God on Display

As I’ve been teaching through Romans these past few months, I’ve seen new things. It seems as if I always see new things like that. Something hit me that you probably all got right away, but I didn’t, and it was really enlightening.

In Romans 9, Paul writes about God’s sovereignty in election. God chose Jacob over Esau before either had done anything “in order that God's purpose of election might continue” (Rom 9:10-13). He says, “It does not depend on the man who wills or the man who runs, but on God who has mercy” (Rom 9:16). He says, “He has mercy on whom He desires, and He hardens whom He desires” (Rom 9:18). Very clear. Very complete. Very jarring. It’s so jarring, in fact, that Paul feels the need to answer the obvious objection.

You will say to me then, "Why does He still find fault? For who resists His will?" On the contrary, who are you, O man, who answers back to God? The thing molded will not say to the molder, "Why did you make me like this," will it? (Rom 9:19-20)

Paul’s answer is “You don’t get to tell God what to do. You have no standing to complain.” He uses the analogy of the potter. “Or does not the potter have a right over the clay, to make from the same lump one vessel for honorable use and another for common use?” (Rom 9:21). And he describes two “vessels”—one type is “vessels of wrath prepared for destruction” and the other is “vessels of mercy, which He prepared beforehand for glory” (Rom 9:22-24).

Paul explains that it is God’s will to demonstrate His power and wrath, and He intends to do so on the former vessels—the vessels of wrath. But He also chooses to show mercy to another group—vessels of mercy. Note that the latter are different from the former. The vessels of mercy are vessels that He prepared beforehand. They didn’t do it themselves. He did it. Nothing in them made them worthy of His mercy; He made them.

Here’s the part I missed before. Both are God’s design. Both are in place for God’s purpose. What purpose? To display Himself. In one case, we see His power and wrath. In the other, we see His mercy. This harkens back to Paul’s language in Romans 3 where he describes God as “just and the justifier” (Rom 3:26). It goes all the way back to Romans 1 where Paul says God made Himself evident to us (Rom 1:19).

We might think that people facing eternity in Hell is a bad thing, and, in a sense, it is. We might see that as a failure on God’s part. Some even consider it proof that He doesn’t exist, or, at least, that He’s not good. But there is a very real sense in which both the saved and the unsaved—the glorified and the damned—both serve God’s divine purpose of displaying His full glory. It’s not that those of us who go to heaven do a better job at it than those who don’t. No, God uses both to magnify Himself. He makes vessels for honorable use and for common use. What they have in common is that they’re all for His use.

And that is the point Paul presses home. God is not reacting to history; He is revealing Himself through it. In judgment we see His holiness and justice; in mercy we see His compassion and grace. Both the vessels of wrath and the vessels of mercy serve His purpose of displaying the fullness of His glory. And because His glory is the highest good, nothing in His sovereign design is wasted. Our task, then, is not to sit in judgment over His ways, but to bow in worship before the God who makes Himself known in all that He does.

Man's Inability and Culpability

In Philippians 2, Paul urges the believers to “work out your own salvation with fear and trembling” (Php 2:12). It’s a little daunting, actually. “Me? Work out my own salvation?” It’s serious enough for Paul to include “with fear and trembling.” And I might say, “But I can’t.” It’s a good thing, then, that the sentence doesn’t end there. Paul follows it immediately with a “for” statement. “For it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Php 2:13). Ah! There it is! So … yes, I have to work out my salvation, and, yes, it’s hard work—frightening, even—but I’m not doing it alone. Indeed, God is doing it in me. Notice that God offers two components: to will and to work. He gives us the ability and inclination to choose it, and He gives us the power to do it. These are the two necessary pieces of anything we do. Do I want to? Do I have the capacity? God fills in those two. I can get to work now. This is all to illustrate the answer to the problem that people have with God’s Sovereignty and Man’s Inability. Scripture is not vague on God’s Sovereignty. He isn’t “sort of sovereign.” He works all things after the counsel of His will. So whether by allowing or causing, everything that happens is according to the counsel of His will. We see this in Joseph’s “You intended it for evil, but God intended it for good” (Gen 50:20). You see it in Jesus’s “For the Son of Man goes as it has been determined, but woe to that man by whom he is betrayed!” (Luke 22:22). And elsewhere. God lays human responsibility and His sovereignty side by side and works all things together for good (Rom 8:28). It’s the other side that gets sticky. Equally clear in Scripture is Man’s Inability. We are “dead in sin” (Eph 2:1-3), born in sin (Psa 51:5), hostile to God (Rom 8:7). We can’t understand the things of God (1 Cor 2:14) and can’t even see the kingdom of God without a supernatural intervention (John 3:3). So, if that truly describes humans—incapable of choosing God—how can God hold them responsible? The problem is we’re misunderstanding “inability.” The inability isn’t the lack of capability; it’s the lack of volition. It is what we call “moral inability.” Let’s try a parallel and see if you can understand this. A man comes into my home, puts a gun in my hand, and says, “If you don’t shoot your wife, I’ll kill you.” It would be right and reasonable for me to answer, “I can’t.” What would I mean? Do I lack the muscle to pull that trigger? Is there something wrong with my hand or some obstacle between me and her? No. I do not have it in me to shoot my wife. I don’t have the willingness to choose to do that because it would violate my nature. It is only my own nature preventing me from doing it. My lack of inclination. In the same way, the one thing that prevents anyone from coming to Christ is not something external preventing them. They have the capacity to say, “Jesus is Lord” (Rom 10:9) and there certainly is sufficient evidence for God and the truth of His Word (Rom 1:19-20; Psa 19:1). The only thing preventing anyone from coming is their own refusal to do so, their moral inability to choose Him. They lack the will. The reason people don’t come to Him is that they choose not to and the only way that can be changed is to change their wills. Only God can do that. The point, then, is not that sinners lack the capacity to come to Christ, but that they lack the desire. Their inability is rooted in what they love, not in what they lack. And because the will is bound to the heart, only God can free it. He grants repentance, opens eyes, inclines affections, and creates a new nature that delights in Christ. When He does, the one who once said “I can’t” now says “I will,” and he comes freely, joyfully, and genuinely—because grace has made him willing.

The Great Giveaway

Paul tells us that “God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us” (Rom 5:8). Let’s reword it so we can see it clearly. God’s best “I love you” for us is seen in Christ dying on our behalf. Love is the essence of the gospel.

But love is more than that. In Romans 1, we see that God’s righteous wrath isn’t about our misdeeds; it’s about our relational failure toward Him (Rom 1:18-21). It’s not that we were bad little boys and girls; it’s that we refused to acknowledge Him. The initial problem, then, was a breakdown in love.

Beyond that, Scripture makes an amazing claim. God’s Word claims that love is the fulfillment of the law. Jesus said that loving God and loving our neighbor was the entire law (Matt 22:37-40). He told His disciples, “If you love Me, you will keep My commandments” (John 14:15). See that? Not “If you love Me, keep My commandments,” but “you will keep My commandments.” Paul wrote that “love is the fulfillment of the law” (Rom 13:8-10). He told Timothy, “The goal of our instruction is love” (1 Tim 1:5). He told the Galatian Christians, “The whole law is fulfilled in one word: 'You shall love your neighbor as yourself'” (Gal 5:14). James calls love “the royal law” (James 2:8), God’s “ultimate law.”

Therefore, the problem of sin between us and God and between us and our fellow human beings is a failure to love, and love is the fulfillment of the law.

But what does that love look like? Not our anemic “warm feelings” idea. We can see this at the outset when God demonstrates His love toward us by sending His Son to die for us. That’s not “warm feelings.” That’s sacrifice. Paul told the Philippians to share the same mind as Christ did “who, though He was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men” (Php 2:6-7). Love, then, seeks the best interest of the loved one without regard to self. Love empties self in order to give to the loved ones the very best.

Thus, husbands are commanded to “love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave Himself up for her” (Eph 5:25).

Our fundamental sin problem is relational. Our design is for love—loving God and loving His people. Love is setting ourselves aside in order to gain another’s best interest. That love fulfills the law. Self-sacrifice is our reasonable, spiritual service of worship (Rom 12:1). Dying to self in this way is only possible if we are counting on our God to supply all our needs (Php 4:19). It is, however, loving in the way that we are loved and in the way we are commanded to love.

