Category: Christian Living

In discussing the ministry of his cousin, Jesus reported that ‘from the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven has suffered violence, and the violent take it by force’ (Matthew 11:12).

From the time the Baptist preached repentance for the forgiveness of sins, because the kingdom was at hand, multitudes strained to gain entry, much like a destitute hoard which learns that the riches of a fortified city may be theirs if only they scale the walls.

In the eyes of the religious, their precious stronghold was being overrun by undesirables.

In another sense, the kingdom does not come without violence: it separates those who would be in from those who wish to remain out; it pits those who welcome the reign it represents from those who continue to rebel against its Lord.

And, further, the kingdom does violence within each man who wishes to enter, for entry into Christ’s kingdom requires the mortification of the flesh — putting to death the deeds of the worldly desires that continue to rise up within us. This violence requires us to pluck out our proverbial eye, to cut off our metaphorical hand, if such is necessary to secure our entry.

Of course, the world, the flesh, the devil do not want any to enter Christ’s kingdom, and themselves strive and strain to preserve their grip on the souls of men. Only the violent — those regenerated and empowered by the Spirit — can resist with the violence necessary to escape their clutches.

Of this violent kingdom-taking Thomas Watson writes: ‘the flesh is a sly enemy; at first dulce venenum (a beautiful charm or potion); afterward, scorpio pungens (a fighting scorpion); it kills by embracing’ and ‘the movement of the soul towards sins is natural, but its movement towards heaven is violent'(Heaven Taken by Storm).

Does our faith resemble this sort of violence? Does our walk with Christ require this sort of effort, this continual homicide of our own man?

Or is the most striving and straining we muster in relation to our favorites sports teams? Do we take heaven by storm — with zeal — or do we attempt to ride in, ‘easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy’?

Before Jesus began his earthly ministry, his cousin, John the Baptist, prepared the people for the coming Christ. Luke, in his Gospel, reports that the Baptizer’s sermons were anything but user-friendly. He called the crowds a “brood of vipers,” and challenged them to do works that confirmed their professed repentance.

These deeds included radical generosity: whoever has two tunics is to share with him who has none, and whoever has food is to do likewise (Luke 3:10). They included radical honesty: [tax collectors should] collect no more than you are authorized to do (Luke 3:13). They included radical restraint of power and lack of greed: [soldiers should not] extort money from anyone by threats or by false accusation, and be content with your wages (Luke 3:14).

But the Baptizer gets even more radical. He describes Jesus’ superior greatness in terms of His baptizing people with the Holy Spirit and with fire. In baptizing people with the Holy Spirit and with fire, Jesus will brandish his winnowing fork, He will clear the threshing floor, He will gather His wheat into His barn, and He will burn the chaff with unquenchable fire.

No wonder the Baptizer wore burlap and ate bugs. He probably was not given the key to many cities.

But Luke describes John’s harshness this way: “with many other exhortations he preached good news to the people” (Luke 3:18).

“Good news”? Seriously?

John’s exhortations — even that Jesus will clear the threshing floor and burn chaff with fire — point to the more glorious truth that Jesus will gather his wheat into his barn. No doubt. No uncertainty. No question. He will do it. He will save his people.

How do you know whether you are “Jesus’ wheat”? Repent, and believe the good news.

Trevin Wax, in his book Holy Subversion, demonstrates that one reason early believers were persecuted was that they subverted the allegiance demanded by the Roman Caesar. Early believers were subversive because they rejected the idea that the Caesar was the chief among the gods, they rejected the idea that power made right, they rejected the idea that sex was to be promoted regardless of its form, they rejected the idea that wealth was to be hoarded.

Wax points out that, obviously, we have no Caesar breathing down our necks, requiring our allegiance by providing bread and circuses — keeping us fat and entertained, as it were.

However, modern Caesars still lure us into practical Caesar worship. Views on money and wealth cause Christians to behave like the world. Views on sexuality cause Christians to act like world. Views on power, politics, health and even entertainment subtly tempt Christians to act like the world, becoming not merely practical atheists (living like there is no God), but practical polytheists (living as if there are many gods to be appeased and praised).

Christians today — much like those of the first centuries — must deliberately recognize and topple all would-be Caesars, deposing them from their worldly thrones and recognizing instead the one, true God, who alone occupies the throne and rules in all aspects of our lives.

Paul, the author of Romans, who was imminently qualified and inspired by God to write of the realities of God’s initiative for us through the person and work of Christ (Chapters 1-11), and what that meant for our relation to the kingdom of God and to each other (Chapters 12-16), was somebody.

Other than for a few directed greetings in Chapter 16, Paul does not name a single person to whom he is actually writing. The audience in Rome, those called of God to belong to Christ, those called to be saints, are nobodies.

Yet the imminent author of Romans, intimately acquainted with the truth of God, of Jesus, of the Holy Spirit, says something radical about who these nobodies really are.

