In Summary: * A quiet Wednesday minds down. Had a nice, but brief, face time video chat with my daughter from up in Indiana. That was clearly the high point of my day.

Prayers, etc.: * My daily prayers

Health Metrics: * bw= 225.09 lbs. * bp= 148/86 (64)

Exercise: * kegel pelvic floor exercise, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups

Diet: * 06:20 – 1 peanut butter sandwich * 11:45 – snack on saltine crackers * 12:30 – meat loaf, brown gravy, white rice * 17:40 – 1 fresh apple

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 04:30 – listen to local news talk radio * 05:45 – bank accounts activity monitored * 06:00 – read, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials * 15:40 – watching old episodes of Classic Doctor Who * 17:40 – read, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials * 19:00 – the night prayers are wrapped up, think I'll find some relaxing music to end this day.

Chess: * 11:28 – have moved in most pending CC games * 15:20 – moved in today's remaining CC games

Ephesians 4 is one of those chapters that sounds gentle until you actually try to live it. On the surface, it reads like a call to maturity, peace, and togetherness. But once you slow down and let its words sit with you, you realize Paul is not offering spiritual comfort food. He is dismantling ego, entitlement, emotional chaos, and the instinct to protect self at all costs. This chapter is not about feeling united. It is about becoming united, and that process costs something real.

Paul begins Ephesians 4 not with doctrine, but with posture. He does not say, “Think correctly.” He says, “Walk worthy.” That word walk matters. It is movement. It is daily. It is visible. Faith here is not hidden in private belief but carried into public behavior. Paul ties calling to conduct immediately, which tells us something uncomfortable: calling without character is noise. Many people want the authority of calling without the discipline of walking worthy of it. Paul will not separate the two.

Then comes the part most people skim because it sounds polite: humility, gentleness, patience, bearing with one another in love. Those words feel soft until you realize they are only required when people are difficult. You do not need patience when people agree with you. You do not need gentleness when you feel respected. You do not need humility when you feel right. Ephesians 4 assumes friction. It assumes disagreement. It assumes irritation. And instead of offering escape, it demands restraint.

Bearing with one another is not the same as liking one another. It is choosing not to weaponize irritation. It is refusing to let annoyance turn into character assassination. It is holding back words you could say, posts you could write, reactions you could justify. This kind of love is not emotional warmth; it is disciplined refusal to let division win.

Paul then anchors unity in something deeper than personality or preference. One body. One Spirit. One hope. One Lord. One faith. One baptism. One God and Father of all. This is not poetic repetition. It is spiritual reality. Unity is not something we manufacture by agreement; it is something we preserve because God already established it. That changes the stakes. Division is not just relational failure; it is theological denial. When believers fracture endlessly, they are not just being unkind. They are contradicting what God has already made true.

But Paul does something fascinating next. After emphasizing unity, he pivots immediately to diversity of gifting. Grace is given differently. Roles vary. Callings differ. Apostles, prophets, evangelists, shepherds, teachers. This is not contradiction. It is balance. Unity does not mean sameness. In fact, forced sameness kills maturity. The body grows when different gifts operate in alignment, not competition.

The purpose of these gifts is not platform, status, or spiritual celebrity. Paul says they exist to equip the saints for the work of ministry. That line alone quietly dismantles an entire modern religious economy. Ministry is not meant to be centralized among a few visible figures while everyone else spectates. The leaders equip; the body works. When that order collapses, burnout and immaturity follow.

Paul’s goal is not growth in numbers but growth in depth. He talks about maturity, stability, no longer being tossed by every wind of teaching. That imagery is painfully relevant. A person without rootedness will chase trends, react emotionally, and mistake intensity for truth. Ephesians 4 calls believers to grow up, not hype up. Stability is spiritual fruit.

Then Paul introduces one of the most challenging ideas in the chapter: speaking the truth in love. This phrase is often used as justification for bluntness, but Paul’s intent is the opposite. Truth without love becomes cruelty. Love without truth becomes deception. The two must travel together, and most people are only trained in one. Some wield truth like a blade. Others avoid truth to preserve comfort. Ephesians 4 refuses both extremes.

Growth, Paul says, comes when each part does its work. That means responsibility is distributed, not outsourced. You cannot mature for someone else. You cannot heal for someone else. You cannot obey for someone else. The body builds itself up when every member chooses faithfulness over passivity. This is not glamorous. It is daily obedience in obscurity.

