humility is the remedy. Psalm 25:9 says, “He leads the humble in what is right, and teaches the humble his way.” So, we ask God to break our hardness and replace our pride with humility, and in that way make it possible for us to see God — to see his ways and his works for what they really are. When God changes our hearts, then our hearts serve the mind rather than blinding the mind.

ABSTRACT: Letter writing during the New Testament era involved several steps and included more people than is often assumed. Before authors like Paul composed letters to Christian communities, they first needed to acquire information about the situation facing their readers. During the composition of their writings, the apostles commonly collaborated with their companions and worked directly with a secretary. Once the author was satisfied with the letter, one or more people were entrusted to deliver it to the intended recipients. Finally, in some cases, letter carriers returned with a report about the writing’s reception and recent developments in the community.

For our ongoing series of feature articles for pastors and Christian leaders, we asked Benjamin P. Laird (PhD, University of Aberdeen), associate professor of biblical studies at the School of Divinity at Liberty University, to explain the process of New Testament letter writing.

The letters contained in the New Testament are among the most studied, quoted, and discussed writings in the biblical canon, but just how much do we know about the actual process that led to the composition and circulation of these sacred texts? When the apostle Paul decided to write to believers in Thessalonica, for example, how would he have gone about the task? Did he simply retreat for a time from his typical activities and write in isolation as he waited on the Spirit to guide his pen?

While there is much that we do not know about the particular circumstances that led to the production of each letter, what can be established about the ministry of the apostles and the common literary conventions of the Greco-Roman world may provide us with a basic sense of how the letters in the New Testament were composed and delivered. In this essay, we will consider the role that letters played in the ministry of the apostles and how they were likely produced and sent. Contrary to what might be assumed, the evidence suggests that several people played a role in the production and distribution of the canonical letters.1

The Functions of New Testament Letters

While it may be difficult for some in our digital age to understand, we find indications that the apostles and their companions favored personal interaction over written communication. In his letter to “the elect lady and her children,” the apostle John states, “Though I have much to write to you, I would rather not use paper and ink. Instead I hope to come to you and talk face to face, so that our joy may be complete” (2 John 12). A similar statement appears in John’s writing to Gaius and those in his local assembly (3 John 13–14). John was not alone in preferring face-to-face interaction. The apostle Paul also expressed his desire to be with his readers and to minister to them in person (see, for example, Romans 1:13; 15:22–23; 1 Thessalonians 2:18). This emphasis on personal instruction is echoed in one of Polycarp of Smyrna’s extant writings from the second century, in which he reflects upon Paul’s ministry. In his letter to the community in Philippi, Polycarp writes,

Neither I, nor anyone like me, is able to rival the wisdom of the blessed and glorious Paul, who, when living among you, carefully and steadfastly taught the word of truth face to face with his contemporaries and, when he was absent, wrote you letters. By the careful perusal of his letters you will be able to strengthen yourselves in the faith given to you.2

This brief description of Paul’s relationship with the Philippians underscores the fact that his preferred means of communication was personal “face to face” interaction, the same type of interaction preferred by John. Written letters certainly served an important role, but in-person ministry provided the apostles and early Christian leaders the opportunity to speak more extensively about a broader range of issues, to appeal more directly to the emotions of individuals (what the Greeks referred to as pathos), to answer and respond to questions, to clarify matters of confusion, and to personally observe how individuals responded to their teaching and exhortations.

On many occasions, however, the apostles were unable to personally visit Christian communities where believers were experiencing confusion, internal conflict, external opposition, or spiritual discouragement, or where they needed basic instruction and oversight. Paul, for example, often found himself imprisoned (2 Corinthians 6:5; 11:23) or unable to leave his area of ministry and travel to those who needed his guidance. In these situations, he could send one of his trusted companions, such as Timothy or Titus, to minister on his behalf, or he could compose a letter that addressed their concerns. As the church expanded away from Jerusalem, the increasing need for apostolic instruction in distant locations was often met with the production of letters.

