Wile E. Coyote had tried everything. ACME rocket skates. Catapults disguised as mailboxes. A boulder rigged with a tripwire and a helpful “FREE BIRD SEED” sign. Every single plan ended the same way: the Road Runner went “beep-beep,” and Coyote became the punchline, usually while flattened under his own clever idea.
One particularly bruised morning he sat on a cactus, staring at the latest hole in the ground that had been meant for someone else. In a fit of desperation—or maybe just because the package was cheaper than another anvil—he ordered a book. When it arrived it was red, thick, and surprisingly free of spring-loaded boxing gloves. The cover simply said HOLY BIBLE.
He opened it somewhere near the middle and read Proverbs 26:27:
“If you set a trap for others, you will get caught in it yourself. If you roll a boulder down on others, it will crush you instead.”
Coyote’s ears went up. His eyes got very wide. For the first time in decades, the universe seemed to be speaking his language.
The verse was not a suggestion. It was a weather report. Set a snare, and the snare develops a personal interest in you. Push a boulder, and gravity files a formal complaint with your name on it. Coyote had been living the illustrated edition of that proverb for years and never noticed he was the main character.
Most of us are not quite so cartoonish, yet the principle still holds. We smile and offer “helpful” information that is really a carefully aimed rock. We stay quiet when a half-truth would make someone else look worse and us look better. We rehearse the perfect comeback and call it justice. Then we are shocked when the same snare tightens around our own ankle, or when the story we started rolling comes back downhill at twice the speed.
Scripture does not say, “Don’t ever protect yourself,” or “Pretend the Road Runner is your best friend.” It simply observes that schemes aimed at other people’s downfall have a way of becoming self-addressed. God is not mocked by clever engineering, whether the device is an ACME product or a whispered rumor. What we plant, we harvest—sometimes with a large cartoon rock attached.
Coyote, for once, closed the book carefully instead of using it as a projectile. He still wanted the Road Runner. He just no longer trusted his own blueprints. That is often the first small step of wisdom: realizing that the person most likely to be caught in the trap we are building is the one holding the hammer.
And somewhere on the desert floor, a very small bird kept running, blissfully unaware that the coyote had finally read the warranty.
A Few Questions for the Rest of Us (Who Don’t Order from ACME)
Where am I currently “improving” a situation by leaving out a key detail, steering a conversation, or quietly hoping someone else trips—so that I look better or stay safer?
If my hidden motives were turned into a cartoon blueprint and played on a loop, would I still be proud of the design, or would I start looking for the exit?
What would it look like this week to drop the boulder (or the subtle snare) and simply tell the truth, trust the outcome to God, and let the Road Runner run?
“Since you died with Christ to the elemental spiritual forces of this world, why, as though you still belonged to the world, do you submit to its rules: ‘Do not handle! Do not taste! Do not touch!’? These rules, which have to do with things that are all destined to perish with use, are based on merely human commands and teachings. Such regulations indeed have an appearance of wisdom, with their self-imposed worship, their false humility and their harsh treatment of the body, but they lack any value in restraining sensual indulgence.”
My dear friends,
As we sit sipping our morning beverage and nibbling on toast smothered in guava jelly, lets dive deep into these profound words Paul wrote to the church in Colossae.
Let’s imagine sitting in a small house church in that first-century city. You’ve come to faith in Jesus, and the joy of it is still fresh. Yet new voices have begun to circulate. They sound spiritual, even impressive. They speak of higher knowledge, of special practices, of rules that will supposedly take you deeper. “Don’t touch that food. Don’t handle that. Discipline your body more severely. Humble yourself by these observances.” The pressure is subtle but real: maybe what you have in Christ isn’t quite enough. Maybe you need to add something more.
Into that tension Paul writes these words. He does not begin with a new list of better rules. He begins with a reminder of what has already happened to you.
“Since you died with Christ to the elemental spiritual forces of this world…” This is not a metaphor Paul uses lightly. Earlier in the letter he has declared that God has given us fullness in Christ, and that in Him we were circumcised, buried with Him in baptism, and raised with Him through faith (Colossians 2:9–12). When Jesus died, those who belong to Him died with Him. The old dominion—the “elemental spiritual forces,” those basic principles and powers that once held sway over human life—no longer owns you. You have been transferred into the kingdom of the beloved Son.
Paul’s question is therefore both logical and pastoral: if that is true, why are you still living as though you belong to the old world? Why submit again to its rules? The “Do not handle! Do not taste! Do not touch!” commands sound holy. They create the appearance of careful, serious discipleship. Yet Paul unmasks them. They concern things destined to perish with use—temporary, earthly realities. They rest on human commands and teachings, not on the word of Christ. And while they wear the mask of wisdom—self-imposed worship, a show of humility, harsh treatment of the body—they possess no real power to restrain the deeper desires of the heart. They can modify behavior for a season; they cannot transform the soul.