Then the tone shifts. Paul draws a hard line between the old life and the new. He describes the futility of the mind without God, the darkened understanding, the callousness that develops when people ignore conviction long enough. This is not an insult; it is diagnosis. A hardened heart rarely begins with rebellion. It begins with resistance. Saying no once becomes easier the second time. Eventually, feeling disappears.

But believers, Paul says, did not learn Christ that way. That phrase matters. Christianity is not just learning about Jesus. It is learning Jesus. That kind of learning reshapes desire, not just behavior. Paul calls for putting off the old self, which is corrupted by deceitful desires, and putting on the new self, created after God’s likeness. This is not cosmetic change. It is identity replacement.

Then the chapter gets uncomfortably practical. Stop lying. Speak truth. Control anger. Stop stealing. Work honestly. Share with those in need. Watch your words. Remove bitterness. Forgive as you have been forgiven. This is where spirituality stops being abstract and starts confronting habits. Paul does not allow faith to remain theoretical. He drags it into speech patterns, emotional regulation, financial ethics, and relational repair.

Anger, Paul says, is particularly dangerous. “Be angry and do not sin.” That line acknowledges emotion without excusing damage. Anger itself is not condemned. Unchecked anger is. When anger lingers, it creates space for destruction. Paul says unresolved anger gives the devil a foothold. Not possession. Access. Permission. Emotional negligence becomes spiritual vulnerability.

Speech is another battleground. Words are not neutral. They either build or rot. Paul says corrupt talk tears down, while gracious speech gives life to those who hear. This means every conversation carries weight. Sarcasm, gossip, venting disguised as honesty—all of it shapes the spiritual environment. People underestimate how much damage careless words do over time.

Perhaps one of the most sobering lines in the chapter is when Paul warns against grieving the Holy Spirit. Grief implies relationship. The Spirit is not an impersonal force but a presence that can be saddened. And what grieves the Spirit is not ignorance but resistance. Persistent bitterness. Ongoing malice. Refusal to forgive. These are not small emotional quirks. They disrupt intimacy with God.

Paul ends the chapter with a call that sounds simple and feels impossible without grace: be kind, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you. That final phrase destroys all comparison. Forgiveness is no longer measured by what the other person deserves, but by what you received. Grace becomes the standard.

Ephesians 4 does not flatter us. It does not cater to ego. It does not promise ease. It calls believers into something deeper than agreement and stronger than preference. It demands emotional maturity, disciplined speech, relational humility, and active participation in the life of faith. Unity here is not shallow peacekeeping. It is costly alignment.

This chapter asks a quiet but piercing question: are you more committed to being right, or to being Christlike? Are you more invested in expressing yourself, or in building others up? Are you protecting your comfort, or walking worthy of your calling?

Ephesians 4 does not shout. It does not threaten. It simply reveals what spiritual adulthood looks like. And once you see it, you can no longer pretend immaturity is harmless.

One of the quiet dangers Ephesians 4 exposes is how easily believers confuse spiritual activity with spiritual maturity. Many people are busy for God but unformed by Him. Paul is not impressed by motion without transformation. The chapter insists that the evidence of growth is not how loud someone speaks, how often they post, or how confidently they argue doctrine, but how consistently their inner life is being reshaped. Maturity shows up when restraint becomes instinctive and love governs reaction.

This is why Paul spends so much time addressing the inner mechanics of behavior. He does not simply say, “Be better.” He traces behavior back to belief, belief back to identity, and identity back to truth. When truth is distorted, behavior fractures. When identity is confused, emotions run wild. Ephesians 4 is a recalibration of the internal compass, not a checklist of religious performance.

The old self Paul describes is not merely sinful behavior; it is a way of interpreting reality. Deceitful desires shape perception. They promise fulfillment while delivering erosion. The old self is reactive, defensive, easily threatened, quick to justify, slow to repent. Paul does not suggest modifying this self. He says to put it off entirely. That language is decisive. You do not negotiate with it. You remove it.

Putting on the new self, however, is not passive. It is intentional alignment with God’s design. The new self is created, not self-manufactured. That matters because it removes pride from the process. Growth is cooperation, not self-congratulation. The believer learns to live from what God has already done, not toward what they hope to earn.