The Collaborative Nature of Ancient Writing

While it is clear that the apostolic letters served an important role, what do we know about the process of composition? When someone like Paul determined to write to believers outside of his immediate vicinity, what steps would he need to take? To answer this question, we should first observe that letter writing was not always the isolated activity we might imagine. The biblical authors worked directly with a number of companions during the letter-writing process.3 This is consistent with what is known of ancient writing practices and is evidenced by clues within the New Testament letters themselves. As we examine Paul’s writings in particular, we find evidence of three specific contributions that were made by those who worked directly with the biblical writers.

Sources of Information

To one degree or another, each of the New Testament letters is occasional in nature. Rather than writing about matters of personal interest for a general audience, the biblical authors tended to write to address specific circumstances and the concerns of those in particular communities. In a world in which information flows instantly and conveniently, we can easily overlook the fact that writers such as Paul did not have an up-to-the-minute awareness of the challenges and situations facing believers throughout the Roman world. Although Paul wrote under the inspiration of the Spirit, he did not possess full knowledge of the state of each community and would have therefore found himself in constant need of recent and reliable information about the circumstances facing believers throughout the Roman world.

We might ask, therefore, how Paul came to learn about situations such as the false teaching that had made its way to Galatia, the many problems that needed to be addressed in Corinth, or the internal divisions that had formed in Philippi. The answer is that individuals occasionally traveled from these locations to where Paul was located, bringing with them reports about recent developments and the current state of the local churches. On some occasions, individuals were sent from a local community to update Paul about the situation they faced, inquire about specific concerns and issues, or assist him in practical ways. We find, for example, that Paul learned about the situation in Corinth from members of Chloe’s household (1 Corinthians 1:11) and from others such as Stephanas, Fortunatus, and Achaicus, who had made their way to Ephesus (1 Corinthians 16:17). We also find that Epaphroditus was sent by the church in Philippi to minister to Paul during one of his imprisonments (Philippians 2:25–30; 4:18).

“Letter writing was not always the isolated activity we might imagine.”

In addition to those who brought news from distant locations, writers such as Paul often received information about the circumstances of those in Christian communities from their own companions. On many occasions, Paul appears to have sent certain individuals to minister in areas with a newly formed church or where there may have been a particular need for guidance and instruction. We find, for example, that Timothy was instructed by Paul to minister in Ephesus (1 Timothy 1:3) and that Titus was sent to Crete (Titus 1:5). From these locations, they could have written to Paul with updates about the state of affairs in their immediate vicinity.

On other occasions, Paul’s companions may have traveled for only a brief time before returning to him or departing to a new location. Upon their return, they could provide Paul with updates about the issues facing believers where they had recently traveled and offer a report about the reception of his previous instruction. These insights would often prove vital to Paul as he weighed the possibility of penning a new or follow-up letter to those he could not personally visit. We find, for example, that he relied in part on information supplied by Titus when he composed 2 Corinthians (2 Corinthians 7:5–16) and on the report of Timothy when he penned 1 Thessalonians (1 Thessalonians 3:1–6).

The role that these insights and reports played in the composition of the New Testament letters is part of the process of divine inspiration. While God inspired the human writers of Scripture, we may also affirm that the writing process involved human thought, reflection, creativity, and various literary practices of the time. In short, we may affirm that the divine origin of Scripture does not preclude the possibility that the authors employed common literary practices during the compositional process. Conversely, we may also recognize that various people playing a role in the production and distribution of the writings does not preclude the Spirit’s guidance throughout the compositional process.

Secretaries

After receiving reports about the circumstances facing believers in a particular area, Paul often decided to compose a letter that addressed the issues that were of concern to them. In addition to collaborating with his companions and those who had firsthand knowledge of the circumstances facing his readers, Paul’s apparent custom was to work directly with a secretary when composing his letters. In addition to a number of statements at the end of his letters, a clear indication that Paul used a secretary appears in Romans 16:22, where a secretary named Tertius offers a personal greeting.