Counterintuitive

We speak often of “free will,” and in many everyday senses the term is appropriate. We make real choices, we bear real responsibility, and Scripture never treats us as puppets. Yet the biblical witness consistently presses us to see that God’s sovereign influence reaches far deeper into human behavior than we tend to assume. Paul’s statement in Romans 14:4 is a striking example: “Who are you to judge the servant of another? To his own master he stands or falls; and he will stand, for the Lord is able to make him stand.” The believer’s perseverance is not merely a matter of human resolve; it is grounded in the Lord’s active ability to make His servant stand. That theme is woven throughout Scripture.

Paul tells the Philippians to “work out your salvation” because it is God Himself at work “both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Phil 2:12-13). Obedience is not simply commanded; it is enabled. The writer of Hebrews prays that the God of peace would “equip you… working in us that which is pleasing in His sight” (Heb 13:20–21). Ezekiel goes further still, promising that God will put His Spirit within His people and “cause you to walk in My statutes” (Ezek 36:26–27). In other words, the very inclinations of the renewed heart are gifts of divine grace.

Faith itself is portrayed as God’s action. When Lydia heard Paul preach, Luke tells us that “the Lord opened her heart to respond” (Acts 16:14). Jesus teaches that no one comes to Him unless the Father draws him (John 6:44), and He tells Peter that his confession of Christ’s identity was not revealed by “flesh and blood” but by the Father (Matt 16:17). The human response is real, but its origin is divine.

Scripture also shows God restraining sin. He tells Abimelech, “I… kept you from sinning against Me” (Gen 20:6). David blesses the Lord for restraining him from bloodshed in his anger toward Nabal (1 Sam 25:32–34). Conversely, when God gives a people over to their stubborn hearts (Ps 81:12), the removal of restraint is itself an act of judgment. Restraint and release both belong to Him.

The hardening of the human heart is another sobering theme. Paul states plainly that God “has mercy on whom He desires, and He hardens whom He desires” (Rom 9:18). The Exodus narrative repeatedly attributes Pharaoh’s stubbornness to God’s hardening. John echoes Isaiah when he writes that God has “blinded their eyes and hardened their heart” (John 12:39–40). These are judicial acts, yet they reveal that even human resistance can fall under divine sovereignty.

Even the decisions of rulers are not autonomous. “The king’s heart is like channels of water in the hand of the Lord; He turns it wherever He wishes” (Prov 21:1). God stirred up the spirit of Cyrus to send Israel home (Ezra 1:1). Nebuchadnezzar learned the hard way that God “does according to His will… and no one can ward off His hand” (Dan 4:35). Human authority operates under a higher hand.

The wisdom literature often speaks of God’s direction of human steps. “The mind of man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps” (Prov 16:9). The psalmist says that the steps of a man “are established by the Lord” (Ps 37:23). Jeremiah confesses that “a man’s way is not in himself… nor is it in a man who walks to direct his steps” (Jer 10:23). Our planning is real, but our path is God-governed.

Repentance itself is a divine gift. God exalted Christ “to grant repentance to Israel” (Acts 5:31). When the Gentiles believed, the church concluded that “God has granted to the Gentiles also the repentance that leads to life” (Acts 11:18). Paul instructs Timothy that God may “grant repentance leading to the knowledge of the truth” (2 Tim 2:25). Repentance is not merely a human turning; it is God’s gracious work.

Even our affections fall under His shaping hand. David prays, “Create in me a clean heart” (Ps 51:10). The psalmist asks God to “incline my heart to Your testimonies” (Ps 119:36). Paul prays that the Lord would “direct your hearts into the love of God” (2 Thess 3:5). Love, desire, and devotion are not self-generated; they are divinely directed.

Taken together, these passages present a consistent biblical picture. Human will is real, responsible, and meaningful. Yet it is never independent. God can incline, restrain, harden, renew, or redirect the human heart according to His purposes. Jude declares that God “is able to keep you from stumbling, and to make you stand in the presence of His glory blameless with great joy” (Jude 1:24). Like Romans 14:4, it fits squarely within this larger pattern: the believer stands because the Lord is able to make him stand. Our choices matter, but they unfold within the sovereign, gracious, and sometimes hidden work of God, who shapes His people for His glory.

A Tongue Lashing

In typical friendly interactions, it isn't unusual to hear good friends exchanging playful insults—saying things that, taken as sincere, would be cruel and hurtful. We even have a word for it: banter—the friendly exchange of teasing and insulting remarks. But it’s just in fun, right? We don’t take it personally, so it’s okay. Or is it? The Bible seems to disagree.

Jesus said, “Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks” (Matt 12:34). Words are diagnostic in that sense—they reveal the heart.

Paul wrote, “Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear” (Eph 4:29). Note the various points. First, his command is all-encompassing. “No corrupting talk.” Second, the purpose: building up. Third, the motivation: give grace. Does our speech among friends reflect that?

Proverbs says that “rash words are like sword thrusts” (Pro 12:18). Not necessarily harsh words; rash words.

James compares the tongue to a ship’s rudder because our tongues can serve to direct us (James 3:4), for example, in terms of the direction of our relationships, our reputations, our hearts. Does our speech direct us toward godliness and love, or not?

David prays, “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, YHWH, my rock and my redeemer” (Psa 19:14). Who are we trying to impress with our words, our banter?

Paul wrote, “Brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things” (Php 4:8). That’s quite a list, but I’m looking, and it doesn’t seem to include “banter” as a place for our minds to dwell.

God’s Word puts a lot more emphasis on the tongue, the mouth, the way we speak than we seem to. Maybe we’re allowing, for the sake of fitting in, that which breaks God’s heart. Maybe we’re being conformed to this world without noticing. I know I do it myself. In my coherent moments, it bothers me. I need to practice the controls that James commands (James 3:1-12). I need to pray with David, “Set a guard, YHWH, over my mouth; keep watch over the door of my lips!” (Psa 141:3)

News Weakly - 8/22/2026

Paper Tiger?
In February, 2022, world superpower Russia attacked a small adjacent country, Ukraine. It should have been a slam dunk, but now, four years later, we’re still seeing news like Ukraine launching “one of the war’s largest drone attacks” while a Russian drone strike kills 15 in a mall. The war is obviously not over … not even close … but there is a serious question about the actual strength of that “world superpower Russia.”

Aftermath
Five years ago, then-president Biden yanked troops out of Afghanistan overnight, leaving something like $7 billion worth of military equipment and the Afghan people to fall under the Taliban. They promised to be nice, but Afghan women seem to have borne the brunt of the repercussions, losing all the freedom they were given with US protections. I’m sure they’re grateful to be free of all that freedom.

A Major Dilemma
In a critical case before SCOTUS, the justices allowed the president to continue work on a new ballroom for the White House. That’s because it’s an unprecedented constitutional question. Or … not. I’m scratching my head. Really? I mean … both sides. REALLY?

In Control
Two American Airline jets with the same designation were narrowly saved from a disaster by an alert air traffic controller in Phoenix. He kept alert and managed to keep both from colliding in the confusion. Seriously, would we expect some AI air traffic controller to do better?

Your Weakly Fake News
Trump is promising an “economic D-Day” for Iran, so thousands of accountants boarded landing craft for the economic invasion. Right? The Bee headline says, “A.I. Assistant Starting To Suspect Its Human Might Be A Bit Of A Moron.“ Given a lot of the news from News Weakly, the AI might be right. Finally, Trump has threatened to claim the Strait of Hormuz for the US. It turns out he only wants it to build a floating golf course. Did not see that coming. Makes sense.

Must be true; I read it on the internet.

Another Hymn on my Mind

I’ve had this hymn echoing in my mind lately, rising and falling like a prayer breathed in creation’s rhythm. It’s not new, and it’s certainly not obscure, but perhaps its very familiarity invites us to hear it again. Sometimes the hymns we know best are the ones we need most.

How Great Thou Art
Carl Gustav Boberg (Swedish original, 1885)
English adaptation by Stuart K. Hine (1949)

O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works Thy hands have made…
Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to Thee:
How great Thou art! How great Thou art!

The story behind How Great Thou Art is as sweeping as the hymn itself. Its journey begins in Sweden in 1885, when Carl Gustav Boberg, a pastor and poet, was walking home from church near Mönsterås. A sudden storm broke overhead—lightning, thunder, wind sweeping across the fields—and just as suddenly, it calmed. Boberg stepped into a world washed clean: birds singing, a rainbow forming over the bay, church bells tolling in the quiet evening.