This is liberating truth spoken in love. Paul is not anti-discipline. He is against any system that treats external regulations as the path to spiritual maturity when Christ Himself is the fullness of God dwelling among us. The false teachers in Colossae offered a spirituality of addition: Christ plus rules, Christ plus special knowledge, Christ plus ascetic practices. Paul’s answer is subtraction: you already have everything in Him. Stop living as though the cross were incomplete.
Here is the warmth of the gospel for weary people. You do not have to keep proving your seriousness by the severity of your restrictions. You do not have to measure your growth by how many things you can refuse to touch. The regulations that once felt necessary may have given you a sense of control, or a way to quiet the accusing voice inside, but they cannot do what only Christ can do. He has already broken the power of the old order. Your life is now hidden with Him. Growth comes not primarily by tighter rules, but by staying connected to the One in whom all the fullness of God dwells.
This does not mean we become careless. It means we become free to pursue holiness from a place of security rather than anxiety. The Spirit produces self-control, love, and purity as fruit, not as a ladder we climb to earn favor. When we try to restrain the flesh mainly by external commands, we often find the desires simply go underground or reappear in subtler forms. But when we live in the reality of our death and resurrection with Christ, the old forces lose their claim. We learn to say no to ungodliness because we belong to Another, not because a list demands it.
Perhaps you have known the exhaustion of the “appearance of wisdom.” The quiet pride of harsh self-treatment. The false humility that draws attention to how little you allow yourself. Or the fear that if you relax the rules even a little, everything will unravel. Paul invites you to set that burden down. Not so you can indulge every desire, but so you can finally rest in the sufficiency of Jesus. He is enough. The work is finished. You have died with Him, and the life you now live is His life in you.
Personal Reflection Questions
In what areas of my life do I still feel the pull of “Do not handle, do not taste, do not touch” rules—whether from religious tradition, personal habit, or the expectations of others—and how do those rules make me feel about my standing with God?
Where have I been tempted to trust human commands or self-imposed practices more than the finished work of Christ for my growth and acceptance?
What would it look like, practically, for me to live this week as someone who has already died with Christ to the elemental forces of the world? Where might I need to lay down a regulation that has only an appearance of wisdom?
How can I distinguish between healthy, Spirit-led discipline and the kind of harsh, rule-based restraint that Paul says lacks real power?
In what ways has the fullness of Christ already proven sufficient for me, and where do I still struggle to believe it?
A Closing Prayer
Father, thank You for the clear and gracious reminder that we have died with Christ and no longer belong to the old ways of the world. We confess how easily we return to human rules and self-imposed efforts that promise wisdom but leave us empty. Teach us to rest in the fullness we already have in Jesus. Free us from the exhausting need to prove ourselves by what we refuse to touch or taste. Fill us instead with the life of Your Son, so that genuine holiness and freedom grow from our union with Him. Help us to walk in the liberty of those who have been raised with Christ, for Your glory and our joy. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Remember dear ones, God gives us warnings because He loves you deeply. Until our next lesson, be blessed
As we sit with the Scriptures today, let us let their truths wash over us like a gentle rain that nourishes the garden.
There is a quiet freedom that belongs to everyone who belongs to Jesus, and sometimes we need to be gently reminded of it. Paul writes these words to a church that was being pressured—lovingly, perhaps, but firmly—to add certain practices back onto the gospel in order to be truly spiritual. “Let no one pass judgment on you in questions of food and drink, or with regard to a festival or a new moon or a Sabbath. These are a shadow of the things to come, but the substance belongs to Christ.”
Notice the tenderness in the language. Paul is not scolding the Colossians for being weak; he is protecting them from a subtle form of bondage. The regulations about what to eat, which days to observe, and which festivals to keep were never the main thing. They were shadows—real, God-given shadows, but still only shadows—cast by the reality that was coming. And that reality is a Person.
When Christ arrives, the shadow loses its power to define us. The meal is no longer the point; the One who is our true Bread is the point. The calendar is no longer the point; the One who is our true Rest is the point. The external markers of belonging are no longer the point; union with Jesus is the point. That is why Paul can say, with such calm authority, “Let no one pass judgment on you.” Not because the details of life no longer matter, but because those details no longer determine your standing before God. Christ does.
Paul is protecting the Colossian believers from teachers who were insisting that these Old Testament shadows were still necessary for spiritual maturity or true belonging. His point is not that the Old Testament was worthless, nor that Christians must now be careless. His point is that Christ Himself is the fulfillment and the sufficiency. To return to the shadows as if they still define one’s standing before God is to trade the substance for the outline.
This is good news for weary saints. Some of us grew up in homes or churches where certain rules felt heavy, and we still carry a low-grade anxiety that we might not be “doing it right.” Others of us have swung the opposite direction and quietly judge those who still find joy in practices we have left behind. Both postures miss the heart of the passage. The call is not to carelessness; it is to rest. The substance belongs to Christ. He is enough. He is the fulfillment. He is the One who holds us.
So walk in that freedom this week. When someone questions your liberty, or when your own conscience grows unsettled over secondary matters, turn your eyes again to the substance. You are not saved by the shadow. You are saved by the Savior. And that is more than enough.
Personal Reflection Questions
Where in my life am I still tempted to measure my (or someone else’s) spiritual health by external practices rather than by union with Christ?