Much is known of the responsibilities of secretaries in the Greco-Roman world from the extant writings of ancient figures and the discovery of a large body of manuscripts in locations such as Oxyrhynchus, Egypt. These discoveries reveal that those from all walks of life made frequent use of secretaries. They were not used merely by the wealthy, who could afford such a luxury, or by those who were illiterate and had no choice but to hire a professional to compose important documents for them. Rather, the evidence suggests that it was common for people of all backgrounds to enlist the services of a trained secretary, though the reasons for doing so often differed. One should not assume, therefore, that Paul and other writers of Scripture would have had little use for a secretary simply because they could compose a written text for themselves.

PAUL’S SECRETARIES

Those trained as secretaries came from different backgrounds and worked in a variety of settings. Some were professionals who offered their services for a fee, while others were educated slaves who assisted their masters with written correspondence, the production of business and legal documents, and even literary works. A famous example of the latter is Tiro, the slave of Cicero, who was praised by his master for his advanced literary abilities. One of the main differences between Paul and individuals such as Cicero was their financial situation. In light of what we know about Paul’s background, it is unlikely that he would have had the means to hire a professional scribe each time he composed one of his letters, and he certainly did not have any slaves who could serve in this role. We might infer, therefore, that individuals with specialized literary skills and training often served as Paul’s secretaries pro bono, regarding the time they spent assisting Paul as an important contribution to the work of the Lord. Interestingly, there may even be a hint in the words of Paul’s secretary Tertius, who wrote that his work on the letter was “in the Lord” (Romans 16:22) — perhaps suggesting that he offered it as an act of Christian service.4

The production of letters was expensive and time-consuming. Longer writings such as Romans or the Corinthian letters would have required many hours of labor for a secretary to complete, not to mention the significant expense of the supplies. In his illuminating study of secretaries in the Greco-Roman world, E. Randolph Richards estimated about twenty years ago that it may have cost over $2,000 in modern currency to hire a secretary to assist with a writing the length of Romans or 1 Corinthians.5 While it is difficult to determine the precise cost of producing ancient writings, hiring a secretary would have been a considerable expense. This would explain why most first-century letters tended to be much shorter than a typical Pauline writing. Like someone making a long-distance phone call in previous decades, one had to keep his or her words to a minimum in order to avoid an expensive bill. The generosity of several Christian secretaries appears to have enabled Paul both to address a wide range of issues at length in his writings and to write frequently.

THE BENEFITS OF SECRETARIES

The benefits of collaborating with a secretary were many. For one, they made the task of writing more convenient and efficient. Writing in the ancient world was not nearly as easy as typing out one’s thoughts on a computer and sending them off with the press of a button. Even if one had the ability to compose a letter, he would first need to acquire the necessary writing materials. Ink had to be mixed from various ingredients, and one would need unused papyrus or some type of alternative writing material as well. Secretaries often maintained all of the needed supplies to compose the letter, removing one step of the letter-writing process for their clients. The handwriting of secretaries also tended to be more attractive and tidier than the writing of most people.

In addition to the convenience they offered, secretaries could assist their clients with the composition of a writing. If a person had limited literary abilities, he could simply share with the secretary the basic information he wished to convey. The secretary would then draft a letter that covered each of the requested items. In situations in which a secretary worked with a more educated client or one who was writing for a public audience, a greater degree of collaboration might be expected. However, even in situations in which an author dictated the content of the letter to a secretary — which seems to have been the case when Paul composed his works — the secretary could offer guidance throughout the writing process on the style and structure of the letter and the best ways to introduce and address certain subjects.6 Once the original draft was complete, the author would personally examine the document and make any desired changes before authenticating the final work by adding a short handwritten greeting, signature, or some other type of personal touch (see 1 Corinthians 16:21; Galatians 6:11; Colossians 4:18; 2 Thessalonians 3:17; Philemon 19).7

Secretaries could also produce duplicates of the finished work for their clients. For the New Testament authors, duplicate letters would have often been highly desired and even considered necessary. We should not assume, for example, that Paul sent off his only copy of Romans to believers in Rome without first ensuring that he had at least one copy in his own possession. After the time and effort that went into the production of his letters, it is highly unlikely that he simply took a chance that a letter would arrive safely and be preserved. Because of this, Paul’s secretaries probably produced copies of his letters throughout his missionary career. As I have suggested elsewhere, the original collection of Paul’s letters likely derived from the duplicate copies in his possession or the possession of his companions.8 This would seem much more plausible than the theory that the collection emerged from an exchange of writings between churches or from the acquisition of letters by one or more individuals who traveled throughout the Roman world in search of Paul’s writings.