That moment of awe became a nine stanza poem titled O Store Gud (“O Great God”), first published in 1886. It was later set to a Swedish folk melody and began its slow migration across languages—German, Russian, and finally English. Stuart K. Hine, a British missionary in the Carpathian Mountains, heard the Russian version sung by believers and adapted it, adding verses shaped by his own encounters with creation and the gospel.

The hymn’s structure mirrors the Christian life: creation, redemption, and consummation.

Creation: “When I in awesome wonder consider all the works Thy hands have made…”

Boberg’s storm and calm experience is woven directly into the first stanza. The hymn invites us to look—really look—at the world God has made. Not as scenery, but as revelation. As Paul writes, “His invisible attributes… have been clearly perceived… in the things that have been made” (Rom. 1:20).

The hymn slows us down. It asks us to wander through forest glades, listen to birdsong, feel mountain breezes, and let creation preach. It is a call to humility: we are small, and God is great.

And when the soul sees God’s greatness in creation, it sings.

Redemption: “And when I think that God, His Son not sparing…”

Hine added this stanza, shaped by his missionary work among people who knew suffering intimately. The hymn moves from creation’s grandeur to the cross’s glory. The God who thunders over mountains is the God who “sent Him to die—I scarce can take it in.”

Creation reveals God’s power. The cross reveals God’s heart.

This is the hinge of Christian worship: awe becomes adoration when the Creator becomes our Redeemer. The hymn refuses to let us stay in vague spirituality. It brings us to Calvary, where “my burden gladly bearing, He bled and died to take away my sin.”

Here the soul does not merely sing—it bows.

Consummation: “When Christ shall come with shout of acclamation…”

Like Spafford, Boberg and Hine looked forward to Christ’s return. The final stanza lifts our eyes from the cross to the coming King. It echoes 1 Thessalonians 4:16–17, where the Lord descends with a shout and believers rise to meet Him.

The hymn ends not with nature’s beauty or the cross’s mercy, but with the believer’s hope: “What joy shall fill my heart! ”

Creation amazes us. Redemption saves us. Consummation completes us.

And the soul sings again—this time forever.

How Great Thou Art is not merely a hymn of praise; it is a journey of faith. It leads worshipers through a widening vision of God—His world, His love, His return. It is pastoral in the best sense: it lifts burdened hearts, enlarges small horizons, and anchors weary believers in the greatness of God.

When life feels narrow, this hymn reminds us that God is not. When circumstances overwhelm, it reminds us that God is greater still. When sin accuses, it reminds us of the cross. When hope dims, it reminds us of the trumpet yet to sound.

It is a hymn for the woods, the valley, the hospital room, the funeral, the Sunday service, and the quiet morning when the soul needs to remember who God is.

We, too, can learn to let creation preach, let redemption comfort, and let hope steady us. We can join Boberg, Hine, and generations of believers in saying:

“Then sings my soul… ”

Because when we truly see God— in His world, in His Son, and in His promised return— there is only one fitting response:

How great Thou art.

Is It Well?

I've had this song stuck in my head for several days now and I was talking to a friend recently about a book I had started writing and never finished. This was to be one of the chapters, so ... I thought I'd offer you a preview of a book that'll never be finished and information on a hymn I'm singing in my head over and over. No, it's not new, but I hope you'll like it anyway.
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It Is Well With My Soul
Horatio Spafford

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll -
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.

Tho' Satan should buffet, tho' trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate,
And has shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin - O the bliss of this glorious tho't -
My sin, not in part, but the whole,
He is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more:
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

And, Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll:
The trump shall resound and the Lord shall descend,
“Even so” - it is well with my soul.

The hymn has quite a story behind it. Perhaps by understanding some of the events surrounding it, the meaning will be clearer. Horatio Spafford was a lawyer in Chicago in 1871 when the Chicago Fire destroyed his lakeshore real estate and his finances along with it. Having already lost a son to premature death, he decided to take his wife and four daughters on a trip to England to join D. L. Moody on one of his campaigns and to get some much needed rest. Business forced him to delay his departure, so he had his family go on ahead, intending to join them as soon as he could. Soon Spafford received word that the ship had sunk. He waited anxiously for word of survivors and finally received a telegram from his wife that read, “Saved alone.” Spafford hastened to join her in England, and as he sailed past the spot where his four daughters had drowned, he wrote, “When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll—whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, ‘It is well, it is well with my soul.’”

Horatio Spafford knew God. It could only be an abiding relationship with the Almighty that would enable a man enduring such loss to say, “It is well with my soul.” He echoes the words of Paul, who says, “I have learned to be content” (Php 4:11–13).

What did Spafford know of God that held him in such peace? His second verse tells us: “Let this blest assurance control, that Christ hath regarded my helpless estate and has shed His own blood for my soul.” To him, knowing that God loved him enough to die for him was enough. God had no requirement to do so, and the cost to Him was great—His own blood. What greater love could there be?

I think Mr. Spafford tied greater weight to his sin condition than most of us do today. He saw the forgiven state of the Christian as enough from God. His third verse dwells on the bliss of that thought. He saw forgiveness as glorious and complete. He regarded God’s pardon as the end of the question, with sin no longer a concern—“not in part, but the whole.” Paul says the same. We are crucified to sin. “Do not let sin reign” (Rom 6:12). Praise the Lord, O my soul!

So many Christians today struggle with sin. They see their shortcomings—which are real—as an obstacle to their relationship with God. There is even a sort of superstition mixed in, as if God will curse us if we sin but bless us if we don’t. They see God as turning away when they fail Him, and in some cases their large numbers of failures amass such a perceived wall between themselves and the Almighty that they give up and walk away hopeless. But sin—“not in part, but the whole”—has been nailed to the cross. We bear it no more. It is forgiven, past, present, and future. God sees us as clothed in the righteousness of Christ. He stands ready to commune with us at all times. We need merely to confess, for our benefit, our failure to obey, and we can continue the relationship. Would that we saw our sin condition and its collapse at the cross in the same light as this hymn does.

Like so many of the hymn writers of the past, Spafford looked forward to the coming of the Lord. He longed to be home. While many today aren’t sure they want Christ to return just yet, he asked that God “haste the day.” When all is said, it is there that peace is finally ours. It is in the knowledge of the transcendent God—the God who is holy and just, who is able to make all things right, the soon and coming King—that we can ultimately rest. His faithfulness is our repose. And His return is our hope. As the hymn alludes, “Even so, come quickly.” It is God’s presence that brings final peace.

We, too, can enjoy this response to difficult circumstances. We can learn, with Paul, to be content in all situations. The truth is simple. If we know the God we serve, “who can be against us?” If God is God (and we are not), what more can we require? We can agree with Spafford and say, “Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, it is well, it is well with my soul.”

Love Without Hypocrisy

I was teaching on Romans 12 and someone asked about the description of love in the chapter. Romans 12:9 tells us, “Let love be without hypocrisy.” What follows is a series of examples showing what “love without hypocrisy” looks like (Rom 12:9-21). And someone gave the story of her mother-in-law who was a difficult person. She tried to love her, but found it nearly impossible. She said, “I had to fake it until I made it.”

The mistake is not readily obvious. It seems that’s exactly what we’re being told here. Treat people as if you love them regardless of how you feel about them. We might consider hypocritical love to be selective affection, only for those who agree with you, or performative kindness that's shaped by the audience rather than compassion. Maybe it’s flattering speech or conflict avoidance. Perhaps it’s emotional distance covered by politeness—lots of things. But I think hypocritical love is addressed in the text that follows

Hypocritical love would be love that tolerates evil. It would include a brotherly love without devotion. There might be an absence of honor or a lack of diligence in service. It may show itself in a lack of fervency in serving, a failure to rejoice or persevere in prayer, a reluctance to contribute to the needs of fellow believers, or a disregard for hospitality. It would be being divided rather than of the same mind, being proud, being wise in your own estimation. You get the idea

So she said she tried to do the right thing—and that was faking it until she made it. That is, she tried to do the right thing but didn't feel it. But that is a fundamental mistake about the nature of love

Note that nothing in this text says, “Feel warm affection for each other.” “Brotherly love,” yes, but not our modern “warm affection.” Instead, it is a command to love without hypocrisy—to treat each other a certain way, not to feel toward each other a certain way. This, you see, is a different version of love

In the end, Paul’s call to “love without hypocrisy” is not an invitation to pretend but a summons to obey. Biblical love does not wait for emotions to warm or affections to rise; it acts in faith, shaped by the character of Christ and the commands of Scripture. When we treat one another according to the pattern laid out in Romans 12—honoring, serving, persevering, blessing, and pursuing peace—we are not faking anything. Biblical love is a choice to treat people as God has commanded, and when we do that, we are making it—not faking it. Loving without hypocrisy is achieved when we treat people that way, not when we feel a particular way. We are loving as God has loved us: sincerely, sacrificially, and without disguise.

