A Sheep Contemplates Colossians 2:16-17

Only A Shadow

Beloved friends in Christ,

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

  1. 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?
  2. 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?
  3. 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?
  4. 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.

Your fellow sheep

A Sheep’s Journey Through Psalms -13

Devotional on Psalm 13: A Cry from the Shadows, Answered in Light

Scripture Reading: Psalm 13 (NRSV) “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? … But I trusted in your steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice in your salvation.”

As dawn breaks over a weary landscape, imagine a soul standing in a rocky wilderness, cloaked in shadows, gazing toward a horizon that refuses to brighten. The air is heavy with questions, each one a jagged stone in the heart: How long, O Lord? This is the raw, anguished cry of Psalm 13, a song by David that echoes through the ages, capturing the Christian soul wrestling with divine silence. Yet, within its six verses, it moves from despair to defiant trust. This journey is one undertaken by each believer somewhere along the road of life.

The psalm opens with a storm of sorrow: “How long will you hide your face from me?” (v. 1). Picture a child searching for their father’s face in a face shrouded by a veil, the absence piercing like a winter wind. David’s lament is not polite; it is visceral, accusing God of forgetfulness. St. Augustine, in his Expositions on the Psalms, sees this cry as a mirror of our humanity: “The voice of the soul in distress is not presumption but truth. God permits us to cry out, for in our cries, we seek Him.” Augustine reminds us that God is not offended by our questions but invites them, for they draw us closer to His heart.

In verses 3–4, David’s imagery shifts to life and death: “Consider and answer me, O Lord my God! Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep the sleep of death.” Envision eyes dimming like fading embers, threatened by the encroaching darkness of despair. Here, David pleads for divine illumination, a theme dear to St. Clement of Alexandria, who wrote, “Christ is the true light that scatters the shadows of the soul.” For Clement, this plea is prophetic, pointing to Jesus, the Light of the World, who awakens us from spiritual death. As Christians, we read this verse through the lens of the resurrection, where Christ’s victory over the grave becomes our hope in every dark valley.

Then, like a sudden sunrise breaking through storm clouds, the psalm pivots in verse 5: “But I trusted in your steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice in your salvation.” This is not naive optimism but a bold act of faith. Picture a weary traveler, battered by winds, planting a flag of hope in barren ground. St. John Chrysostom marvels at this shift: “See how the psalmist, though pressed by affliction, leaps to praise! Faith transforms the heart before the eyes see relief.” Chrysostom teaches us that trust in God’s hesed—His covenantal, unfailing love—is a weapon against despair, wielded even when the battle rages fiercest.

The psalm closes with a vow: “I will sing to the Lord, because he has dealt bountifully with me” (v. 6). Imagine a lone voice rising in song, faint at first, then swelling like a river fed by unseen springs. This is the Christian response to suffering—not denial, but defiance, rooted in the assurance of God’s goodness. For the early church fathers, this verse prefigures the Eucharist, where we sing of Christ’s bountiful gift of Himself, even amid trials. As Origen notes, “The soul that trusts in God sings, for it already tastes the banquet of salvation.”

Reflection:

Psalm 13 invites us to bring our rawest cries to God, trusting that His silence is not absence. Like David, we may stand in shadows, but the cross assures us that Light has dawned. Where are you crying, “How long?” Bring that ache to Jesus, the One who wept in Gethsemane yet rose in glory. Let your lament become a song, for His steadfast love never fails.

Prayer:

Lord Jesus, Light of my soul, hear my cries when darkness presses in. Teach me to trust Your unfailing love, even when I cannot see Your face. Transform my lament into praise, and let me sing of Your salvation, now and forever. Amen.