Letter Carriers

We might also consider how the canonical letters made their way to the intended readers once they were composed. With no postal service available to the general public, what method did writers such as Paul use to deliver their writings? Once again, we find that he relied on the assistance of his companions. Throughout his letters are hints that certain companions were charged with the task of delivering his writings.9 This list would include Phoebe (Romans 16:1–2), who seems to have been charged with delivering the letter to the Romans; Titus, who appears to have delivered 2 Corinthians (2 Corinthians 8:16–24); Epaphroditus, who likely returned to Philippi with the letter from Paul (Philippians 2:25–30); and Tychicus, who appears to have delivered Ephesians (Ephesians 6:21–22), Colossians (Colossians 4:7–9), Philemon (Philemon 12),10 2 Timothy (2 Timothy 4:12), and possibly others.11

Letter carriers were often given more responsibilities than simply delivering the letter to the intended recipients. In addition to this major task, letter carriers were known to deliver materials or supplies and to provide the readers with supplementary information and clarity about matters discussed in the writing. In the case of Paul’s writings, we might imagine letter carriers such as Tychicus expounding on certain points or offering clarity about various matters addressed by Paul. On certain occasions, the letter carrier may have also read the letter to the assembled gathering of the believers, though this also could have been done by the local elders or other believers in the community. Once their task was complete, letter carriers often returned to the author with a response letter from the recipients and a personal report on how the letter was received. This update would allow Paul to remain informed about recent developments in the community and to discern which subjects may need to be addressed in the future.

Enduring Epistles

That Paul and others had a wide network of friends and associates who worked alongside them is well-known.12 What is often overlooked, however, is that many of these companions assisted the apostles in one way or another with their writing ministry. As we have observed, the composition of the canonical letters involved multiple steps and collaboration between the author and a number of others. After receiving reports about the circumstances facing his readers, writers such as Paul typically consulted with their companions and a secretary who in many cases may have been a fellow believer graciously volunteering his time and expertise. Once a letter was completed and copies of the text had been produced, one or more letter carriers would have been entrusted to deliver the work to the intended recipients. Often, the letter carrier would return with a report about the reception of the letter. On some occasions, these reports may have prompted further correspondence from the author or led him to arrange a future visit.

While the circumstances that led to the composition of each of the New Testament writings were unique and are not fully known to us, we can be grateful that certain developments prompted the New Testament writers to compose works that continue to instruct and encourage believers today. Unlike their oral teaching, much of the apostles’ written instruction has been preserved and has benefited the church for nearly two millennia. As we read and study the canonical letters today, we are thus able to join the first generation of believers in Jerusalem who, among other things, “devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching” (Acts 2:42).

In our world of easy mobility and tremendous choice, life can feel like a hallway with a hundred doors.

We choose one among a hundred majors after having chosen one among a hundred schools. Then a hundred careers confront us, along with a hundred places to live. And these decisions aren’t even the most important. We choose a church among not quite a hundred options but many, consider a potential spouse from a hundred physical and digital possibilities, prioritize friendships from the hundred people we have known. True, friendships and jobs and marriages don’t always come easily (our world knows many jobless and lonely people) — yet, for many, the possibilities can seem dizzyingly diverse.

In such a world, we might feel tempted to believe that freedom consists in keeping as many options open as possible. Or if we do walk through a particular door, we would prefer to keep it propped open, just in case something better appears. Many enter one door only to retreat to the hallway shortly after, and then enter another door only to do the same — job to job, church to church, friend to friend, place to place. Or if we did choose to lock ourselves into a room (say, by getting married or having children), we might find ourselves chafing, itching, imagining what life might be like through a different door.

How hard it can be to believe, then, that in this hallway with a hundred doors, the best, most freeing decision we can make is to close ninety-nine of them. Only then will we discover the blessings of being bound — by covenant, by commitment, by friendship, by faithfulness.