Living Out God's Righteousness

In Romans 13:1-7, Paul has just finished describing how Christians live under governing authorities, but he is not finished describing how Christians live. He now turns from the external structures of society to the internal posture of the believer. And he does so by returning to the gospel’s central revelation—that God’s righteousness is made known in Christ and expressed in the lives of those who belong to Him.

Paul begins with the language of debt: “Owe no one anything except to love one another.” He is not speaking of financial obligation but of moral posture. The believer’s only ongoing debt is love, because love is the lived expression of the righteousness God reveals in the gospel. The Law’s commandments—no adultery, no murder, no theft, no coveting—are not merely rules but reflections of God’s righteous character. And Paul says they are “summed up” in the command to love one’s neighbor. In other words, love is not sentimental; it is moral clarity shaped by God’s own righteousness. This is why Paul can say that love fulfills the Law. The Law’s righteous requirement is met in those who walk according to the Spirit, and that Spirit shaped walk is love. This is the lived fruit of God’s righteousness revealed in Christ.

But Paul does not stop with love’s fulfillment of the Law. He adds urgency: “the hour has come.” The gospel not only reveals God’s righteousness; it reveals God’s timetable. Salvation is nearer now than when we first believed. Paul wants believers to feel the weight of living between the ages—between the night that is passing and the day that is dawning. The righteousness of God is not merely a doctrine; it is a summons to wakefulness. To live in the light of the gospel is to live as those who know what time it is.

This is why Paul speaks of “casting off the works of darkness” and “putting on the armor of light.” The gospel reveals God’s righteousness, and that righteousness is incompatible with the old life. Paul names the works of darkness plainly—orgies, drunkenness, sexual immorality, quarreling, jealousy. These are not merely moral failures; they are contradictions of the righteousness God has revealed. They belong to the night, not the day. The believer’s life must be shaped by the dawning reality of Christ’s kingdom, not the fading shadows of the old age. This is the ethical outworking of living in the new age.

Paul’s final exhortation is the heart of the passage: “Put on the Lord Jesus Christ.” This is not a call to imitate Christ in a superficial way; it is a call to clothe oneself with the very righteousness God has revealed in Him. To “put on Christ” is to take His character as one’s own, to let His righteousness govern one’s desires, decisions, and conduct. It is the opposite of “making provision for the flesh.” The flesh belongs to the night; Christ belongs to the day. To put on Christ is to live as those who have received God’s righteousness by faith and now display it in daily life. This is the ethical embodiment of the gospel’s transforming power.

Thus Romans 13:8–14 is not a detached moral section. It is Paul’s insistence that the righteousness of God revealed in the gospel must be revealed in the believer’s life. Love fulfills the Law because it reflects God’s righteous character. Holiness is urgent because the gospel has placed us in the dawning of God’s new day. And putting on Christ is the believer’s daily participation in the righteousness God has given.

Paul began Romans by declaring that the gospel reveals the righteousness of God. Here, near the end of his great doctrinal exposition, he shows what that righteousness looks like when it is lived—love without calculation, holiness without delay, Christ without rival.

Being A Christian With a Secular Government

In my Bible Romans 12 is followed by Romans 13. I would argue that Romans 13:1–7 belongs exactly where Paul placed it. After eleven chapters tracing the mercy of God, the faithfulness of God, and the sovereign freedom of God in salvation, Paul turns in Romans 12 to the shape of the renewed life. He calls believers to present themselves as living sacrifices, to resist the world’s mold, to love sincerely, to bless persecutors, and to overcome evil with good. Romans 13 is not a change of subject; it is the next arena in which a transformed mind and a sacrificial life take shape.

Paul has just urged believers to live peaceably with all, so far as it depends on them, and to refuse the cycle of vengeance. Now he addresses the Christian’s relationship to civil authority. The same gospel that reshapes personal relationships also reshapes public posture. A believer who has learned to overcome evil with good must also learn how to live under the imperfect governments that structure human society.

Paul’s claim that “there is no authority except from God” is difficult, and it is meant to be. We know the long record of human rulers who have abused power, inflicted suffering, and corrupted justice. Yet Paul is not saying that every ruler is good, or that every government is righteous. He is speaking of the institution itself — the ordering of human life that restrains chaos and punishes wrongdoing. The office is from God; the misuse of the office is not.

Scripture shows repeatedly that God can work through flawed rulers without endorsing their character. Nebuchadnezzar becomes an instrument of discipline, Cyrus an instrument of deliverance, Pilate an unwitting participant in redemption. Their authority does not sanctify their actions, but it does reveal that God’s sovereignty is not thwarted by human sin. He can bend even warped timber toward His purposes.

Paul’s teaching also does not demand blind obedience. The apostles themselves said, “We must obey God rather than men.” The prophets rebuked kings. Jesus confronted Herod and Pilate with truth. Submission in Romans 13 is not servility; it is a posture of respect toward the structure God has ordained, combined with fidelity to God’s higher law. When rulers command what God forbids or forbid what God commands, the Christian obeys God. But even then, the believer resists without hatred, protests without violence, and remembers that vengeance belongs to the Lord.

The emotional difficulty remains. We recoil at the idea that God stands behind any authority exercised by wicked hands. Paul knew that difficulty firsthand — he wrote under Nero. Yet his confidence was not in the goodness of rulers but in the goodness of God. Earthly authority is real but temporary, flawed but bounded. It rises and falls under the watchful sovereignty of the One true King.

Romans 13 therefore calls Christians to a distinctive way of living as citizens. We honor the structure of authority because God uses it to preserve order. We critique injustice because God loves righteousness. We obey where conscience allows, and we disobey where conscience requires. But in all of it, we refuse to be overcome by evil. We overcome evil with good, trusting that Christ’s kingdom is the final word over every earthly throne.

Orthodoxy to Orthopraxy

Romans 12 feels like the moment Paul turns the diamond of the gospel so we can see how its brilliance lands in ordinary life. After eleven chapters of unveiling God’s righteousness—His mercy, His sovereign grace, His justifying love—Paul says “therefore,” and with that single word he opens the door from right thinking to right living. What follows is not a list of moral chores but the lived shape of the gospel itself. It is orthopraxy born from orthodoxy, practice flowing from truth.

He begins with whole life worship. If God has done all that Romans 1–11 describes—rescuing rebels, adopting enemies, pouring out mercy—then the only reasonable response is to place ourselves entirely at His disposal. Paul calls it a “living sacrifice,” not a moment on an altar but a life offered up. Worship becomes the daily posture of a heart captured by grace.

From there Paul moves to renewed thinking. The gospel doesn’t merely adjust behavior; it transforms the mind. The darkened thinking of Romans 1 is replaced by a Spirit shaped discernment that recognizes God’s will as good, acceptable, and perfect. Right practice begins with right perception—seeing the world through the lens of God’s mercies.

That renewed mind produces humility in community. Since boasting is excluded (Romans 3:27), pride has no place in the church. We think “soberly,” measuring ourselves not by comparison but by grace. The gospel dismantles self importance and builds a community where each member knows they belong by mercy, not merit.

This humility expresses itself in grace driven service. The gifts God gives are not badges of honor but instruments of love. Teaching, exhorting, giving, leading, showing mercy—each is exercised “according to grace.” The church becomes a living demonstration of God’s generosity, each member serving because each has been served by Christ.

Then Paul turns to the heart of Christian practice: genuine love. Not sentimental, not performative, not selective. Love that hates evil, clings to good, and mirrors the sincerity of God’s own love poured out in Romans 5. This love becomes the moral shape of righteousness lived out.

Flowing from that love is family like affection. If Romans 8 tells us we are adopted, Romans 12 tells us how adopted people treat one another. Honor becomes the currency of Christian relationships. We lift one another up because God has lifted us up.