Is there a “shadow” I have been clinging to for security—something that once pointed me to Jesus but has begun to take His place?
How might I gently encourage a fellow believer this week who feels judged or burdened by secondary matters, pointing them instead to the sufficiency of Christ?
In what practical way can I rest more fully in the reality that “the substance belongs to Christ,” rather than in my ability to keep every rule or meet every expectation?
Grace and peace to you in the One who is our true substance. Remember that our Father deeply loves you.
Meet Tabitha. Or Dorcas. Or, if you like the bilingual special, the Gazelle. Both her Aramaic name (Tabitha) and her Greek name (Dorcas) mean “gazelle,” which feels either beautifully fitting or like the early church’s subtle way of saying, “This one doesn’t sit still when people need help.” She appears in just a handful of verses in Acts 9:36–42, yet she leaves the distinct impression of someone who was both deeply ordinary and quietly extraordinary. She’s also the only woman in the New Testament explicitly called a “disciple” (mathetria), which is a detail worth pausing over. Luke didn’t have to use that word. He chose it.
Here’s the fuller picture. Tabitha lived in Joppa, a coastal port city with its mix of sailors, merchants, locals, and the usual assortment of people trying to get by. She was a disciple known for being “always doing good and helping the poor.” The text specifically highlights that she was “full of good works and acts of charity.” Her particular expression of that was practical and tangible: she made clothes. Tunics, robes, and other garments for people who needed them—especially the widows. In a world without thrift stores or online wish lists, clothing was no small thing. A well-made garment could mean dignity, warmth, and the ability to face the day without constant embarrassment. Tabitha apparently kept at this work steadily enough that it became part of how people knew her.
Then she got sick and died. The local believers washed her body and laid her in an upstairs room, which was the normal custom. But they weren’t ready to leave it there. Lydda wasn’t far away, and word had reached them that Peter was there. So they sent two men with the urgent plea: “Please come at once!” There’s something both desperate and hopeful in that. They believed God might still do something, and they were willing to interrupt an apostle’s plans to find out.
When Peter arrived, the scene in the upper room was tender and, if we’re honest, a little bit like a grieving sewing circle that had turned into an impromptu exhibition. The widows stood around weeping and showing him the robes and other clothing Dorcas had made while she was still with them. It’s one of the more human moments in Acts. They weren’t quoting her theology or listing her volunteer hours. They were holding up the actual evidence of her care: “Look what she made us.” Peter sent everyone out, knelt, and prayed. Then he turned to the body and said, “Tabitha, get up.” She opened her eyes, saw him, and sat up. He helped her to her feet and called the believers and widows back in to present her alive. The news spread through Joppa, and many people believed in the Lord.
So, what can we learn from a woman whose primary documented ministry was needle and thread, and whose most dramatic moment was not staying dead?
Quiet, consistent kindness tends to get noticed—eventually. Tabitha didn’t seem to be trying to build a platform. She was just steadily doing good. When she died, the community felt the absence in very concrete ways. The widows didn’t have to search for nice things to say; the clothes were right there. Faithfulness in small, repeated acts of mercy has a way of accumulating. It may not trend, but it often leaves people able to point to something real and say, “This person cared for me.” And yes, it’s mildly amusing that her sewing portfolio became part of the resurrection story. Apparently even in moments of divine power, the evidence of ordinary love still matters.
Your gifts don’t have to be spectacular to be useful. Not everyone is called to preach, plant churches, or perform miracles. Some people are called to make sure the vulnerable have something decent to wear, or a meal, or a listening ear, or a fixed faucet. Tabitha took a practical skill and aimed it at mercy. The early church thought this was significant enough to remember and to send for Peter over. Whatever you do well—organizing, cooking, fixing, listening, coding, teaching kids, managing details—can be offered in the same spirit. Gazelles are known for being swift and graceful in motion, not for standing still and waiting for a spotlight. Useful movement counts.
Real service builds real community. The reaction to Tabitha’s death shows more than appreciation for a volunteer. People were genuinely grieving someone whose absence would be felt. They sent for Peter because they valued her and because they still hoped. When she was restored, the joy wasn’t abstract; it was the return of a person who had been woven into their lives through practical care. We’re not meant to function as interchangeable parts in a religious machine. Steady kindness creates actual bonds. And if your current contribution feels small, remember that the widows were holding up handmade clothes, not trophies. Relationship often grows from the ordinary things we do for one another.
God can work through both the life and the interruption. The resurrection is the dramatic centerpiece but notice the ripple: the story became known all over Joppa, and many believed. Tabitha didn’t organize a campaign. She lived a life of tangible love, died, and was restored, and God used the whole sequence to point people toward Jesus. That’s both humbling and encouraging. Most of us will not be raised from the dead in an upper room. But the same God who noticed Tabitha’s quiet faithfulness is still at work through ordinary disciples who keep doing good. Sometimes the most surprising results come from simply continuing to show up with whatever is in our hands.
