From Jeremy Pierce:

Here are some of the things I really hate in a worship song.

1. Too simplistic, banal, lacking in depth, shallow, doctrineless: Consider that one that just talks about unity among brothers that only mentions God in passing at the very end.

2. It’s so repetitive. I mean, come on, how many times can you repeat “His steadfast love endures forever” before you start thinking the song is going to go on forever? Examples: here and here

3. For some songs, the focus is too much on instruments, and the sheer volume leads to its seeming more like a performance than worship and prevents quiet contemplation.

4. There might be too much emphasis on too intimate a relationship with God, using first-personme” and “I” or second-person pronouns like “you” instead of words like “we” and “God”. This fosters a spirit of individualism, and it generates an atmosphere of religious euphoria rather than actual worship of God. Worship should be about God, not about us. Or what about the ones that use physical language to describe God and our relationship with him? Can you really stomach the idea of tasting God? singular pronouns like “

5. Some songs have way too many words for anyone to learn.

6. It patterns its worship on experiences that not everyone in the congregation will be able to identify with. If you’re not in the frame of mind or don’t have the emotional state in question (e.g. a desperate longing for God. Then what are you doing lying and singing it? Worship leaders who encourage that sort of thing are making their congregations sing falsehoods.

7. Then there’s that song with the line asking God not to take the Holy Spirit away, as if God would ever do that to a genuine believer.

8. Then there’s that song that basically says nothing except expressing negative emotions.

At this point I’m so outraged that people would pass this sort of thing off as worship that I’m almost inclined to give in to the people who think we shouldn’t sing anything but the psalms. Oh, wait…

(HT TWax)

But John had caused a different kind of ripple. The previous day, Jesus had approached the Jordan River. John stopped what he was doing to make a mysterious but powerful declaration: “Behold! the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!” It left his disciples wondering.

Then, when the same thing happened the next day, two of those disciples wanted to inquire further:

“Again the next day, John was standing with two of his disciples. When he saw Jesus passing by, he said, ‘Look! The Lamb of God!’ The two disciples heard him say this and followed Jesus. When Jesus turned and noticed them following Him, He asked them, ‘What are you looking for?’” (John 1:35-38).

Valid question. Here were two men who were followers of John. Jesus comes walking up, and suddenly he’s got two hangers-on. So what were they looking for?

Their answer seems to say, “We don’t know,” for at first glance the didn’t even give an answer. They turn to each other. Then, instead of answering the question, they ask another question to Jesus: “Teacher, where are you staying?”

Now that’s a good question. It’s not because it redirected the question of Jesus, buying them some time to think of a better answer. It’s a good one because of the word “staying.”

The word is the same word we find in John 15:4, this time spoken by Jesus: “Abide in Me, and I in you. Just as a branch is unable to produce fruit by itself unless it abides on the vine, so neither can you unless you abide in Me.”

That’s what the men asked: “Where are You abiding?” Where are You remaining? Where are You dwelling? Where are You going to be, because that’s where we want to go. To be with You. To remain with You. To abide with You.”

That’s the question I want to ask: “Jesus, where are you abiding? Because that’s where I want to abide. I want to dwell with You. To fellowship with You. You are my prize, so wherever You are, be it dangerous or uncomfortable or peaceful or joyful, that’s where I want to abide.

But there’s one other detail in the Scripture that pushes the idea. John goes on to record that the two men did indeed go with Jesus. And they “stayed with Him that day.” Then John records the actual time they were there, as if to say, “And can you believe it? When we looked up the whole day was gone!”

That’s what abiding is like. It’s being so caught up in the being that you lose track of time. May it be so.

What follows are virtual models showing what the Temple Mount and Herod’s Temple would have looked like in the time of Jesus. The models were constructed by UCLA’s Urban Simulation Team in a collaboration with the Israel Antiquities Authority.

(HT: JT)

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea existed no longer. I also saw the Holy City, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared like a bride adorned for her husband.

Then I heard a loud voice from the throne:

“Look! God’s dwelling is with men, and He will live with them. They will be His people, and God Himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes…”

There is so much we could say about these few verses – that heaven came down to earth. That God’s desire of unbroken fellowship is fulfilled. But there’s something else regarding the tears of humanity that’s very, very compelling.