Bound in the Beginning

From the very beginning, the Bible teaches a principle that seems paradoxical, and especially in a day like ours: Binding relationships liberate. Personal autonomy enslaves.

The principle appears as soon as people do. Almost immediately after he is formed from the dust of the earth, Adam, free and sinless Adam, finds himself bound by the two most enduring relationships in the world. He hears his Maker, he beholds his bride, and to both he gives his covenant loyalty (Genesis 2:16–17, 23–24). And so he becomes a worshiper and a husband, bound in spirit to his God and in flesh to his wife. He is not his own — at the same time, however, he is the freer for it.

The short story of Eden gives us glimpses into Adam’s paradoxical freedom. In being bound to God, Adam may have forfeited the freedom of self-rule, but he gained the freedom of enjoying God’s presence, reflecting God’s character, and fulfilling the mission God made him for (Genesis 1:28; 2:9, 19). In being bound to Eve, he may have lost the freedom of bachelorhood, but he gained the freedom to be fruitful and multiply and to live with one who was bone of his bones — his home in human flesh (Genesis 1:28; 2:23–24). Here is freedom without bitterness or regret, freedom naked and unashamed.

The joy of Eden was a binding joy, a committed joy, a joy where you found yourself by losing yourself. It was a joy that would weave a whole fabric of relationships, each with its own kind of binding: children, kin, and neighbors to love as yourself. And in such joy, we get a glimpse of the life God made us for. As fish need water and birds need air, as trains need tracks and cars need roads, so we need the kind of relationships that tie us to others with cords far stronger than convenience.

We need marriages bound by covenant and sealed with vows, children who call forth from us a glad fidelity to family, church communities that feel as indivisible as the human body, friendships sturdy enough to withstand opposition and offense. We need loyalty strong as a tree with roots long grown.

For as Adam and Eve show us, the alternative to such loyalty is not freedom, but a far, far worse kind of bondage — the tyranny of autonomy.

Our Great Unbending

As we watch Adam and Eve walk out of Eden, with shame wrapped around them like shackles, we see the true choice that lies before us: not whether we will be bound, but to what. In cutting the ties that bound them to God and to one another, they became entangled in a different cord, barbed and cruel. They became slaves to sin and self-will.

“We need the kind of relationships that tie us to others with cords far stronger than convenience.”

When humanity fell, we fell not only downward, but inward. We became “lovers of self” (2 Timothy 3:2), “haters of God” (Romans 1:30), and all too frequently, users and abusers of others. No wonder, then, that when God redeems us, he calls us upward (to him) and outward (to others). He begins a great unbending of our concave souls — teaching us that our great need is not to find freedom from others, but to find freedom from our dogged devotion to self.

No wonder, then, that God often speaks of our redemption using images of new and holy bindings. When we believe, God unites us to his Son (Colossians 3:3), engrafts us into his people (Romans 11:17), makes us members of Christ’s body (Ephesians 5:25), welcomes us into his household (Ephesians 2:19), and places us like living stones on the wall of his temple, surrounded on every side (1 Peter 2:5). We left our God alone; he binds us back home.

God knows that such relationships — and not only with church members but with spouses, children, roommates, and friends — have a way of freeing us from our slavery to self. And really, what else will? If our relationships operate on a kind of end-at-will basis, then what else will challenge our inward allegiance? People, with their pesky requests and intrusive needs, are marvelous foes of tyrant Self. They will become, if we allow them, so many saws that cut our inward chains.

But only if we allow them. Only if we refuse to let a little trouble take us out of the door that led us to them. For freedom is found in the binding.

Freedom Lost and Found

What kind of freedom do we find in the binding? Many kinds.

On a relatively small level, we find freedom to live within the bounds of a decision. God did not make us to continually walk through life’s hallway, wrestling again and again over the biggest decisions — whom to date or marry, which job to take, what church to join, where to live, which people to love. Nor did he make us to constantly question what life would be like had we made a different choice.

How much time, emotion, and mental energy do we spend on choices that would be wonderfully settled if we were more willing to be bound? Rather than repeatedly wondering how to live, we could get down to the business of actually living.