Tabitha’s story is a reminder that discipleship frequently looks less like headline moments and more like steady, compassionate usefulness. She was full of good works not as a way to earn favor, but as the natural overflow of following Jesus. And when it seemed the story was over, God still had more in mind—for her and for the people around her. If you’re looking for a model of faith that doesn’t require a microphone or a platform, the Gazelle of Joppa is still a remarkably good one. She sewed, she served, she was deeply missed, and then she sat up again. Not a bad legacy for someone who mostly just kept making useful things for people who needed them.
A few questions to chew on:
What’s one ordinary skill, resource, or bit of time I already have that I could aim more intentionally toward someone who needs practical help?
If the people closest to me had to “show the clothes” (or the modern equivalent) of my care for them, what specific things would they be able to hold up?
Where am I most tempted to dismiss my contributions as too small or too ordinary to matter, and what would it look like to offer them anyway this week?
Who around me is doing quiet, consistent good that I could notice, thank, or join in some small way?
Today’s devotion shows us the depth of love our Father has for us. Its truth can sustain us far longer and better than the caffeine in our coffees and teas. Look at these great verses with me and let them warm your heart.
Giving joyful thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of his holy people in the kingdom of light. For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.
Colossians 1:12–14 sits inside Paul’s prayer for the Colossian believers. After asking God to fill them with the knowledge of His will and to strengthen them for patient endurance, he turns their hearts toward gratitude. The reason for that gratitude is not vague spiritual feeling; it is the concrete, completed work of the Father in His Son.
“Giving joyful thanks to the Father,” Paul writes, “who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of his holy people in the kingdom of light.” The Father has already made us fit for an inheritance we could never earn. In the ancient world an inheritance belonged to those who were family, not to those who had performed well enough. Our place among the saints in light rests on the Father’s action, not on our record.
That action is described with two decisive verbs: God has delivered us and He has transferred us. He rescued us from the domain of darkness—a real realm of spiritual captivity—and moved us into the kingdom of His beloved Son. This is not a slow process we manage; it is a finished relocation. We once belonged to the old domain; now we belong to the Son the Father loves.
At the center of that new kingdom stands verse 14: “in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.” Everything Paul has just said finds its meaning here. Redemption was a word drawn from the marketplace and the slave market. It spoke of a price paid to set a captive free. The debt of sin was not ignored or minimized; it was paid. And the freedom that results is described in the simplest and most personal terms: the forgiveness of sins.
My friends, forgiveness in this verse is not a temporary overlooking of mistakes so that we can try harder tomorrow. It is the full cancellation of the debt that once held us in the domain of darkness. Because the Son paid the price, the Father no longer counts our sins against us. The transfer into the kingdom is possible precisely because the guilt that belonged to the old domain has been removed. We do not enter the kingdom still carrying the charges; we enter because those charges have been settled in Christ.
This is why thanksgiving is the natural response. We are not asked to generate gratitude out of thin air. We are invited to remember that the price has been paid, the debt has been canceled, and the freedom is already ours. Many of us live as though forgiveness is still pending—waiting on one more sincere confession, one more improved week, one more proof that we are truly sorry. Verse 14 tells us the forgiveness is already possessed “in whom.” It is located in Christ, secured by His work, and given to those the Father has transferred into His kingdom.
My dear friends, this truth is meant to steady us. When shame returns, we do not have to rebuild our case before God. When we fail, we do not slide back into the domain of darkness. The redemption and the forgiveness remain where Paul placed them—in the Son. Our calling is to live as people who have already been set free, not as people still trying to purchase their release.
A Prayer
Father, thank You for qualifying us to share in the inheritance of the saints in light. Thank You for delivering us from the domain of darkness and transferring us into the kingdom of Your beloved Son. We praise You that in Him we have redemption, the forgiveness of our sins. When we are tempted to live as though the debt is still unpaid, remind us that the price has been fully met in Christ. Help us rest in the freedom You have already given, and teach us to give thanks with our lives. In the name of Your Son we pray. Amen.
Reflection Questions
Where do you still feel as though your forgiveness is incomplete or conditional? How does the finished redemption in verse 14 speak to that feeling?
What would change in the way you carry a recent failure if you truly believed the debt has already been canceled in Christ?
How might remembering that you have been transferred into the kingdom of the Son shape your response to temptation or discouragement this week?
Is there someone who needs to hear that forgiveness is not earned but received through the redemption that is already ours in Christ? How could you share that simply and clearly?
Let these truths wash over you. Remind yourself of them again and again. Live knowing Jesus has paid your debt and obtained forgiveness for you. Live advancing His Kingdom so others are rescued from the domain of darkness.
“Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.” Few verses have been written more lovingly on nursery walls, quoted more often at baby dedications, or carried more quietly in a parent’s heart than Proverbs 22:6.
And few have been more painfully misapplied.
For many Christian parents, the verse has become a kind of spiritual contract: If I do this faithfully, God will guarantee the result. When a son or daughter later walks away from the faith, the verse that once brought comfort can turn into a quiet accusation. Did I fail? Did I not train them well enough? That weight was never meant to rest on this proverb.