“For I long to see you, that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to strengthen you — that is, that we may be mutually encouraged by each other’s faith, both yours and mine” (Romans 1:11-12).

He is not saying that he is going to provide them some gift of the Spirit that isn’t already manifested in them. The Holy Spirit does that. What he is saying is that this somebody and the nobodies to whom he writes will be “mutually encouraged” by the respective manifestations of the Spirit that they possess through faith in Christ.

These nobodies, then, aren’t nobodies at all, but are the called, the saints, the “belongers” to Christ (verse 6) through whom the Spirit himself works. They are somebody because God had promised the gospel, because Christ secured grace, and because the Spirit demonstrated power in his resurrection (verses 2-5).

Paul and his Roman readers would strengthen each other and edify the body of Christ by manifesting the Holy Spirit to each other.

Do our gatherings for worship, for Bible study, for discipleship exhibit this same expectation? Are the dividing lines of race, class, wealth obliterated by mutual reliance on the Spirit and the realization that we are all the worse spiritually without true fellowship with other believers, regardless of their “importance” in the eyes of the world?

Like Paul we should “long to see” other believers so that the Spirit will do his sanctifying work of edification through us.

We recognize that there is something powerful in the utterance of words. Thoughts may influence us greatly, but speaking them into existence makes them somehow more – well, real.

The drill sergeant, with the goal of getting a green recruit to recognize his dependence on the group, doesn’t merely want to know the recruit’s beliefs, but demands “Let me hear you say it, private!”

Parents who want reconciliation between siblings aren’t satisfied with a penitent heart, but insist that the offending one “tell your brother how you feel.”

And the frustrated girl dealing with her reticent romantic interest doesn’t want to know he loves her, but longs for the day he actually says it.

In Psalm 35, David reflects this same idea when in the midst of an otherwise imprecatory litany he makes a request of God that he “Say to my soul, ‘I am your salvation!’” (35:3b). Two things occupy David’s mind about God: 1) a fact, 2) a proclamation.

David faced myriad problems: men sought his life, devised evil against him, laid traps for him, bore false witness, rejoiced over his calamity. All of this resulted from the animosity of God’s anointed, King Saul, and the mere fact that David had been called of God to replace Saul. David had a calling and ministry that others resented and didn’t understand.

But against these David seeks the Lord’s aid, and though he suggested that God fight with shield and buckler, with spear and javelin (vv. 1-2), his true request was otherwise: that they be put to shame, disappointed, caught with their own snares, and that David’s cause be vindicated…in other words, that they fail in their attempts against him.

In this midst of all this David seeks assurance. He knows he cannot trust the might of his own armies, or the cleverness of his schemes, or the brilliance of his defenses, but can only draw confidence from the fact that God is his salvation. This Fact further demonstrates that it is not what God does to alleviate David’s temporal circumstances that make him his salvation, but simply – and profoundly – who he is.

But David isn’t satisfied with the Fact: he wants Proclamation. Perhaps sensing the reality of his nature and that he, like us, needs the Gospel preached to him daily, insists that God declare again to him the Fact: I am your salvation! Like the one who longs to hear his master say “Well done, good and faithful servant,” David knows that unless he heard Proclamation of the Fact from God, he would tend to look elsewhere for sources of salvation, or relief, or solution.

Some of us have never heard God say “I am your salvation!” because we remain in our sin. Some of us don’t want to hear it, because we prefer to look elsewhere for salvation. David reminds us that we need both fact and proclamation.

Before Jesus fed the five thousand (John 6) he had just delivered a sermon in which he based his authority to forgive sins on the fact that he only did what the Father gave him to do. Interestingly, he cites to them the example of Moses (John 5:45), and that because they did not believe Moses, they would not believe him.

Moses, it turns out, dealt with the same problem in Numbers 11. The people grumbled against God and his provision of manna, and God promised to fill them so full of the meat they craved until it “comes out at your nostrils” (Numbers 11:20). Moses, like Philip and Andrew after him, couldn’t see how God could provide meat to 600,000+ hungry Israelites. God told Moses, “Is the Lord’s hand shortened? Now you shall see whether my word will come true for you or not” (Numbers 11:23).

The people followed Jesus because of the signs he performed. Philip and Andrew thought that Jesus’ hand was shortened: how could he feed 5,000+ hungry groupies? And Jesus – forgetting all ‘seeker-sensitive’ principles – told the crowd that they only liked him because he fed their bellies.

Using the incident of Moses, manna, nostril-filling quail, and the loaves and fishes, Jesus points out that they don’t really need to have their bellies filled, but they really need their souls filled. And what was it that would fill their hungry souls? Why, the same Jesus who worked only what God told him to and fed 5,000+ in a miraculous way. “I am the bread of life,” he said. “Fill yourself with me.”

Indeed, now you shall see.