Paul then describes the posture of believers in a broken world: persevering hope. The hope of Romans 5 and the assurance of Romans 8 become joy in the midst of suffering, patience in tribulation, and constancy in prayer. Trials do not contradict God’s goodness; they become the arena where hope proves its strength.

That hope opens the hands of believers in generous hospitality. The God who welcomed us now calls us to welcome others—meeting needs, opening homes, sharing life. Hospitality becomes a living echo of divine grace.

Paul then presses into the hardest arena of orthopraxy: peaceable living. Bless those who persecute you. Live in harmony. Refuse retaliation. Seek peace. Why? Because Romans 5 says God reconciled us while we were His enemies. We now extend that same reconciling posture to ours.

Finally, Paul reaches the summit: overcoming evil with good. This is the gospel in action. Evil is not conquered by force, anger, or vengeance, but by goodness—God’s goodness reflected in His people. The cross is the pattern: victory through sacrificial love.

In the end, Romans 12 is not a new burden but a new life. It is the lived expression of the righteousness revealed in Romans 1–11. God has shown mercy; therefore we present ourselves. God has renewed our minds; therefore we are transformed. God has made us His people; therefore we live humbly, lovingly, sacrificially. God has overcome evil; therefore we overcome evil with good.

News Weakly - 8/15/2026

And An Invitation to Tea
The peace-loving Houthis—aligned with Iran—have sent a special gift to the Saudi Jazan refinery. A drone strike started a fire. The strike was because of a claim of air intrusion (not attack) from Saudi Arabia. Because that's what civilized, peace-loving people do. They blow things up when they don't like where airplanes go.

Not On Board the Peace Train
Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu has rejected Trump's 15-point peace plan for Gaza. They think that they shouldn't have to withdraw from the area as long as their enemy there is still armed. So, Trump loses again. So much for his plan to be emperor of the world.

Is That Even a Question?
Meta Platforms faces 29 states suing over claims that Facebook and Instagram are engineered to be addictive to children. Meta estimates damages could be as high as $1.4 trillion. The states want age restrictions. Interestingly, apparently the states believe that "age restrictions" will solve the problem. That seems naïve to me.

No One Can Be Sarcastic ALL the Time
Come on ... this is heartwarming. A 12-year-old southern California girl walked out of the hospital this week after suffering a rare spinal injury called a "spinal stroke" and being told she'd be paralyzed for life. She plans to pursue a dance career. That really is nice.

Fake News for Your Edification
White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt is leaving the White House ostensibly to "spend more time with her beautiful young children." The Bee suggests she should be well prepared for motherhood after spending two years answering millions of stupid questions. The WNBA met to figure out what a "woman" was ... and failed (actual story), prompting conflicting reports from the Bee. One says the WNBA has changed their name to ?NBA and the other suggests they consulted with a revered Supreme Court Justice Jackson on the subject. I say they're the same thing.

Must be true; I read it on the internet.

When Christ is Present

Matthew 18:20 is one of those verses that has been lifted out of its setting and used as a kind of warm encouragement—“Hey, even if only a few show up, Jesus is here.” But when you read it in its context, it becomes something far more serious, far more weighty, and—ironically—far more comforting. It is not about worship attendance; it is about Christ’s own authority standing behind His people when they must do the hard work of discipline and restoration.

In Matthew 18 Jesus lays out the process of dealing with sin in the body: go privately, then bring witnesses, then tell the church, and finally render a judgment if repentance is refused. It is sober work. It is painful work. And it is work that no one wants to do alone. So Jesus anchors the entire process in the language of witnesses—“two or three”—the number required in biblical law to establish a matter. These are not “two or three gathered for a prayer meeting.” These are “two or three gathered as witnesses under My authority.”

And then He says the astonishing thing: when those witnesses gather in His name—when they act according to His Word, under His authority—He is there. Not merely present in the general sense that God is always present, but present as the One who ratifies their judgment. Present as the One who binds in heaven what they have rightly bound on earth. Present as the One who stands with His church when they must do the difficult, heartbreaking work of confronting sin and seeking restoration.

So the verse is not a motivational slogan for small gatherings. It is Christ’s assurance that the smallest group acting faithfully in His name carries the full weight of heaven behind it. It is His promise that when His people must make hard decisions—when they must confront, correct, restore, or, if necessary, render judgment—they do not do so alone. He is in their midst, validating their work when it aligns with His Word.

That is the real comfort of Matthew 18:20. Not that Jesus shows up when attendance is low, but that Jesus stands with His church when obedience is hard.

A Missed Mark

We all want comfort. Comfortable. We don’t want pain. We don’t want trials. When hardship comes, we often slip into an existential dilemma: Is there a God? Where is He? Why would He allow this? We instinctively treat “uncomfortable” as wrong—perhaps even morally wrong.

But God doesn’t. Scripture says He always does what is good. And He certainly inflicts pain, so that pain must serve His good purposes. Scripture is explicit that trials and tribulations are not aberrations but instruments of grace. “We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance…” (Rom 5:3–5). James echoes it: “Count it all joy… for the testing of your faith produces steadfastness” (James 1:2–4). Even our own common wisdom admits the same: “No pain, no gain.”

So perhaps we’re looking in the wrong place. Maybe “comfortable” isn’t the ultimate good. Maybe “good” is not defined by my easy spot. What then?

Scripture makes it patently obvious—and we constantly miss it. God’s repeated intent is not primarily our pleasant circumstances but our relationship with Him. From the beginning, God’s design was relational: He walked in the garden with Adam and Eve (Gen 3:8). The first sin was not merely eating forbidden fruit; it was a relational rupture—distrust, autonomy, and a refusal to honor God’s word. The behavior was the symptom; the relational failure was the disease.

Ever since, God has been demonstrating love in both wrath and mercy. His wrath is not primarily against bad actions; it is righteous opposition to a failure to properly recognize and acknowledge Him. Paul says it plainly: “The wrath of God is revealed… against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men who suppress the truth… For although they knew God, they did not honor Him as God or give thanks” (Rom 1:18–21). The relational refusal comes first; the behavioral corruption follows.

God desires proper recognition and proper relationship. Jesus frames obedience relationally: “If you love Me, you will keep My commandments” (John 14:15). Obedience is not the currency by which we purchase God’s favor; it is the fruit of love. Conversely, disobedience is the fruit of failed love.

The entire Law hangs on relationship: “Love God … Love your neighbor” (Matt 22:37–40). Paul reinforces it: “Love is the fulfillment of the law” (Rom 13:10). That means every sin is fundamentally relational—a failure of love toward God and neighbor—and only secondarily behavioral.

This is why Scripture consistently describes sin in relational terms: adultery (Jer 3), idolatry (Exo 20), rebellion (Isa 1), unfaithfulness (Hos 1–3), grieving the Spirit (Eph 4:30). These are relational betrayals. The behaviors merely reveal the deeper breach.

Even the unpleasant experiences we encounter—the trials, the discomforts, the pains—are not random punishments but relational summonses. God uses them to draw us back, to refine us, to restore us. “Whom the Lord loves He disciplines” (Heb 12:6). Discipline is relational love, not retribution.

So yes—God is less concerned with behavior and more with relationship. And because relationship is the root, behavior and circumstances become diagnostic. They reveal whether we are walking with Him or wandering from Him. Comfort is not the measure of God’s goodness; relationship is. And our greatest comfort should be found in a right relationship with Him rather than mere human pleasantries. His presence should be our greatest comfort.

From, Through, and To Him

Romans 11 stands as one of Paul’s most sweeping demonstrations that the gospel does not overturn God’s promises to Israel but rather unveils the righteous character of God in its fullest dimensions. If Romans 1–10 has shown that the gospel reveals the righteousness of God in justification, sanctification, and the universal offer of salvation, Romans 11 shows that this same righteousness governs God’s dealings with Israel and the nations. It is a chapter where covenant fidelity, redemptive wisdom, and restoring mercy converge into a single, breathtaking vision of God’s saving purpose.

Paul begins with a direct question: Has God rejected His people? His answer is unequivocal. God’s covenant with Israel is not undone by Israel’s unbelief. A remnant remains—chosen by grace, sustained by grace, preserved by grace. In this remnant we see the righteousness of God as unwavering covenant loyalty. Human failure does not nullify divine promise. God remains faithful because faithfulness is His nature.