More significantly, we find the freedom of a broader, deeper vision, the kind that comes only with long acquaintance with the same people. Just as residents of a place know far more of its true pleasures than tourists do, residing long in certain relationships opens our eyes to marvels we would otherwise miss. For those with eyes to see, familiar people become not boring, but more beautiful, in time.

If we will allow spouses and children, church members and friends to lay their claims upon us far after the relational tourist leaves for new people, we may become like Psalm 104 explorers — this time tracing not the hills and valleys of earth but the expansive landscapes of human souls. We may discover wonders as broad as the image of God.

Most significantly, however, we find the freedom of increasingly becoming the people God made us to be.

Loveliness Born of Loyalty

The unbound life may be free of many commitments, many requests, many demands that come from close relationships, but often at the incalculable cost of a human’s highest dignity: love. “Love your God” and “love your neighbor” are not only the two greatest commandments; they are the blueprint for the fully human, the fully free, life (Matthew 22:37–39).

God made us to be burdened and bent by the glorious weight of other people. He made us to find greatness in serving others (Mark 10:43), blessedness in giving to others (Acts 20:35), joy in sacrificing for others (Philippians 2:17), true life in dying for others (Matthew 16:25). He made us to remove the bubble wrap of a selfish life so that we might see and hear and taste and touch and smell the beauty of binding relationships — relationships that can hurt, yes, but whose scars are so often better than safety.

Even in the harder seasons of our relationships — a troubled marriage, a conflicted church, an unreconciled friendship — there is a loveliness born of loyalty we will not find any other way. For God gives strength to those who set their faces like flint toward faithfulness (Philippians 4:13, 19). He has an infinite reserve of steadfast love to offer (Exodus 34:6). And as many discover, relational wildernesses can lead to a land of milk and honey, where married couples laugh again and friendships bloom again and churches bear the fruit of holy love again.

True, not every loyalty in this world is for life. Some friendships fade and church memberships transfer and jobs transition for upright reasons. But those who remain loyal longer than their flesh wants, and longer than the world advises, will discover the stunning loveliness born of loyalty, the untold blessings of being bound.

How many women, as we stand before the mirror, stand before women we find displeasing, even ugly? We think our hair thin, our skin splotchy, our shoulders sunken, our arms gangly. Even the smallest of body parts — ears, toes, molars — can chafe with critique. They are too pointy, too crooked, too yellow. Nearly every part of us could use more weight, or less weight, or a different shape or texture or color.

And how many women, as we lament the way we look, are pointed to Psalm 139 for help?

You formed my inward parts;     you knitted me together in my mother’s womb.I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.Wonderful are your works;     my soul knows it very well. (Psalm 139:13–14)

Maybe you let your mentor in on a battle with body image, or searched for a resource on self-loathing, or lamented your size to a friend in passing. Whatever the situation, most of us know one response by heart: “But remember Psalm 139? You are fearfully and wonderfully made in God’s image! That makes you beautiful. So stop believing you’re not beautiful, start believing you are beautiful, and those problems you have with yourself will begin to go away.”

Of course, trusted counselors and solid resources will put it more gracefully and offer additional truths from Scripture. But perhaps more often than not, we’re told (and we want to be told) that our body-problems are beauty-problems. If only we could grasp how beautifully God created us and now sees us! Surely then the storm clouds of self-despair would fade before bright skies of self-esteem.

But how many women know they won’t?

Needy for More Than Beauty

It isn’t wrong to point women to Psalm 139:13–14, to declare who made them, and then to assure them how beautiful they are because of it. His glory does flood every atom of creation (Psalm 19:1), and the atoms of mankind distinctly bear his image (Genesis 1:27). Women are beautiful indeed.

Even so, the counsel moves too quickly away from God to be of lasting help. Sometimes we mistakenly believe, as Ed Welch writes, that “God’s job is to make us feel better about ourselves, as if feeling better about ourselves were our deepest need” (When People Are Big and God Is Small, 20). But thinking better of ourselves spreads as thin and short-lived a balm over our weathered souls as concealer over blemishes. The day ends, and with one swipe of a washcloth every blotch and bump and wrinkle reappears. Self-despair rears its self-focused head once more.