A warmer, truer reading begins by putting the verse back where it belongs: in the book of Proverbs, as wisdom—not as a formula.
Wisdom, Not a Warranty
Proverbs is not the same kind of literature as the covenants or the promises of the gospel. It is skill-for-living. It describes the way the world generally works under God’s design. A soft answer often turns away wrath. Diligence often leads to provision. Early formation often leaves a lasting mark. These are observed patterns, not unbreakable laws.
Life is more complicated than any single proverb can capture. Children have their own wills. Hearts are not clay we fully control. Even the Lord Himself, the perfect Father, watched His covenant people wander. Treating Proverbs 22:6 as an ironclad promise of lifelong faithfulness sets parents up for either pride when children thrive or crushing guilt when they do not. Neither is the fruit the Spirit intends.
What the Hebrew Actually Says
The familiar English phrasing—“in the way he should go”—adds a word that is not in the original. The Hebrew is closer to “Train (or dedicate) a youth according to his way.” The verb chanak is used elsewhere for dedicating a house or the temple: to inaugurate something, to set it apart for its intended purpose. The word for “child” (na’ar) can describe a young child, but also a youth or young man still being formed.
“His way” has been understood in more than one direction. Some see it as a call to notice the unique bent, temperament, and gifts God has given this particular child—not a one-size-fits-all program. Others hear a warning: if you simply let a child follow his own natural, often foolish inclinations, those patterns will harden. Still others hear an encouragement to start a young person on the path of wisdom itself—the fear of the Lord—so that the groove formed early tends to remain.
All of these readings share a common thread: early, intentional shaping matters. The path a young person is started on tends to become familiar. Habits of the heart, like grooves in a road, are easier to follow than to leave.
That is a gracious observation, not a threat and not a guarantee.
The Heart of the Misapplication
The most common misuse is turning a principle of formation into a test of parental worth. Scripture never makes a child’s adult faith the final report card on a parent. Salvation is the Lord’s work. Children are not projects we complete; they are image-bearers we shepherd for a season and then release into the hands of a God who loves them more than we do.
When we treat the verse as a promise of guaranteed outcome, we can also miss its actual invitation: to dedicate our children. To inaugurate them into a life oriented toward the Lord. To walk with them in the fear of God, according to who they actually are, while they are still being formed. That is holy, hopeful work. It is not a contract that binds God to our performance.
A Kinder Way to Hold the Verse
From a Christian vantage point, Proverbs 22:6 sits comfortably beside Deuteronomy 6 and Ephesians 6:4. We are called to teach diligently, to bring children up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord, to talk of God’s ways in the ordinary moments of life. We model repentance when we fail. We pray. We tell the old, old story. We notice the particular child God has given us instead of forcing them into someone else’s mold.
And then we trust.
The gospel frees us from the need to be perfect parents so that our children might be perfect Christians. Jesus is the One who seeks and saves. The Father of the prodigal still watches the road. The Spirit still opens hearts that look, for a long season, closed.
If your children are walking with the Lord, give thanks—not as proof that you “got it right,” but as grace. If they are far from home, this verse does not stand over you as a verdict. It simply reminds you that the early years were not wasted, that seeds can lie dormant for a long time, and that the God who formed them in the womb has not forgotten them.
Train them. Dedicate them. Love them according to the way God made them. Point them again and again to Christ.
Then rest. The results were never yours to secure. They belong to the One who is both wiser and kinder than any proverb, and who delights to bring wanderers home.
As we continue journeying through Colossians, let today’s passage warm your heart as surely as your morning tea does. We will see today the heart of the Apostle Paul as he prays for fellow believers.
Beloved, there is a kind of prayer that does not hurry. Paul had never walked the streets of Colossae, yet from the day Epaphras told him of their faith and love, he had not ceased to pray for them. And the prayer he prayed is the one we still need. Listen to Paul’s heart as we read the passage.
For this reason, since the day we heard about you, we have not stopped praying for you. We continually ask God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all the wisdom and understanding that the Spirit gives,so that you may live a life worthy of the Lord and please him in every way: bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God, being strengthened with all power according to his glorious might so that you may have great endurance and patience, and giving joyful thanks to the Father, who has qualified youto share in the inheritance of his holy people in the kingdom of light.
Paul asks that they would be filled with the knowledge of God’s will in all spiritual wisdom and understanding. Not a thin acquaintance with religious ideas, but a knowledge that fills the whole of a person—the kind that comes when the Spirit opens the mind and heart to what the Father actually desires. The verb “filled” carries the sense of being brought to fullness, not merely informed. The knowledge he seeks is epignōsis—a personal, precise acquaintance with what God wants, not a stock of religious facts. Wisdom here is the skill of living under Christ’s lordship; understanding is the quiet ability to see how the pieces of an ordinary day fit together with his purposes. Paul is not asking for them to become clever. He is asking that the Colossians would know God’s mind so thoroughly that their choices begin to look like his.