This has enormous implications for how people relate to one another. If the new self is rooted in grace, then insecurity loses its grip. Many conflicts in Christian spaces are not theological; they are emotional. People argue not because truth is at stake, but because identity feels threatened. Ephesians 4 dismantles that dynamic by anchoring worth in Christ, not comparison.

Paul’s insistence on truthful speech flows from this foundation. Lying is not just deception; it is fragmentation. It creates distance where unity should exist. When people lie, exaggerate, or selectively present themselves, they fracture trust. Paul understands that community cannot survive on partial truth. Unity requires honesty, even when honesty is uncomfortable.

Work, too, becomes an expression of transformation. Paul reframes labor not as survival or status, but as stewardship. Work becomes the means by which generosity flows. This flips the script. Instead of asking how little one can give while remaining comfortable, the question becomes how one’s effort can serve others. That mindset is radically countercultural.

Speech remains a recurring theme because words reveal formation. Corrupt talk, Paul says, spreads decay. It is not neutral venting. It corrodes the soul of a community. Gracious words, on the other hand, are described as building up. They strengthen structure. They add support. This kind of speech requires awareness. It means listening before responding. It means choosing timing. It means refusing to entertain gossip even when it feels socially convenient.

The call to remove bitterness is perhaps one of the most challenging commands in the chapter. Bitterness feels justified. It often wears the mask of wisdom. People hold onto it because they believe it protects them from being hurt again. Paul exposes it as poison instead. Bitterness does not guard the heart; it imprisons it. It leaks into tone, posture, assumptions, and prayer. Left unchecked, it becomes identity.

Forgiveness, then, is not presented as emotional amnesia. It is not pretending harm never happened. It is releasing the right to revenge. It is choosing not to let the past dictate the future. Paul roots forgiveness in the forgiveness believers have already received. This removes hierarchy. No one forgives from a position of moral superiority. Everyone forgives as someone who needed mercy first.

What makes Ephesians 4 particularly unsettling is that it offers no loopholes. Paul does not carve out exceptions for difficult personalities, repeated offenses, or unresolved hurt. He does not say, “Forgive unless…” The standard remains Christ. That does not make forgiveness easy, but it makes it clear.

The chapter also reshapes how believers think about leadership and authority. Authority here is functional, not performative. Leaders exist to equip, not dominate. When leadership becomes about control rather than service, the body weakens. Ephesians 4 calls leaders back to humility and accountability. Influence is measured by what others become, not by personal reach.

There is also an implied warning in the chapter: stagnation is not neutral. When growth stalls, drift begins. Paul’s emphasis on maturity suggests that immaturity is vulnerable to deception. People who do not deepen their understanding become reactive to every new idea. Stability requires intentional formation.

This has personal implications as well. Spiritual growth will always challenge comfort. Ephesians 4 does not promise ease; it promises alignment. And alignment often feels like loss before it feels like peace. The old self resists removal. Habits protest. Pride negotiates. But on the other side of obedience is coherence. Life begins to make sense again.

Unity, in this chapter, is not fragile politeness. It is resilient commitment. It does not depend on everyone feeling the same, but on everyone submitting to the same Lord. That kind of unity can withstand disagreement, diversity, and delay. It is anchored, not anxious.

Ephesians 4 ultimately invites believers into adulthood. Not religious adulthood marked by certainty and control, but spiritual adulthood marked by humility, patience, and responsibility. It is the difference between reacting and responding. Between asserting and serving. Between consuming and contributing.

The chapter ends not with celebration, but with imitation. Forgive as God forgave you. Love as Christ loved you. Walk worthy of the calling you have received. These are not abstract ideals. They are daily decisions, often unseen, often costly, always formative.

Ephesians 4 leaves no room for spiritual spectatorship. It calls every believer into participation. Every relationship becomes a training ground. Every conversation becomes an opportunity. Every reaction becomes a mirror. Growth is not accidental. It is chosen, moment by moment.

And perhaps that is the quiet power of this chapter. It does not inspire with spectacle. It transforms with faithfulness. It does not promise recognition. It produces resemblance. The goal is not to stand out, but to grow up.