Because ultimately, a woman’s problem lies not in small thoughts of herself, but in too little thought of her Creator. And the solution is not to think better of her appearance, but to dwell upon her God. Women were made for everlasting worship, not daily doses of self-worth.

“Women were made for everlasting worship, not daily doses of self-worth.”

And in fact, Psalm 139:13–14 — the very passage to which we may turn for self-esteem — offers a more soul-satisfying solution to our body-struggles. Rather than using King David’s words to navel gaze, let’s contemplate the glory of God saturating these verses. He is creative, he is powerful, he is near — and he is absolutely able to so amaze us with himself that we no longer need to be beautiful. We will be too busy worshiping.

Praise Him for Inward Parts

We often turn to David’s words when we struggle with outward appearance. But have you ever noticed that the verses actually center on the parts of us we cannot see?

You formed my inward parts;     you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. (verse 13)

God did form our faces. He did knit together every strand of hair. But what kind of Maker is this, whose hands have woven “all things . . . in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible” (Colossians 1:16)?

If beauty is skin-deep, God’s creative power is not. The human body contains “an unimaginable wealth of detail, every point of it from the mind of God” (Derek Kidner, Psalms: 73–150, 503). The next time we stand before the bathroom vanity pinching our stomachs, what would happen if we closed our eyes, took a deep breath, and praised God for making our kidneys? By God’s grace, humans have created thousands upon thousands of medical technologies. We have yet to make a single kidney.

Psalm 139 reminds us that we serve a God who has made billions — and made them from nothing. Musicians make songs from notes they’ve learned, and woodworkers whittle away at lumber they’ve bought. But there is one Artist who was never an apprentice, and the only materials his creations require is the reality that He Is (Genesis 1:1).

And as Yahweh set about making you and me, he wielded his incomparable power with tenderness. He did not throw us together; he knit us together. He did not leave our formation to mere biological processes; he used our mothers’ wombs to bring us — exactly us — into the world. Before our first cry, he knew its pitch. For it was he who intricately wove our vocal cords into existence over the last forty weeks.

Praise Him for Every Part

With such a Creator in our sights, the need to look or feel a certain way fades. In its place stands outward-and-upward-facing praise:

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.Wonderful are your works;     my soul knows it very well. (verse 14)

Note how David doesn’t pick his body apart, only thanking God for the pieces he approves. He doesn’t say, “I praise you for the way I was made — except for my height. It would be a whole lot easier to praise you if it weren’t for my height.” No, he worships God for the way he’s made David’s entire person: “I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” No feedback. No excuses. Just praise. For David, his whole body is indisputable evidence that God is worthy of worship.

For the God who forms our most invisible and inaccessible parts — knitting us together, cell by cell, organ by organ, in our mothers’ wombs — all his works are nothing short of wonderful. And though female souls may struggle to know it very well when it comes to ourselves, Psalm 139 exists that we might.

Praise Him — and Be Satisfied

As we praise God for his wonderful works, he gets glory, and we get joy. It will not be the fleeting pleasure of being pleased with our appearance (Proverbs 31:30). It will be the everlasting joy of the Christian who knows and loves the reason she was made: to praise her transcendent and immanent Creator God. Only his glory, and not personal beauty, can satisfy this woman.

Mysteriously enough, she will come to believe she is beautiful. She will believe it not because of what she finds in the mirror, but because her soul knows well that the God of the universe made her, loves her, died for her, rose for her, lives within her. So content is she with who he is for her in Christ that her spirit sits still, quiet, and beautiful before his eyes (1 Peter 3:3–4). The battle to believe ourselves beautiful cannot be won unless fought within the Greater War: the fight to find God more satisfying than anything else in creation.

Psalm 139 offers the kind of meditative medicine aching women most need. With its help, we can begin to comprehend the unparalleled creative power and intimacy of our God. And in grasping more of him, we set out on the (lifelong) journey of needing beauty less. There will be far too much of our Creator to see, understand, and enjoy to concern ourselves so much with ourselves.