spiritual formation

How the God’s Law Makes Us Whole Again

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Hiker walking down rocky mountain trail with cloud-covered valley and sunlit peaks

Matthew 5:17-48

Have you ever wondered how the Old Testament law fits into following Jesus? Some say the law has nothing to do with following Christ today. Others insist it has almost everything to do with it. These debates aren’t new. Even in Jesus’ own day, people wanted to know where he stood. And perhaps nowhere does he speak more clearly than in one humbling sentence: “…be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:48).

At first hearing, that line can push us into familiar camps, either “the law is nothing” or “the law is everything.” But Jesus is going deeper. He’s not lowering the bar, and he’s not simply repeating what others taught. He’s revealing the law’s true purpose.

Jesus begins a block of teaching on the Old Testament (Matthew 5:17-48) by saying, “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the Prophets…” He’s emphatic: God’s commands were never harsh rules the Son came to undo. If you want to know the heart of God, look at his laws. And if you’ve ever fallen in love with the way Jesus lived, you’ve actually fallen in love with a life lived perfectly in relation to God’s law.

But Jesus also warns that law‑keeping alone isn’t enough. The most meticulous rule‑followers of his day still missed the mark because their obedience was self‑exalting rather than God‑glorifying. You can make the law everything, and, in doing so, miss God entirely.

So Jesus takes the law deeper, down to the heart. Consider just one example: “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not murder,’ … but I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment” (Matthew 21-26). Many of us can say we’ve never murdered. But who can say they’ve never been angry? Jesus isn’t tightening the screws; he’s showing that the law was always meant to shape not just our actions but our attitudes and reflexes toward one another.

Or take his teaching on enemies: loving those who love us is easy. But Jesus says, “Love your enemies” (Matthew 5:44). You can’t fight fire with fire. Responding to hate with more hate only burns the world down further. Jesus calls us to break the cycle.

Why? Because this is how God treats us. The sun rises and rain falls on the just and unjust alike (Matthew 5:45). Jesus is calling us back to the beautiful life we were created for.

And that brings us again to his final words: “You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” Not perfect in our own strength, but in surrendering to his.

Here is the honest dialogue of a heart responding to that call: You say: “Jesus, I can’t.” Jesus says to you, “I have.” You say, “That’s great for you, but I still can’t.” Jesus says, “I know. That’s why I died, to covers your sins.” You say, “Thank you, Jesus, for forgiveness, but I still can’t live like you.” Jesus says, “I know. That’s why I give you my righteous life too.” You say, “Lord. I’m glad you see me that way, but I don’t live that way.” Jesus says, “My power is made perfect in weakness.” You say, “Then I’ m too weak. Help me!” Jesus says, “Now you’re beginning to understand. You were made to trust me.” Finally you say, “I give up.”
And Jeus says, “Good. ‘…unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit’ (John 12:24).”

Be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect, not by striving harder but by surrendering to him.

Understanding the Fallout of Shortcuts: Insights from Genesis 16

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A dramatic scene depicting three individuals: an elderly man with a pained expression, a woman angrily pointing at him, and another woman standing with her arms crossed, looking away.

Genesis 16

This article is part of a four‑part series reflecting on Genesis 16 and the God who sees us.

Sarai’s plan “worked.” Hagar became pregnant. For a moment, everyone got what they thought they wanted. Abram got the child he wanted. Sarai’s womanhood seemed restored, at least she thought. But shortcuts always come with fallout.

Hagar, once invisible, now felt superior. Sarai’s inferiority deepened. Abram remained passive. And the household erupted.

Sarai lashed out at Abram, “May the wrong done to me be on you!” (Genesis 16:5). She then turned her anger on Hagar, treating her harshly. What began as a plan to fix things only made everything worse.

We know this pattern. A rushed decision. A bent rule. A moment of desperation. And suddenly the situation is so tangled that no one knows how to fix it. Sometimes life becomes so messy that every person involved is both guilty and wounded. Maybe you’ve lived that. Maybe you’re living it now.

Genesis 16 doesn’t hide the mess. It shows us that shortcuts don’t just fail. They wound. They create victims. They multiply pain. If you want to see this dynamic unfold in real time, read Genesis 16:4–6 for yourself. It’s a mirror held up to the human heart.

Next week, we’ll see what happens when God steps into the wreckage, not to scold, but to seek, restore, and show that he sees even the most broken among us.

Before then, here’s some practical take aways from this portion of Genesis 16.

If you’re in a mess, slow down before acting out of fear of pressure. Sarai’s plan was drive by desperation, not trust in God. Are you rushing too fast into a relationship? A financial decision? A career move? Slow down. Pray. Seek counsel.

Examine your short-cut reflex. Many people try to force outcomes. Manipulating circumstances. Bending rules or ethics. But, those shortcuts often create more pain than the problem they’re trying to solve. Recognize when you’re taking an unwise shortcut.