The remnant is not a theological footnote; it is a living testimony that the gospel does not replace Israel but reveals the continuity of God’s saving purpose. The righteousness of God is displayed in His refusal to abandon what He has pledged.

Paul does not minimize Israel’s stumbling, but he refuses to interpret it as final. Instead, he shows how God has woven Israel’s unbelief into a larger tapestry of mercy. Through Israel’s stumbling, salvation has come to the Gentiles. And through Gentile inclusion, God intends to provoke Israel to jealousy, awakening them to the grace they have resisted.

Here the righteousness of God is seen in His redemptive wisdom. Human unbelief does not derail His plan; He turns it toward a wider mercy. Jew and Gentile are not two stories but one story—intertwined, mutually influencing, and ultimately converging in the mercy of God.

Paul’s olive tree metaphor is one of the most vivid images in Romans. There is one covenant tree, one people of God. Some branches are broken off through unbelief; others are grafted in through faith. Gentiles stand not by superiority but by grace. Israel can be grafted in again, not by merit, but by the same mercy that grafted Gentiles in the first place.

The righteousness of God is revealed in His impartiality. He judges unbelief wherever it appears, and He welcomes faith wherever it is found. Severity toward unbelief and kindness toward faith—both express His righteous character.

Paul then unveils a mystery: Israel’s hardening is partial and temporary. God is not finished with His ancient people. When the fullness of the Gentiles has come in, “all Israel will be saved.” This is not a departure from the gospel but its fulfillment. God’s righteousness is displayed in His determination to restore, redeem, and complete His promises.

Paul’s summary is striking: God has consigned all to disobedience so that He may have mercy on all. The righteousness of God is not merely retributive; it is restorative. It does not abandon the disobedient; it pursues them with mercy.

Paul concludes Romans 11 not with analysis but with worship. The righteousness of God revealed in the gospel is so deep, so wise, so merciful that it leads inevitably to doxology. “For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things.” The gospel reveals a God whose saving plan is not only just but beautiful—faithful to His promises, wise in His purposes, and overflowing with mercy toward both Jew and Gentile.

The Gospel That Brings God’s Righteousness Near

Romans 10 continues Paul’s steady insistence that the gospel is the revelation of God’s righteousness (Rom 1:16-17). It is a chapter filled with deep concern for Israel, clarity about Christ, and a sweeping vision of God’s saving purpose. Paul is not merely explaining doctrine; he is unveiling how God makes His righteousness known in the world through the gospel of His Son.

Israel’s problem was not zeal. Paul readily acknowledges their passion. Their problem was direction. They pursued a righteousness of their own making, a law-based standing before God, and in doing so they missed the righteousness that God Himself provides. Paul says they “did not subject themselves to the righteousness of God,” a sobering reminder that human effort—even religious effort—cannot produce what only God can give. The gospel reveals that righteousness is not achieved; it is received. This is the heart of Paul’s contrast between human righteousness and God’s righteousness.

Paul makes this point unmistakable when he declares that Christ is the end of the Law for righteousness. Everything the Law demanded, Christ embodies. Everything the Law pointed toward, Christ accomplishes. In Him, the righteousness of God is not an abstract standard but a living Person. The gospel reveals God’s righteousness because it reveals Christ as the One who stands in our place, fulfills the Law’s demands, and grants righteousness to all who believe. This is the meaning of Romans 10:4—Christ is the goal, the fulfillment, the completion of the Law’s righteous requirements.

Paul then turns to the nearness of this righteousness. It is not distant, inaccessible, or reserved for the spiritually elite. There is no need to ascend to heaven or descend into the abyss. God has brought His righteousness near—in the word proclaimed, in the gospel heard, in Christ Himself. The righteousness of God is not a hidden mystery but a present reality, placed within reach through the preached word of Christ. This is the beauty of the nearness of the gospel.

This is why Paul speaks of confessing with the mouth and believing with the heart. He is not offering a mechanical formula but describing the posture of faith—trusting Christ, submitting to Him, acknowledging Him as Lord. The gospel reveals God’s righteousness by showing that salvation rests entirely on God’s saving act in Christ, not on human performance. Faith receives what God gives. Paul’s language of “confess” and “believe” is simply the lived expression of saving faith.

And this gift is not narrow in scope. Paul insists that there is no distinction between Jew and Greek, because the same Lord is Lord of all. The righteousness of God is revealed in the gospel precisely because it is universally offered. God shows Himself righteous in saving all who call upon Him, without partiality, without ethnic boundary, without favoritism. His righteousness is consistent, impartial, and gracious. This is the universal reach of God’s saving offer.

Paul then underscores the necessity of proclamation. If the righteousness of God is revealed in the gospel, then the gospel must be preached. Faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the word of Christ. God’s righteousness is not revealed in silence but in proclamation—in the sending of preachers, the announcing of good news, the hearing of Christ’s word. The gospel is God’s public revelation of His saving righteousness. This is the logic of Paul’s preaching chain.

Finally, Paul addresses Israel’s unbelief. They heard. They refused. Yet even here, God’s righteousness is displayed—in His patience, His persistent invitation, His outstretched hands to a disobedient people. Their unbelief does not undermine God’s righteousness; it highlights it. God remains faithful, merciful, and just, even in the face of rejection. And in the Gentiles’ response, we see His mercy extended beyond Israel, fulfilling His righteous purposes for the nations. This is the sober but hopeful reality of Israel’s unbelief.

In all of this, Romans 10 reinforces the central truth of Paul’s letter: the gospel reveals the righteousness of God—a righteousness found in Christ, offered through faith, proclaimed openly, extended universally, and displayed in God’s dealings with both Israel and the nations.

Election's Certainty

Romans 9 is all about God’s sovereignty in election. It is explicit: God chooses. Not us. Not our deeds. Not our decisions. God. Paul answers several objections and leaves no doubt. He chooses “so that God's purpose according to His choice would stand” (Rom 9:11). “So then it does not depend on the man who wills or the man who runs, but on God who has mercy” (Rom 9:16). Paul’s final argument is, “Or does not the potter have a right over the clay, to make from the same lump one vessel for honorable use and another for common use?” (Rom 9:21). God chooses—not out of caprice or randomness, but for His good purposes, apart from our actions or decisions.

That’s all well and good, but when we reach Romans 10, it looks different. “If you confess with your mouth Jesus as Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved” (Rom 10:9). Doesn’t that say we choose, we believe? If salvation comes by confessing and believing, how is it all God, as Romans 9 insists? And how do we know that all who are chosen will come?

This is why Scripture must be interpreted with Scripture. Look at Jesus’s own words: “All that the Father gives Me will come to Me, and the one who comes to Me I will certainly not cast out” (John 6:37). What initiates this coming—my faith, or the Father’s giving? Later He adds, “No one can come to Me unless the Father who sent Me draws him; and I will raise him up on the last day” (John 6:44). Again, the initiator is the Father, not the believer. And the consequence is certain: the one drawn is the one raised. If the Father draws, the person drawn will come and will be raised on the last day.

Jesus’s discussion as the Shepherd is similar: “But you do not believe because you are not of My sheep. My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me; and I give eternal life to them, and they will never perish; and no one will snatch them out of My hand” (John 10:26–28). From believing to never perishing, the entire process is initiated and completed by God.

Paul says the same thing in Romans: “These whom He predestined, He also called; and these whom He called, He also justified; and these whom He justified, He also glorified” (Rom 8:30). Every verb is in the past tense—even glorified—because the entire chain is certain. From predestination to glorification, it is all God’s work, and therefore irrevocable.

Yes, we must confess with our mouths and believe in our hearts. Absolutely. But Scripture makes it clear that God initiates, carries through, and completes all of this. Do we confess and believe? Yes—because He ensures that we do. Both truths stand together. As Acts records, “as many as had been appointed to eternal life believed” (Acts 13:48). Not one was lost. Not one failed to believe. “For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things” (Rom 11:36).

How Did I Get Here?

I know I have a reputation for being somewhat of a Calvinist. I’m amused by it. I was raised a Baptist. Not “Southern,” “Independent,” “American,” or any other variation—just Baptist. I never read Calvin. I never heard of the “Reformed faith.” Just your vanilla Christian. I was raised in the church, taught the Bible, urged to memorize Scripture. I went to Christian school from kindergarten through eighth grade and was in church—a lot. I believed you were a Christian when you put your faith in Jesus, and I and all of my siblings did that at a young age. I had heard about those “Calvinists” and “Arminians.” Since “Arminians” believed you could lose your salvation and I didn’t, I concluded I was a “Calvinist.” Imagine my surprise when I discovered I was a “one point Calvinist.” To be accurate, a “half point Calvinist.”

