Written by Kevin D. Gardner |
Tuesday, June 4, 2024
The Jews had typically thought of themselves as strangers and aliens when it comes to the world—they were separated from the nations, sometimes exiled among them, and strange because of their strict monotheism and repudiation of paganism. The gentiles, while they were at home in the world, were at the receiving end of an implicit rebuke stemming from the Jews’ separateness. This resulted in a state of hostility between Jews and gentiles. In Christ, this breach has been healed: “He himself is our peace” (v. 14).

Why are you a Christian?
There are a few different ways you might answer that question. Depending on how you look at it, you might say that it’s because you accepted Christ or placed your faith in Him at some point. Or you might say that it’s because your parents nurtured you in the faith, so there’s never been a time that you did not believe in God and trust in Christ as your Savior. If you look at it from God’s perspective, you might say that it’s because He elected you to salvation before the foundation of the world and that you came to faith because of His sovereign work in your life.
But what if we ask the question differently: Why are you a Christian and not a Jew?
If you are like most Christians, you are a gentile, that is, not of Jewish descent or a convert from Judaism. Under the old covenant, gentiles had to become like Jews by marking themselves off from the surrounding nations—literally, in the case of circumcision, and figuratively, by abstaining from common pagan practices and worshiping the God of Israel alone.
In the Old Testament, it was expected that the nations would hear of the God of Israel and would come to worship Him. Israel was meant to be a blessing to the nations, who would then come to worship their God (Gen. 12:1–3). There are clear examples of gentiles converting or otherwise petitioning the God of Israel in Joshua 2, the book of Ruth, and 2 Kings 5; some other possible examples of gentile faith are found in Jonah 3 and Daniel 4 and 6.
The center of the old covenant religion was first the tabernacle and then the temple. At the dedication of the temple in 1 Kings 8, Solomon assumes that gentiles will come to worship the Lord there, and he asks that their prayers would be heard (vv. 41–43). Isaiah speaks of the nations’ coming to worship alongside Israel (Isa. 55), and the sons of Korah speak of the conversion of Israel’s enemies and their coming to the temple mount (Ps. 87). In the restoration after the Babylonian exile, the rebuilding of the temple meant that once again gentiles could come and entreat the God of heaven and earth (Hag. 2:7; Zech. 8:20–23).
In the early church, the relationship between the gentiles and the Jews was a bit of an open question. During His earthly ministry, Jesus spent most of His time among Jews, but He also interacted with gentiles and Samaritans (see Matt. 8:5–13; 15:21–28; John 4). There were many gentiles present in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost (Acts 2), but the early church wasn’t sure what to make of gentiles at first. It seems to have been a pleasant surprise in Acts 10–11 that gentiles were granted repentance unto life alongside Jews (11:18). At the Jerusalem Council in Acts 15, the leaders of the church had to decide what was required of gentiles who placed their faith in Christ, concluding that they were not required to be circumcised. By not requiring of gentiles the entrance rite into Judaism, the church leaders were affirming that it is not necessary to become a Jew into order to be a Christian.
So, what is a Christian? A Christian is something else. He is not a Jew or a gentile. Paul addresses this new reality in Ephesians 2:11–22. In this letter, he is addressing a group of gentile Christians (v. 11), and he explains their relationship to God, to Christ, and to the Jews by using two metaphors. The first is spatial, and the second is architectural.
The spatial metaphor concerns these gentile believers’ distance from God and His people.
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On behalf of all the pastors who long to serve their church Sunday by Sunday, I call on all of us to plead with God for power in the pulpit. I call on all of us to make it our responsibility to pray for the preacher and the preaching. I call on all of us to consider that weak and powerless preaching may have as much to do—or even more to do—with the congregation’s lack of prayer than the pastor’s lack of preparation. 

The sermon fizzles instead of sizzles. The text seems to become opaque rather than clear. The illustrations fall flat while the application somehow fails to strike the heart, the mind, or the hands. The pastor seems distracted and discouraged while the congregation seems uninterested and unmoved.
I expect we have all sat through a few sermons that, if not quite as bad as all that, were still strangely weak. I am certain we have all experienced sermons that seemed feeble and powerless, that ostensibly wielded the Word of God but did so with about as much strength as a plastic sword. I am sure we have all endured some sermons that struck us with all the power of a gentle gust of wind.
And when the sermon falls flat, I suppose we all tend to place the blame squarely on the shoulders of the preacher. Maybe he lacks skill or education or maybe he failed to give his sermon adequate time or preparation. Maybe he failed to pray earnestly in his study or failed to structure his week properly. If he’s the one who preached feebly, the fault must be his, right?
But who’s to say that, in the mind of God, the power of the preaching is entirely in the hands of the preacher? Who’s to say that the pastor’s task is to prepare the sermon while the congregation’s task is merely to prepare their own hearts to hear it?
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Just as the mother crimson worm goes to the oak tree voluntarily to give her life for her children, so Jesus offered himself on the tree of the cross for your sins, according to the will of God (Gal. 1:4). Just as the crimson worm bleeds out a scarlet dye in the death she endures for her children, so Jesus poured out his blood in dying for you and all of those whom the Father gave unto him (John 17:9). 

The Bible’s first book tells us God saw everything he created, and behold, it was very good. You probably first think of big and exciting creations like the spectacular sun, majestic mountains, loud lions, or the mighty Mississippi River when you hear about creation. God uses all his creatures to direct us to his power and glory. But even tiny things that can go unnoticed are very good creations as well. Some living things, even ones we consider insignificant, can point us to the person and work of Jesus in surprising and amazing ways.
The crimson worm is one of these lowly but unique creations. It’s a bit different than the worms you find in your own backyard because it’s actually an insect with a shell and six little legs. About seven millimeters long, the crimson worm is barely longer than the width of a pencil eraser. You might call it minimal, minor, miniature, or minuscule. Maybe even gross. But God created the crimson worm to live in a specific area, the land of Israel, and have a life cycle that points us to one event: Jesus’ saving death on the cross.
When a mother crimson worm is ready to lay her eggs, she finds her way toward a specific type of oak tree. She then makes the difficult ascent up the side of that tree, knowing that she will never come back down again. She’s come there to give life to her children and then give up her own. Once she reaches her spot and secures herself against the wood, her shell turns into a hard, crimson shelter. It’s under this covering where her eggs hatch. For three days, she provides protection for her children. She also provides life for three days as the babies feed on her body until she dies. Once the mother dies, she produces a crimson dye that stains the tree and the children underneath her.
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