I read the word “wipe” (or in some translations, “blot”) and I think of what I do with my 3-year-old daughter. She gets hurt, she comes to me with her lip sticking out, and I gently reach out and hold her close and then very tenderly wipe away her tears. I dab at them, ever so softly, until they disappear and leave only a trace of what they once were.

Nice picture. That’s not what God will do.

The word here that’s translated “wipe” does not involve some kind of divine Kleenex. There is a fierceness to it. Indeed, it might also be translated “smear out” or even “obliterate.” How about that?

Here is our God, another picture of His determined and relentless mission to bring the great joy of His own presence to His creation. And when He finds us here, with tear-stained faces, He brings a fierceness with Him. He obliterates the tears. Much like a new police chief might promise to “wipe out” crime in a city, so does God at the end of time wipe out tears and anything that might threaten to bring them on.

He will destroy tears with His presence. He will annihilate sadness and mourning and pain because of His intimacy. He will force them out with the shining light of His face the way darkness is chased from a room with a 100 watt halogen bulb. Tears are gone because there is no room for them in the fullness of joy that comes with unbroken fellowship with God.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

“Come, you who are blessed by My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you took care of Me; I was in prison and you visited Me” (Matt. 25:34-36).

The sheep, in response, are less articulate. In essence, they say, “Huh?”

“When did we do that stuff? We don’t remember seeing you or clothing you or feeding you.”

Their surprise is shocking to me, because in my self-righteousness I often keep an internal list of all the things I’ve done well over the course of a given period of time. As if when that judgment comes, my response would be something like, “Yup. I remember that stuff. Glad to see you took notice, too.”

In the confusion of the sheep, we see the difference between doing good things and living good things. Doing is an act of the will – something that springs from resolve and effort. I’m not saying that it took no effort for the sheep to do the good they did, but their response reveals that these good acts had become so ingrained into the way they were living their lives that they did it because that’s just simply who they were.

Feeding, clothing, and visiting became as natural to them as eating when they were hungry. And in their response, we see again the power of the gospel.

It’s not just about getting into heaven; the gospel is about a complete change in your identity. Through the gospel, you don’t act like a sheep; you actually become a sheep. Then the most natural thing in the world for you to do is to live like what you have already become…

(This article was taken in part from my Bible study called Holy Vocabulary: Rescuing the Language of Faith.)

Jewish folklore was that the soul would hover above the body for up to 4 days after death, looking for signs of life and a chance to return. But after four days of death, there was no hope. Decomposition would have started. The body would have begun to decay.

And the smell. Maybe that would have been the worst part. The smell would have been putrid. Abhorent. Disgusting. The body would be sealed inside a tomb to keep the smell of the dead away from the living.

The smell is the smell of death. Of rottenness. Of lifelessness. A sensory reminder that the situation was beyond repair.

But Jesus isn’t afraid of that smell.

He storde boldly to the tomb and commanded that the stone be rolled away, but there were protests. “Lord, he already stinks. It’s been four days,” said the grieving sister.

“Don’t roll the stone away. It’s going to stink. Let us leave him alone; what good is there in confronting that smell? The smell of death?”

But Jesus isn’t afraid of that smell. He inhales it deeply and then spits it back out. He’s not afraid of it because He won’t abide it. He reaches into the smell of death and produces the fragrance of life. He did it with Lazarus; He did it with me; and He’s doing it countless times every day.

We recoil at the smell of death. Our stomachs turn. Bile comes up in our throats. But Jesus? Jesus beats back the stench of death with the fragrance of life.

And the dead come forth…

One night a rock sunk slowly. And when he did, Jesus had some profound things to teach us.¹

* * *

The day had been another mind-blower for the disciples. As they rowed toward Capernaum it was hard to stop talking about what they had seen. 5,000 men, plus women and children, and Jesus had fed them all! With one boy’s lunch! The power Jesus seemed to command both thrilled and unnerved them.

But it had all ended strangely. They had felt excited when the massive picnic turned into a “Jesus for king” rally. The people were beginning to understand! But Jesus had been visibly disturbed by this enthusiasm and moved quickly to douse it. That was confusing.

And why had he been in such a hurry for them to get to Capernaum that he had them sail by night—and without him? Theirs had been the last boat on the shore. If he intended to be there by morning, Capernaum was going to be one whale of a walk.