It was in my late thirties that I started hearing R.C. Sproul. He wasn’t focusing on Reformed theology; he was focusing on the holiness of God, and it was amazing stuff. I was an elder in my church, and I was talking to my pastor about it, and he warned me: “Watch out! That guy is a Calvinist.” I was confused. I was, too, right? Actually, no. So it wasn't Sproul that led me here, even if he contributed later.

I had my daily devotions—“QTs,” we called them—and I was in the ever-popular Gospel of John and read, “But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, even to those who believe in His name” (John 1:12). There, see? When we accept Jesus, we become His children. Wait… no… that’s not what it says. We don’t “accept” Him. That sounds active: “I give Him my acceptance. I approve.” No, this is more passive—like a tight end receiving a pass. It just comes to you. Practically hits you. You don’t ask for it. You just receive it.

But maybe I’m being overanalytical. Then I read the rest of the sentence, and it clarified: “who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God” (John 1:13). I did not see that coming. It says explicitly we aren’t born into it, we don’t work for it, we don’t choose it. We receive it—passively—as a work of God at the will of God alone.

Suddenly it appeared all over (e.g., Rom 9:6–8; Gal 3:7; John 8:39–47; Rom 9:16; John 3:6; John 6:63; Eph 2:1–5; 1 Cor 3:6–7; James 1:18; 1 Pet 1:23; John 3:3–8; Ezek 36:26–27; Titus 3:5; 1 John 5:1). It was everywhere—Old Testament and New. And more piled on. If we’re “dead in sin,” as Paul says in Ephesians 2, how do we choose Christ? Dead people don’t do that. If we can’t understand spiritual things in the flesh (1 Cor 2:14), how do we understand? If the reason we don’t believe is because we aren’t His sheep (John 10:26), don’t we need to be His sheep before we arrive at faith? If there is none righteous and none good (Rom 3:10–12), in what sense can we be righteous or good? If we are saved by grace through faith apart from works (Eph 2:8–9), wouldn’t coming in faith be a work that saves? If “no one can” come to Christ “unless” (John 6:44, 64–65), doesn’t that “unless” have to be met prior to coming? I wrestled with this and more for a long time.

Eventually I was dragged—practically kicking and screaming—by the weight of Scripture into this ridiculous position. We are radically depraved (Gen 8:21; Rom 3:10–12; Eph 2:1–3), chosen apart from anything in us (Eph 1:4–5; Rom 9:11–16; Acts 13:48), forgiven by Christ’s blood specifically and completely (John 10:11–15; John 17:9; Eph 5:25), drawn to Him irresistibly (John 6:37; Rom 8:30; Ezek 36:26–27), and saved eternally by God (John 10:27–29; Php 1:6; Jude 1:24; Rom 8:28–39). (Note: that’s merely a sample of the passages I’ve had to deal with.) My “ridiculous position” wasn’t taught to me in my youth. It wasn’t assigned to me by teachers or theologians. It was fed to me—gagging and choking sometimes—by God’s Word. Like Martin Luther, I ended up here: “Unless I am convinced by the testimony of the Scriptures or by clear reason, I am bound by the Scriptures, and my conscience is captive to the Word of God.”

It was only as I embraced God’s Word as it was presented to me that I ended up with this incredible tapestry of God’s holiness and sovereignty and faithfulness over my every attempt at rebellion and failure. I ended up with peace and joy and love I never even dreamed of. I know lots of genuine, Bible believing Christians who disagree with me, and I don’t find it an issue to divide over. I respect them even as we disagree on these points. But I’m not really a Calvinist. I’ve never even read him. I’m a biblicist. I’m just glad that other teachers and theologians—and Calvin—agree with me on this. When God reveals my error, I’ll gladly change it, but until then …

News Weakly - 8/8/2026

Learning Disabled?
The news is reporting that a deal is near on opening the Strait of Hormuz. Um … again? Oh, of course, it requires that one or both sides stop shooting. Again? We’ve had two ceasefires and now we’re in a third … where the firing hasn’t ceased. But … I guess in a world that has decided truth is relative, it would stand to reason that this would be reasonable and acceptable.

Major Missile Strike
Russian forces “pounded Kyiv” in a major missile strike that killed 10. Now, I know that loss of life is bad and I agree that this is a bad thing, but … “major missile strike”? Russia launched 35 missiles and 185 drones … and killed 10? I have to say, this doesn’t speak well of Russian missile strikes … or the media that seems to want to dredge up panic.

Border Wall
A tiny Spanish territory next to Morocco called Ceuta was inundated with an estimated 80,000 refugees fleeing Morocco. Why? Spain opened the border. The result? At last count, 141 died. The solution? Border fencing and troops. And they say Trump is crazy.

Minimum Outrage
Currently, San Francisco’s minimum wage is at $19.61 per hour for most employees. A proposal of $30 per hour has been floated. They’re keeping it off the November ballot for now, but … why not? I mean, if the goal is “living wage” and the motivation is “what I want,” why not ask for $100 per hour? Oh, sure, that will cripple the economy and make the demand for a higher wage louder, but, hey, if that’s what it takes. I don’t understand why these people can’t figure out basic economics and see that increasing the price of doing business will … increase the price of doing business. It’s just 2+2 math. Oh … I see. Too difficult.

Fake News That’s Fit to Print
After a recent big debate over a $20 burrito, news is surfacing that Jesus fed 5,000 for under $20, and the outrage is palpable. In Washington, Senator Mitch McConnell seems to have gone missing. Now a staffer has admitted they dropped him off at a farm in the country where he’d be happier. Finally, after the Fauci debacle, apparently the Senate will join the rest of the nation in holding him in contempt.

Must be true. I read it on the internet.

A Difficult Sovereignty

Romans 9 is where Paul asks us to stand before the mystery of God without flinching. The chapter does not flatter human instinct; it does not soften divine sovereignty; it does not apologize for the weight of glory. It simply opens the curtain and lets us see God as He is—merciful, just, patient, free.

Paul begins with the jarring words, “Jacob I loved, but Esau I hated.” It is covenantal language, not emotional language, yet it still unsettles us. We are accustomed to imagining God’s choices as responses to our choices. But here, God’s love precedes Jacob’s birth, Jacob’s character, Jacob’s works. The point is not that God is arbitrary, but that His purposes are older than we are. Election is not a verdict on human merit; it is the architecture of redemption.

Then Paul presses further: “It does not depend on the man who wills or the man who runs, but on God who has mercy.” This is not a denial of human responsibility; it is a denial that human effort can generate salvation. The will and the run are real, but they are not the engine. Mercy is the engine. Mercy is the explanation. Mercy is the miracle. Paul is not dismantling logic—he is dismantling pride.

And then the hardest line: “He has mercy on whom He desires, and He hardens whom He desires.” Hardening is not God extinguishing a willing heart; it is God handing a rebellious heart over to its rebellion. It is judicial, not capricious. Pharaoh is not a puppet; he is a warning. Mercy softens; judgment exposes. Both reveal the same God—holy, patient, righteous.

Finally Paul speaks of God’s will to “show His wrath and make His power known.” Wrath is not God’s delight; it is His justice. Power is not God’s ego; it is His holiness displayed against the backdrop of human sin. And yet wrath is not the destination of the chapter. Mercy is. Paul’s crescendo is not despair but astonishment: that God, who would be just to condemn, instead prepares vessels of mercy for glory.

Romans 9 is difficult because it refuses to let us be the center of the story. It insists that salvation begins in God, flows from God, and returns to God. It humbles us so that grace can lift us. It silences us so that worship can speak. It confronts us so that comfort can be real.

Romans 9 calls us to humility before God’s sovereignty, gratitude for God’s mercy, patience with God’s timing, and reverence for God’s holiness. It teaches us to stop measuring salvation by human effort and to start marveling at divine compassion. It invites us to trust God’s purposes when they exceed our understanding, and to rest in His mercy when our own strength fails. Above all, it urges us to worship—not because we grasp every mystery, but because we have been grasped by grace.

