I’ve been wrestling with truth this week for some reason. It’s a bit of a silly thing to wrestle with. How do you wrestle something you can’t touch? And why would you want to wrestle something as innocent and benign as truth?

It’s a bit strange to think that God is shaping our lives through Scripture. Take yourself back to the church in Corinth on that fine Sunday morning they first received Paul’s letter. They gather in the room of the house, sing and pray. They sit and settle in for an encouraging letter from Paul. ‘He was so kind and generous in person! Since he’s left, we’ve been fed by the teachings of Apollos, and that great Apollos straightened us all out!”

A lot of the hopes and disappointments of Israel revolve around the kings. Take, for instance, Ahaz. God speaks to Ahaz time and again through Isaiah, Hosea, and Micah. God sends him this great sign, Immanuel, “God with us,” so that Ahaz will know he can rely on God (Isa. 7.3-17). But Ahaz ignores God. He relies on himself, making an alliance with Assyria.

I wonder if we don’t do ourselves, our neighbors, and God a disservice by focusing so much on the final judgment. I believe in the final judgment, the final day of reckoning, where the book of life will be opened and we will be judged based on our deeds, sheep to one side, goats to the other. But focusing on it hasn’t seemed to help us much. 

Quite often I come across an idea that reshapes the way I understand a story in the Bible. I was under the impression I had already had my understanding of the Garden of Eden upended, so I could just go through life with this new and improved understanding of it, only to have that understanding reshaped into something different still! I guess what Jesus said was true—“every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven is like the master of a household who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old,” (Mt. 13.52). But we’re talking about Genesis 3.

Since we are now in Acts 21, with all those references to the Holy Spirit in previous chapters we may ask, “What is the Holy Spirit up to in Acts?” What is he doing in the lives of disciples and in the church? Especially in this chapter, what is Holy Spirit up to in travelers of the Way like Paul? He and his fellow travelers are approaching Jerusalem (Acts 21:1-16) and finally arrive as planned by Pentecost (Acts 21:17-22:1). But they arrive for events which none, perhaps even Paul himself, anticipated when the Holy Spirit helped him plan that journey.

According to the travelogue in today’s text (Acts 20:1-16), Paul was a traveler and had many fellow travelers. After three years of ministry in Ephesus, by the Spirit, he came up with a basic itinerary to pass through Macedonia and Achaia and go to Jerusalem and “I must also see Rome” (19:21). Those plans were interrupted by a great disturbance concerning the Way. Paul was the chief object of their threats. When that uproar ceased, Paul began his trip with many long farewells (20:1-2, 7), especially the one in the second half of our text (20:17-38).

Apparently I’ve been reading the Old Testament wrong. Sunday I described the Law as God above Mt. Sinai, shouting down commands, “do this, don’t do that,” and so on. I knew it was a bit of an exaggeration, because the Psalms make it very clear how life-giving the Law is, and God shouting down rules is hardly “sweeter than honey to my mouth!” (Ps. 119.103).

I forget where I saw it now, but someone said something to the effect of, “is it real faith if it doesn’t work in difficult situations?” The principle can be applied in other areas—“do we really hold to this moral ideal, if we give it up when it costs us something.” I might say that it is real faith/we do hold to the moral ideal, but it maybe isn’t a strong faith/strongly held belief. It’s still unfortunate, but not the end of the world.

For some reason, I’ve never had a great handle on what faith meant. Growing up, it always essentially meant, “do you believe Jesus died and was resurrected?” or “do you believe God exists?” Well, yes, but then again, I could just as easily believe he didn’t, and God doesn’t. That is the context in which I read Heb. 11.1—the resurrection and existence of God are “things hoped for,” “things not seen.” Faith meant I was assured of them, convicted about them, even though I had no evidence to substantiate that belief. Faith is a head-game, something that I do intellectually.

As strange as it may be, the only messiah (“anointed one”) in Isaiah is Cyrus. Throughout Isaiah 40-55, there is talk about this “servant” of God, perhaps it’s the prophet, perhaps it’s Judah, perhaps it’s someone else or a combination of people, but the servant is never the messiah, and the messiah is always Cyrus.

Jehoshaphat has no choice but to go to the temple, fall on his knees, and pray that God will listen. The army that will destroy Judah is on its way. So he reminds God of his love for his people, his friendship with Abraham, their ancestor, and his honor. He proclaims, “God, we do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you.” (2Chr. 20.12). But that’s not the end of the story.

My parents had this old farming manual at home, cloth bound, musty, yellowed pages, black and white photos. In flipping through it, one thing stood out and has stayed with me. The key for farming is diversity. When you have diversity, raising different crops, relying on different sources of income, if one crop fails, you still have other crops to receive income from. If one product of your farm has a bad year, you still have other products to sell. Diversity helps insulate you from forces outside your control.

It’s been a frustrating morning. I spent hours pouring over government websites with a specific issue in mind regarding students getting visas, trying to find a solution that will work. I would find a solution, have some hope, dig deeper, and find out the solution doesn’t apply. It’s ridiculous, because it’s a perfectly reasonable situation, and there’s no way the government would have an issue with what’s happening, but nevertheless—with all the bureaucratic red tape, nary a solution is to be found. 

The Sermon on the Mount is the ethics of the kingdom of God expressed in the present world. We don’t live its teachings out because we think doing so will end well in the present. We do it because we’re looking toward the future, and living that future in the present. This is one reason it isn’t helpful to think of eternal life as a future reality we will escape to in death. We’re called to live that future right now.

Shakespeare famously claimed that a name is essentially empty. A name is something external to the object, so “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” We could also say, “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

There’s something strange about billionaires flying into space to try out space tourism. Fly up, just beyond the atmosphere, return back down. The only goal? Do something that has only recently become possible. 

Acts 9.31 has this interesting complexity to it: “Living in the fear of the Lord and in the comfort of the Holy Spirit…” On the one hand, fear. On the other, comfort. Too much of one and you have harsh legalism and a mean God. Too much of the other and you have anything-goes-ism and a meaningless God. So, Ananias and Sapphira—one small mistake and they’re dead. So, also, Saul of Tarsus—many big mistakes, but still God calls him.

“Come to me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Yes, “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son,” Jesus, taking on flesh, coming to us. But the call of this Jesus is, “Come, follow me.” Discipleship is a path, not a bench. It involves us moving, not sitting still. 

My favorite math teacher of all time was Mr. Tomlinson. Tomlinson was an old man, good natured, keen to pick on everyone. “Yes, Mr. Hot Chocolate, Green Tea, I mean, Coffey! That’s your name! Up to the board…” “Ms. Sioux, Arapaho, no, Cheyenne!” For whatever reason, this old man making fun of the names of teenagers while teaching them Trig/pre-Cal was one of the most fun things about my junior year.