Then the wind picked up and the waves grew stronger, pushing back against every pull of the oars. This was going to add hours to the trip. Messianic excitement turned into tired irritability. Someone commented that at this rate, Jesus would probably beat them there on foot.

Just then another shouted, “What’s that?” They all looked back. It was a person! Or it had the shape of a person. Someone was walking—or floating—across the sea! An unearthly fear seized them. “It is a ghost!”

But a familiar voice called to them, “Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid.”

Jesus? It sure sounded like Jesus. But he was walking on top the water! Maybe a spirit could do that, but people can’t! Everyone was speechless.

Except Peter. “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Every astonished face turned back to Peter. Jesus responded, “Come.” Peter swung his legs over the side and started walking toward Jesus.

Things were getting more surreal by the moment.

But after taking a few steps Peter froze. Then he began to sink, as if into mud. He reached toward Jesus and cried, “Lord, save me!” Jesus reached back, grabbed him, and pulled him up. And with affectionate firmness said, “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?”

* * *

Peter actually showed remarkable faith in following Jesus out on to the water. I wonder if the thought even occurred to the others? I wonder if it would have occurred to me?

Now, if we’re not thinking carefully, we might assume that what held Peter up was his faith. But that’s not accurate. It wasn’t Peter’s faith keeping him afloat. It was Jesus. Peter knew that. That’s why he didn’t just leap out of the boat on his own. He asked Jesus to command him to come. What Jesus did was honor Peter’s faith by commanding the water to bear his weight.

Lesson #1: faith is not faith in our faith in Jesus, it’s faith in Jesus’ word.

But once Peter was outside the safety and familiarity of the boat, out in (or on) uncharted waters, everything started feeling precarious. Why? Well, people don’t actually walk on water. We may be so used to the story that the ridiculousness of walking on water doesn’t hit us. But it sure hit Peter at that moment.

And he started to sink.

Have you ever noticed that Peter the Rock didn’t sink like a rock? The last time you jumped into a pool, how gradually did you sink? There’s something profound going on here.

Peter began to sink when his faith shifted from the firmness of Jesus’ word to the instability of his circumstance. And when he did, it was Jesus letting him sink—slowly. And for Peter that was a grace.

Why? Because Peter’s sinking produced his cry to Jesus. It quickly got Peter to stop looking to the world or himself as the source of truth and salvation and instead cry out to his Savior. When he did that Jesus pulled him back up.

Lesson #2: Jesus’ word is truer and stronger than what we see or feel, and when we doubt that, sometimes he graciously lets us sink to help us refocus.

Trusting in Jesus and his word over our perceptions is difficult to learn. That’s why the Lord takes us through so many different faith-trying, faith-building experiences.

And when he does, it is never for just our own benefit. He’s displaying his power so others’ faith will be strengthened too. And, like the disciples in the boat, we end up saying together, “Truly you are the Son of God” (Matthew 14:33).

¹ This meditation is taken from Matthew 14:13-33 and John 6:1-21.

“Has it really come to this?”

And it had. Time after time, Saul had chosen disobedience. Sure, sometimes he’d gone halfway toward doing what God had told him, but he really wasn’t a “follow-through” kind of guy. Now it had finally caught up to him.

Samuel had delivered the crushing blow that God had rejected Saul as the king of Israel. The prophet had turned to leave, and the king had groveled after him, clutching at his robe so fiercely that a piece had torn off in his hand (1 Samuel 15).

But neither Samuel, or the Lord for that matter, was willing to be moved. Saul had broken the law. He had sinned. And despite his pleading, Samuel responded: “The Lord has torn the kingship of Israel away from you today and has given it to your neighbor who is better than you. Furthermore, the Eternal One of Israel does not lie or change His mind, for He is not man who changes His mind” (1 Samuel 15:28-29).

When we read these words, isn’t there part of us that starts to get nervous? How many times have we been Saul in this story? How many times have we knowingly sinned against God? Broken His law? Forsaken His fellowship? And how many times have we crawled in the dirt?

In those moments, isn’t there a piece of us that thinks we’re going to get the same response that Saul got? “Not this time. The second chances are all used up. And God is not going to change His mind.”

When Saul grabbed the hem of the prophet’s robe, most scholars think that tore off was the symbolic tassel that represented the law, something that went with the prophet everywhere. Ironically, the tassel tore off in Saul’s hand – a souvenir to remind him of his disobedience.