Take heed of yourself. Are you trying to overly control outcomes like Sarai? Are you being passive like Abram when you ought to be active? Are you responding to hurt with pride like Hagar? Acknowledge your role as the wounded or the wounder or both.

Instead of trying to fix the mess yourself, bring it to God.

It’s easy to try to outrun God

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Genesis 16

This piece begins a four‑part series exploring the story of Genesis 16 and what it reveals about God and the human heart.

God makes sweeping promises in Scripture: promises to prosper his people, to give them hope and a future, and more. But these promises begin small, like a seed. In Genesis, these promises begin with two people: Abram and Sarai. Everything God intends to do, make them a great nation, giving them a new land, and bless them richly, depends on one thing Abram and Sarai don’t have: a son. You may be surprised to know that all these promises are carried over into the New Testament, but not as a seed any longer but a mighty tree.

The lack of a son to Abram and Saria help explain their actions in Genesis 16. And it’s a problem that’s theological, psychological, and social all at once.

Theologically, God promised a great nation through Abram’s offspring. No son means no nation. Psychologically, Abram and Sarai longed for a child. Many today know that ache. Socially, Sarai lived in a world where a woman’s worth was tied to her ability to “build up” a family (Genesis 16:2). That pressure crushed her. It whispered that she was less-than, broken, inferior.

We may not live in her world, but we know that whisper. Every culture has its own way of telling us we’re not enough. One culture says, “You’re nothing without children.” Another says, “You’re nothing without a career.” Both fuel feelings of inferiority.

So Sarai, feeling worthless, looks for a shortcut. She turns to Hagar, her Egyptian servant, and proposes a solution that was perfectly acceptable in Canaanite culture, but not in God’s design for human flourishing. She offers her servant to Abram as a wife. Abram, instead of praying or waiting, simply “listened to the voice of Sarai” (Genesis 16:2). That’s Genesis-language for listening to a voice that, at least at that moment spoke contrary to God, rather than listening to the voice of God.

It’s easy to judge them, but we do the same. We rush ahead when God tells us to wait. We bend rules when we want something badly enough. We try to outrun God, and in doing so, we cut him out.

Genesis 16 invites us to see ourselves in Abram and Sarai. Their problem is our problem: Will we trust God to make good on his promises, or will we try to force them? Will we let God be God, or will we take matters into our own hands?

If you’ve never read this story, open a Bible this week and sit with Genesis 16:1–3. You may find your own reflection staring back. Next article we’ll evaluate the outcome of Sarai and Abram’s plan.  

True Comfort in a World Obsessed with Ease

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Isaiah 40:1-11

Since the pandemic, comfort has become a cultural obsession. Where do you go for comfort? Do you reach for the half gallon of ice cream in the freezer, settle in for a streaming marathon, or slip into your softest sweatpants?

Isaiah 40 begins with a word we all crave: Comfort. But this comfort doesn’t add pounds, wear thin, or fade with use. It endures when every other source fails. Over the coming weeks, I’ll explore how the comfort Isaiah 40:1–11 offers contrasts with the ways we typically chase comfort today.

We begin with this truth: True comfort comes from God’s redeeming work, not from present ease.

Many of us believe comfort will arrive when our schedules lighten, our workloads shrink, and our relational drama ceases. Isaiah 39 gives us a sobering example of that mindset. King Hezekiah receives devastating news: Babylon will invade, Jerusalem’s treasures will be carried off, and even his sons will be taken. Yet because this disaster won’t happen in his lifetime, he responds, “The word of the LORD… is good,” thinking, at least there will be peace in my days.

Hezekiah found comfort in present ease. It made him selfish. When present ease becomes our highest goal, we stop caring about anyone beyond ourselves.

Isaiah 40 announces better comfort, rooted not in ease but in redemption. God promises that Israel’s warfare will end, not just their exile in Babylon, but the deeper warfare caused by their sin.

Israel had forgotten the God who rescued her. To picture this, imagine a father who leaves his homeland to give his daughter a better life. Back home he was a doctor; here he works as a janitor so she can flourish. She grows up, becomes a doctor herself, but she rarely calls, scarcely visits, and abandons the virtues her father tried to pass down to her. That is what Israel did to God. He redeemed her from Egypt, nurtured her in the wilderness for forty years, passed down a good law, and gave her a verdant homeland. But she turned away. Almost every citizen was complicit. Now God promises to pardon her rebellion, by fully paying for it himself.

True comfort comes from knowing that Christ was crucified to pardon our sin. Hezekiah clung to ease and became self‑centered. Christ discomforted himself to bring us comfort. And that kind of comfort doesn’t shrink our hearts. Rather, it enlarges them. It makes us love God and others more, not less. True comfort gives us a purpose outside of ourselves that enriches us as we enrich the lives of those around us.