That knowledge is given for a walk. “so that you may live a life worthy of the Lord and please him in every way”. The Christian life is not a set of moments when we feel spiritual; it is the long habit of ordinary conduct—work, speech, patience with people, the use of money and time—lived at a pitch that fits the One who has called us. Worthy does not mean we earn his smile. It means our steps start to match the gift we have already received. And the marks of that walk are simple and searching: bearing fruit in every good work and increasing in the knowledge of God. Fruit and knowledge grow on the same branch. Obedience makes the face of God clearer; a clearer sight of God makes obedience more natural and more wide. Fruit and knowledge grow together. Good works are not a substitute for knowing God, nor is knowing God an excuse for barrenness. Each feeds the other. As obedience deepens, the knowledge of God becomes clearer; as the knowledge of God grows, the range of good work expands.
Such a walk needs strength we do not carry in ourselves. So Paul asks that they would be strengthened with all power, according to his glorious might, for all endurance and patience with joy. The power is measured by God’s own might, not by our reserves. It is given for the long obedience—endurance when the pressure does not lift, patience when we are wronged and the impulse is to answer in kind—and both are to be carried with joy. Joy is not the absence of weight. It is the atmosphere of people who know the Father has already acted.
And he has. The prayer ends where every true prayer begins: giving thanks to the Father, who has qualified us to share in the inheritance of the saints in light. He has made us fit. He has rendered us sufficient for a share we could never have secured. The inheritance is not a prize at the end of a successful life; it is the gift already sealed in Christ, the reason we can give thanks even while we are still learning endurance.
This is the pastoral heart of the passage. God does not leave his people to piece together a worthy life from their own insight or strength. He fills them with the knowledge of his will, he supplies power equal to his own might, and he does both because he has already qualified them for glory. The prayer Paul prayed for the Colossians is the prayer the Spirit still loves to answer.
Take a few quiet minutes with these questions:
Where do you most need to be filled with the knowledge of his will, and what would it mean to ask for spiritual wisdom rather than simply a change in circumstances?
In the ordinary paths of this week, what would a walk fully pleasing to the Lord look like—and where is fruit or a growing knowledge of God currently thin?
What pressure is asking for endurance and patience, and how does the Father’s qualifying work give you reason for joy inside it?
When you give thanks, can you thank him not only for gifts he has placed in your hands, but for the deeper mercy that he has already made you fit to share the inheritance of the saints in light?
Beloved, rejoice that the Lord who has begun a good work in you will be faithful to complete it. Rejoice in knowing you are deeply loved by the Father.
As we sit with our Bibles open in our laps and coffee in our hands, let us be inspired today from Paul’s letter to the church at Colossae. As we read together, recall the people who shared the gospel of Christ with you and give thanks to God for them today.
The gospel that reached Colossae was never a private possession. In the opening thanksgiving of his letter, Paul describes it as a living word already at work far beyond that small city: “as indeed in the whole world it is bearing fruit and increasing—as it also does among you, since the day you heard it and understood the grace of God in truth, just as you learned it from Epaphras our beloved fellow servant. He is a faithful minister of Christ on your behalf and has made known to us your love in the Spirit” (Colossians 1:6b–8).
Paul has just given thanks for the Colossians’ faith in Christ and their love for all the saints, both of which rest on the hope laid up for them in heaven—a hope they first heard in “the word of the truth, the gospel” (1:5). He then pictures that same word as active. The participles “bearing fruit and increasing” are present and continuous. The gospel is not a finished announcement that sits still once delivered; it keeps producing fruit and keeps spreading. Later he will pray that the Colossians themselves bear fruit in every good work and grow in the knowledge of God (1:10). What the message does in the world, it is meant to do in the people who receive it.
The worldwide scope is no vague slogan. From Paul’s vantage the gospel has already moved through the cities of the eastern Mediterranean and beyond, and the same pattern is visible in Colossae. Local faithfulness is not isolated; it belongs to a larger work of God. At the same time, the local is not swallowed by the global. The fruit-bearing happening “in the whole world” is happening “among you.”
That fruit began on a particular day: the day they heard and understood. Hearing alone is not enough. They “understood the grace of God in truth.” Grace here is not a general religious mood; it is the concrete favor of God that meets people in Christ—forgiveness, reconciliation, a share in the inheritance of the saints in light (1:12–14). To understand it “in truth” is to grasp it as it really is, not as a distorted or partial version. Later Paul will warn against teachings that sound wise but empty the gospel of Christ’s sufficiency (2:4, 8). The Colossians’ beginning was different. From the first day they received the real thing, and from that day the same gospel moving through the world began its quiet increase among them.
They received it through a person. “Just as you learned it from Epaphras.” The verb suggests more than a single sermon; it points to instruction that took root. Epaphras is “our beloved fellow servant”—literally a fellow slave—and “a faithful minister of Christ.” He did not invent the message or improve upon it. He delivered what he had received, and he did so with steady loyalty to both the word and the people. Whether the phrase is read “on your behalf” or “on our behalf,” the sense is mediation: he stood between the apostolic gospel and this congregation, serving Christ by serving them. He later traveled to Paul, shared their story, and continued to labor in prayer for them (4:12–13). Faithfulness here looks ordinary and costly at once—teaching the truth clearly, staying with the people, and carrying their needs to God.