But that won’t happen to us. The robe is not going to tear in our grip. It’s not because we haven’t done worse than Saul; it’s because Jesus has kept the law perfectly in our place. The robe is not going to tear.

Our experience isn’t that of Saul; it’s of the nameless woman in Mark 5 who clung to the robe of Jesus. She wasn’t forsaken; she was healed.

Because of Jesus, the robe isn’t going to tear. We can hang on in faith.

Twice Jesus was offered wine while on the cross. He refused the first, but took the second. Why so?

The first time came in verse 23, “they offered him wine mixed with myrrh, but he did not take it.” William Lane explains,

According to an old tradition, respected women of Jerusalem provided a narcotic drink to those condemned to death in order to decrease their sensitivity to the excruciating pain . . . . When Jesus arrived at Golgotha he was offered . . . wine mixed with myrrh, but he refused it, choosing to endure with full consciousness the sufferings appointed for him (The Gospel of Mark, p. 564)

This first wine represented an offer to ease the pain, to opt for a small shortcut—albeit, not a major one in view of the terrible pain of the cross, but a little one nonetheless. But this offer Jesus refused, and in doing so, chose “to endure with full consciousness the sufferings appointed for him.”

The second time came in verse 35. After some bystanders thought he was calling for Elijah, “someone ran and filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a reed and gave it to him to drink, saying, ‘Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.’” Lane comments,

A sour wine vinegar is mentioned in the OT as a refreshing drink (Numbers 6:13; Ruth 2:14), and in Greek and Roman literature as well it is a common beverage appreciated by laborers and soldiers because it relieved thirst more effectively than water and was inexpensive . . . . There are no examples of its use as a hostile gesture. The thought, then, is not of a corrosive vinegar offered as a cruel jest, but of a sour wine of the people. While the words “let us see if Elijah will come” express a doubtful expectation, the offer of the sip of wine was intended to keep Jesus conscious for as long as possible” (Ibid., 573—574).

So the first wine (mixed with myrrh) was designed to dull Jesus’ pain, to keep him from having to endure the cross with full consciousness. This wine he refused.

And the second (sour) wine was given to keep him “conscious for as long as possible,” and thus have the effect of prolonging his pain. This is the wine Jesus drank.

Other condemned criminals would have taken the first (to ease their torment) and passed on the second (so as not to prolong their horrific pain). But Jesus would take no shortcuts on the way to our redemption.

At the cross, he drank the wine of his Father’s wrath down to its very dregs, and he did so for us—that we might enjoy the wine of his Father’s love, join him at the Marriage Supper of the Lamb, and live redeemed forever in the glorious presence of the one who took no shortcuts in saving us.

In this, he quoted Deuteronomy 21:23 which clearly states that anyone who dies on a tree is cursed by God. We might well pause in wonder at this – Christ cursed by God? One member of the Trinity cursing another? How can it be? Why can it be?

The great truth is that Christ became a curse so that we didn’t have to be. He took the righteous wrath and judgment of God on Himself so that we might not have to. But let’s not stop there, because the language Paul used is pretty intriguing.

Namely, there is this question: Why did He say that Christ became a curse rather than Christ was cursed? And what’s the difference in those two statements? I think there’s something important there for us, because it adds another layer of depth to what we talk about in the gospel.

My son loves to pretend he is stuff. He’s Wolverine. Or he’s Batman. But his favorite thing to be is a Jedi. He loves to walk around with a towel over his head with his hands folded serenely, only to drop the towel at a given moment and attack with a light saber. But there’s a big difference between acting like a Jedi and actually becoming one.

To become is to change the essence. It’s the difference between having water poured on your head and someone swimming inside you. Becoming is deeper than having something done to you.

Christ wasn’t just cursed; He became a curse. And He had to, because what we are talking about in the gospel is a change in our very core. In our very essence.

See, at our core, we are sinners. It’s not just what we do; it’s who we are. The gospel isn’t just God looking the other way and saying, “Ya’ll come on into heaven;” it’s about us becoming something entirely different than we are.

The same apostle would put it like this in 2 Corinthians 5:21: He who knew no sin became sin for us that we might become the righteousness of God.

Because Christ became a curse, we become His righteousness. And as profoundly as Christ became a curse, that’s how profoundly we became His righteousness.