The Good News Behind the Good News

I’m teaching through Romans these days, and I’ve had this whole concept of “the gospel” poured into my head in terms I hadn’t considered before. We know it is God’s gracious gift of His Son, who died in our place so we could be justified by faith apart from works. But I’m seeing other things here. “It is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes” (Rom 1:16). Have you ever thought of the gospel as the power of God? “In it the righteousness of God is revealed” (Rom 1:17). Have you considered how God’s righteousness is displayed in the gospel? Or how “the wrath of God” (Rom 1:18) is part of that righteousness revealed?

I realized in this study that sin, as Paul describes it here, is not primarily about doing bad things. The “bad things” are simply the result of the original “sin problem.” In this context, sin is our failure—no, our refusal—to honor God or give thanks (Rom 1:21). The cascade of sins that follows is the consequence of that refusal. Sin is a relational violation of the Most High. Jesus made that clear (Matt 22:37–40; John 14:15). Our refusal to love God as we ought results in our failure to obey.

And then it occurred to me: What is the gospel? Yes, “We maintain that a man is justified by faith apart from works of the Law” (Rom 3:28). A wonderful, one line expression of the gospel. But look deeper.

Paul wrote, “God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us” (Rom 5:8). He wrote, “But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us…” and includes “by grace you have been saved” in that (Eph 2:4–5). We even find that “the Lamb” was “slain from the foundation of the world” (Rev 13:8). That is, God’s original plan was to send His Son to die for us on the basis of His love for us.

So what is the gospel—the ultimate good news? It is God’s amazing love. We rightly sing about His amazing grace, but His love is astounding: unwavering, never failing, faithful love. Steadfast love. Love given to those who do not return it (Rom 5:10; Rom 8:7). Great love (Eph 2:4). A love that exceeds our capacity to know (Eph 3:19). The gospel begins with God’s love shown over against our refusal to love Him, and it floods us with His grace and mercy where we deserve only righteous wrath. Now that is amazingly good news.

Comfort in the Darkest Places

In Psalm 23, David penned his famous words: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me” (Psa 23:4). (Interestingly, most people familiar with the verse know it in King James English. I wonder why?) Very comforting—but what does it actually mean?

The phrase “the valley of the shadow of death” is familiar, but foreign. Most of us have heard it, but do we really know what it is?

The expression “shadow of death” translates the Hebrew phrase gêʾ tsalmāvet. (See? And you thought it was all Greek to you.) It isn’t really talking about death itself. It’s talking about a shadow—a place of deep darkness. Most literally, it means “death’s shadow,” a poetic description of profound gloom. We might say, “Though I walk through the lowest, darkest places in my life…”

Then there’s that “evil” David says he will not fear. What is that? The Hebrew term is raʿ. We routinely interpret “evil” as specifically “moral evil,” but this isn’t that. While raʿ can refer to moral evil in some contexts, here it refers to things that are bad, harmful, injurious, or dangerous.

It is translated this way in Isaiah: “I am YHWH, and there is no other, the One forming light and creating darkness, causing well-being and creating calamity; I am YHWH who does all these” (Isa 45:6–7). The King James says, “I make peace, and create evil,” but we know God doesn’t create moral evil (James 1:13–14), so it’s not that kind of “evil.”

David, then, is saying, “Even though I walk through the darkest, most dangerous places in my life, I will not fear harm, calamity, or serious injury.”

And note—David isn’t sprinting through these things. He’s not fleeing or cowering. He’s walking. In the middle of it. Unafraid.

Why? Because God is there, and He has His rod and staff.

The rod is the tool a shepherd uses to defend his sheep, sometimes with great violence. “I’m safe because You will fight for me.”

The staff is the shepherd’s guidance and rescue tool. He might pull a sheep from the edge of a precipice or lift him out of a ditch. He might tap the sheep with it to turn him in the way he should go. Guidance, rescue, relationship at hand.

David faced valleys in his life. He was running for his life for a long time—and more than once. Yet David claimed he didn’t need to fear during those times. He might run to save his life, but he knew God was there and was always defending and guiding him. David didn’t look for the comfortable; he looked to the character of his Shepherd.

What about you? Do difficult circumstances scare you? Do you fear? You don’t have to. The same Shepherd who walked with David walks with you. His rod still protects. His staff still guides. And His presence still turns the darkest valleys into places where courage can breathe again.

A Different "Just War" Theory

Paul wrote, “So then, brethren, we are under obligation, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh—for if you are living according to the flesh, you must die; but if by the Spirit you are putting to death the deeds of the body, you will live” (Rom 8:12–13). Most translations say something like, “if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body.” That is, it’s hard to tell the verb tense there. But the NASB makes it clear this is a continuous present tense—“putting to death.” It is present active indicative—an ongoing, continuous action. We don’t stop.

That’s an interesting idea. It says that our sanctification is an ongoing, continuous putting to death the deeds of the flesh. But that collides with a lot of other views.

For instance, one popular view is the classic “Let go and let God” approach. We don’t do anything. We just “let God work.” Relax. Be happy. This view may feel spiritually exciting, but it doesn’t fit the text. We’re to be executioners of the flesh in our lives at all times. It’s a whole new take on “no rest for the wicked.” So we’re to “work out your salvation with fear and trembling” (Php 2:12) with the certainty that “it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Php 2:13). Yes, He’s working—but so are we.

Another view many prefer is the concept of some sudden event that makes us perfect—something like a “baptism of the Spirit” as a post-conversion experience that suddenly changes you and now you’re all set. That doesn’t fit the term. We don’t stop this side of heaven. As long as we’re alive, we are to be putting to death the deeds of the flesh.

There is Quietism, which suggests we’re to be entirely passive, and Higher Life theology, where we “ascend to a higher plane.” There is holiness by rules, or knowledge, or positive thinking. Some are aware of the dangers of “easy believism,” but there is real danger in “easy sanctification,” too.

Sanctification is not passive, instantaneous, emotional, environmental, intellectual, or sacramental. It is ongoing, continuous, Spirit empowered warfare against the flesh. If we forget that, we put ourselves at risk.

The Redemption Paradox

In church history, the earliest theory of the Atonement was the Ransom Theory. Not much of a theory, really. I mean, it wasn't theoretical, because Jesus said, “For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give His life a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45). “Ransom” wasn’t the early church’s idea; it was His. Paul writes that Christ “redeemed us” from the curse of the law (Gal. 3:13), and Peter assures his readers that “you were not redeemed with perishable things” (1 Pet. 1:18). Same thing: a price is paid to free us.

So this “Ransom Theory” was Jesus’s idea, and the early church decided to let Him have it—even though many today don’t like the idea of “paying for sins” in any way. The question they had, however, was not whether He paid for our atonement, but who He paid. The disagreement was over whether it was Satan or someone else. Origen, Ambrose, and even Augustine (in his earlier writings) supported the view that, when we sinned, Satan took ownership of humanity, and Christ paid off Satan to free us.

Athanasius, Cyril of Alexandria, and—interestingly—later Augustine argued that the payment was made to God, because sin was against God, and Satan, the usurper, had no legitimate right to ownership.

Then Anselm brought out the Satisfaction Theory, claiming that God’s righteousness needed to be satisfied. Sin dishonors God (Rom. 3:23), and His honor needed to be restored. The Reformation gave us the Penal Substitution Theory, where Christ bears the penalty for our sin, and the payment He made (remember, no less than Jesus Himself claimed He came to make a payment) was made to God.

Clearly Christ was victorious, so the Christus Victor view has its merits (Col. 2:15; Heb. 2:14; Col. 1:13; 1 John 3:8). And the idea that Christ paid for our sin with His suffering is irrefutable (Isa. 53:5–6; Gal. 3:13; 1 Pet. 2:24; 2 Cor. 5:21; Rom. 3:25). And that last reference makes it abundantly clear to Whom the price was paid: “God put Him forward as a propitiation by His blood” (Rom. 3:25). The price was paid to God. It satisfied the God who had righteous wrath (Rom. 1:18–19). The Holy God was opposed to sin and needed to be propitiated; Christ did that.

Now… pause there and think about that. We sinned, so God had a problem: how to show mercy to sinners who violated His glory. He had to be just, but He wanted to show mercy. So He sent His Son to die for us (Rom. 5:8). Get that? The angry God sent His Son to pay the price for the sinners. God, rightly wrathful, sent His Son to be the payment—to appease His wrath. Go ahead—wrap your head around that one.