The evidence he brought was specific. He “made known to us your love in the Spirit.” Their love was not mere friendliness. It was love produced by the Holy Spirit, the kind that can be recognized and reported, the kind that moves an apostle to unceasing prayer (1:9). Faith, hope, and this Spirit-given love belonged together from the beginning.
So the short paragraph holds several gifts at once: a word that keeps bearing fruit across the world and inside a local church; a grace that can be truly understood rather than merely admired; a faithful servant who hands that grace on without distortion; and a Spirit-given love that confirms the word has taken root. None of these replace Christ. All of them display his ongoing work.
The same gospel is still bearing fruit and increasing. It does not depend on our brilliance, yet it still ordinarily travels through people who teach it faithfully and shows itself in love the Spirit alone can produce. Wherever that is happening—even in small and ordinary places—it is already part of the larger increase Paul celebrates.
For reflection
Can you name the season when the grace of God moved from something you had heard to something you truly understood? What has that understanding cost you, or given you, since?
Who has served you as Epaphras did—teaching the gospel faithfully and remaining a fellow servant rather than a distant expert? How might you give thanks for them today?
Paul treats “love in the Spirit” as observable evidence that the gospel is bearing fruit. Where do you see that kind of love already at work around you, and where are you asking the Lord to let it increase?
The gospel is described as bearing fruit and increasing both “in the whole world” and “among you.” How does holding those two together shape the way you pray for your own congregation and for the church beyond it?
My dear ones, just as others shared the gospel with you, you now need to share the gospel with another, Keep passing on the good news of Jesus Christ to those who still are enslaved to sin and let the truth set them free,
We always thank God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, when we pray for you, since we heard of your faith in Christ Jesus and of the love that you have for all the saints, because of the hope laid up for you in heaven. Of this you have heard before in the word of the truth, the gospel, which has come to you, as indeed in the whole world it is bearing fruit and increasing—as it also does among you, since the day you heard it and understood the grace of God in truth.
My dear ones in Christ,
As we sit sipping our morning beverage today, we get the privilege of looking at Paul’s letter to the church at Colossae. Paul, as far as we know, never personally travelled there. A man named Epaphras, described as one of Paul’s co-workers in Ephesus, believed the gospel, took it to his town and started a church. He then reports to Paul how things are going.
Paul has never met most of these believers. He writes from a distance, perhaps from a prison cell, and the first thing that rises in him is not correction or strategy. It is thanksgiving. Whenever he prays for them, he thanks God. That is worth sitting with. The Christian life begins, and is continually renewed, not with what we produce for God, but with what God has already done in people we may barely know.
He thanks God because he has heard two things: their faith in Christ Jesus, and their love for all the saints. Faith here is not a vague spirituality. It is trust directed toward a Person—Christ Jesus. Love is not a general warmth. It is directed toward “all the saints,” the whole family of God, not only the easy ones. These two marks—trusting Jesus and loving His people—are the evidence that grace has taken root.
Then Paul names the spring from which both flow: “because of the hope laid up for you in heaven.” Faith and love are not self-generated virtues. They rise from a hope that is already stored, already reserved, already safe. Hope in the New Testament is not fragile wishing. It is a confident expectation of what God has promised and will surely give. Because something solid is waiting in heaven, the Colossians can trust Christ now and love one another now. The future gift steadies the present life.
That hope did not arrive as a private impression. They heard it “in the word of the truth, the gospel.” The gospel is not one message among many. It is the word of truth—the announcement of God’s grace in Jesus that actually corresponds to reality. It “has come to you.” It traveled. It crossed culture and distance. And once it arrived, it did what the gospel always does: it bore fruit and increased. Not only in Colossae, but “in the whole world.” The same seed produces the same life wherever it is received.
Notice the pairing: they heard it and understood the grace of God in truth. Hearing is not enough. The gospel must be grasped as grace—unearned, undeserved, sufficient. When grace is understood that way, fruit follows. Faith takes hold of Christ. Love reaches toward the saints. Hope lifts the eyes. The church becomes something for which an apostle can thank God.
This is still how the Lord works. The gospel comes. Someone hears. Grace is understood. Faith, love, and hope appear. And someone far away, or close at hand, gives thanks.
For personal response
When you pray for other believers, do you more often ask God to fix them—or thank Him for what He has already begun in them?
Where is your hope currently “laid up”? What do you find yourself leaning on when the present feels thin?
Can you name a time when you truly understood the gospel as grace, not merely as information? How did that change the way you trusted Christ or loved His people?
The gospel is “bearing fruit and increasing.” Where do you see even a small increase of faith or love in your own life, or in the life of your church, since you first heard it?
Who has been an Epaphras to you—someone who brought you the word of truth? Whom might the Lord be asking you to thank, or to carry that same word toward?
Remember dear ones, because God loves you deeply, He sent someone to share His gospel with you. Thank Him for His mercy and goodness to you.
As we begin our study in Colossians, let us take the time to look at the two first verses of Paul’s letter. Greetings are easy to skim through, but this morning let us take the same time to linger over them as we linger over our coffee.
Paul begins the way a pastor often must begin: by reminding the people who they are, whose they are, and what God is still giving them.
Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, and Timothy our brother, To God’s holy people in Colossae, the faithful brothers and sisters in Christ: Grace and peace to you from God our Father.— Colossians 1:1–2 (NIV)
The letter opens with a name, then a vocation, then a source. “Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God.” He does not introduce himself as a religious expert, a gifted writer, or a man who finally got his life together. He stands in this letter because God willed it. The same man who once tried to destroy the church now speaks as one sent by the risen Christ. That is not a résumé line. It is a confession. Authority in the church does not begin with personality. It begins with the will of God.
There is comfort here for ordinary believers as well. If Paul’s apostleship rests on God’s will, then your place in Christ does too. You are not in the family because you were impressive enough to earn a seat. You are here because the Father wanted you.
And Paul does not stand alone. “Timothy our brother.” The great apostle names a younger coworker as family. The gospel does not produce isolated heroes. It produces brothers and sisters who labor side by side. Paul had not even planted this church himself; Epaphras had carried the gospel to Colossae. Still he writes as a father in the faith, and he writes with a brother at his side. Ministry, at its healthiest, always sounds like this: sent by God, shared with family.
Then Paul turns to the church. “To God’s holy people in Colossae, the faithful brothers and sisters in Christ.” Holy people does not mean a special class of Christians who have risen above the rest. In Scripture, the saints are simply those God has set apart for himself. Holiness here is first a gift of belonging before it is a pattern of living. These believers were not holy because Colossae was a pure place. It was not. It was a small market city in the Lycus Valley, full of mixed religions, local customs, and spiritual pressure. They were holy because they belonged to God.
That matters if you have ever looked at your own life and thought, If Paul knew my actual week, he would have chosen a different adjective. He does not begin with their performance. He begins with their identity. Before he corrects, warns, or exhorts, he blesses them with their true name.
He also calls them “faithful brothers and sisters.” The word can mean believing as well as loyal. Either way, the point is family. They are not a club of the spiritually successful. They are siblings. The church is not first an event you attend. It is a household you have been brought into.
And notice the two addresses Paul holds together: they live in Colossae, and they live in Christ. One is their street and city. The other is their true home. You and I also live in two places at once. We have a town, a job, a family system, a set of limitations, a particular sadness, a particular history. That is our Colossae. But if we belong to Jesus, our deepest location is not the place that appears on an envelope. It is union with Christ. Colossae may explain much of what you face. It does not get to define who you are.
Then comes the prayer disguised as a greeting: “Grace and peace to you from God our Father.” This is more than ancient letter etiquette. Paul takes the common Greek wish for favor and the common Hebrew wish for wholeness and fills both with the gospel. Grace is God’s undeserved kindness toward sinners in Christ. Peace is the reconciling fruit of that kindness: peace with God, and then, slowly, peace within and among his people. The order is theologically deliberate. Peace does not create grace. Grace creates peace.
And the source is family language again: “from God our Father.” Not a distant deity. Not a vague spiritual force. The Father of the Lord Jesus has become our Father. That is why Timothy can be called “our brother,” and why the Colossians can be called brothers and sisters. The whole greeting is already quietly Trinitarian and deeply pastoral. God wills. Christ sends. The Father gives grace and peace. The church becomes a family.
You may think you need a new strategy, a clearer future, or a lighter load. You may. But underneath all of that, you need what Paul asked for this little church: fresh grace for people who cannot save themselves, and the peace that only a reconciled Father can give.
These two verses are easy to hurry past. Do not.
If you feel unauthorized and small, hear this: God places his people where he wills.
If you feel stained and ordinary, hear this: in Christ you are already named among God’s holy people.
If you feel isolated, hear this: you have been given brothers and sisters.
If your town, your past, or your present pressure feels louder than the gospel, hear this: you live in Colossae, but you also live in Christ.
If your soul is restless, hear this: grace and peace are not souvenirs from the day you first believed. They are the Father’s ongoing gift to his children.
Paul will soon lift our eyes to the Son who is before all things and in whom all things hold together. But he starts here, close to the ground, with names, family, and blessing. That is how God often meets us too—not first with a system to master, but with a word that tells us we belong.
Reflection Questions
Where in your life are you tempted to treat your calling as self-made rather than received “by the will of God”?
When you hear the phrase “God’s holy people,” do you instinctively exclude yourself? What would change if you received that name as a gift rather than a grade?
What is your “Colossae”—the particular place, pressure, or ordinary setting where you live right now? How does being “in Christ” speak to that place?
Who has been a “Timothy” to you—a brother or sister who reminds you that faith is not a solo project? Whom might you stand beside in that same way?
Which do you more urgently need today: grace (God’s undeserved help) or peace (the settled fruit of belonging to the Father)? Why?
How might your greetings, prayers, and conversations with other believers become more like Paul’s—naming people by their identity in Christ before rushing to advice?
Know this, dear ones. Because God deeply loves you, He has adopted you into His family.