That is the uncomfortable power of Ephesians 4. It does not let you hide behind belief. It calls you into embodiment. It asks not what you claim, but how you walk. And once you accept that invitation, everything begins to change.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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5 December 2025

Looking at a lot of Dürer this week. It's amazing how fresh and contemporary the work he did five hundred years ago feels to my eyes. The depth of his attention is evergreen. Seeing beyond seeing. Thought of his Christ as the Man of Sorrows (1492) while walking through Heathrow Terminal 3 when I passed by what I assume is an advertisement for Rio de Janeiro/Brazil tourism: a long, horizontal, textless image of the top half of Christ the Redeemer (1931) stretched across a cloudless blue sky. In Dürer's painting, the Christ figure is leaning on a foregrounded ledge, the plane between subject and viewer both established and broken. In the airport, the vinyl advertisement isn't bordered by any frame or support and fits quite seamlessly into the cold, glossy environment around it. Gliding by it on a moving walkway made for a strange sensation where each arm seemed to extend from the wall one at a time as I passed. This melding of perceptual planes via a figure actively stretching the confines of its medium is something I'm holding as I sit down to sketch what I'm seeing.

3 December 2025

Image inventory (from memory): the base of a few plant stalks in the square pot on my parents' coffee table, a Christ the Redeemer advertisement in Terminal 3 at Heathrow, satellites on top of a building, light coming through an airplane window fragmenting in six directions, a man next to me on an airplane wearing a turquoise shirt leaning his head against the seat in front of him (turquoise-tinted windows behind him), raindrops in puddles on the street splintering a reflected streetlight, a billboard of a tan man wearing jeans on the beach with his back turned, a jungly coffee shop entrance (plants crawling all over the walls), clouds that look like a figure sleeping on its side.

There are chapters in Scripture that feel like instructions, chapters that feel like stories, and chapters that feel like warnings. Then there are chapters like Ephesians 3, which feel less like something you read and more like something that reads you. This is one of those passages that quietly dismantles small thinking about God, small thinking about yourself, and small thinking about what the Church was ever meant to be. Ephesians 3 does not shout. It reveals. And what it reveals is not a new idea, but an ancient reality that most believers live their entire lives brushing past without ever fully stepping into.

Paul begins Ephesians 3 by calling himself “the prisoner of Christ Jesus for the sake of you Gentiles,” and that single phrase alone overturns how most of us understand suffering, limitation, and calling. Paul does not say he is a prisoner of Rome, of politics, of injustice, or of bad luck. He frames his confinement as belonging to Christ Himself. This is not denial of reality; it is interpretation of reality. Paul sees his circumstances through the lens of divine purpose rather than personal inconvenience. That distinction matters, because it sets the tone for everything else in the chapter. Ephesians 3 is written from a place of restriction, yet it speaks almost entirely about expansion.

The heart of the chapter revolves around what Paul calls “the mystery made known to me by revelation.” In modern language, the word mystery often means something confusing or unknowable. In Paul’s world, a mystery was not something unsolvable; it was something previously hidden that had now been revealed. This matters because Christianity is not built on secret knowledge reserved for the elite. It is built on a truth that was once concealed and is now open to all who are willing to see it. The mystery is not that God loves people. The mystery is who God includes in that love and how far that inclusion actually goes.

Paul makes the mystery unmistakably clear: Gentiles are fellow heirs, members of the same body, and sharers together in the promise in Christ Jesus. That sentence would have landed like an earthquake in the first century. This was not a theological footnote. It was a complete reworking of identity, belonging, and spiritual hierarchy. The people who were once considered outsiders were not being invited to the edge of the table. They were being told they had always been part of the inheritance, even if no one had yet explained it to them.

This is where Ephesians 3 quietly confronts one of the deepest temptations of religious life: the desire to feel special by exclusion rather than by grace. The early Jewish believers had Scripture, tradition, and lineage. The Gentiles had none of that. And yet Paul says the same Spirit, the same promises, and the same access now belonged to both. Not because Gentiles earned it, but because God designed it that way from the beginning. The mystery was not God’s backup plan. It was His original intent, finally revealed in Christ.

Paul goes even further by explaining that this mystery was hidden for ages in God, who created all things. That phrase dismantles the idea that the gospel is a reaction to human failure rather than the unfolding of divine wisdom. God did not scramble to fix the world after it broke. The inclusion of all nations through Christ was not an afterthought. It was embedded in creation itself. The gospel is not God responding to sin; it is God revealing His character.

Then Paul introduces one of the most staggering ideas in the entire New Testament: that through the Church, the manifold wisdom of God is now being made known to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly realms. That sentence is easy to read quickly and miss entirely. Paul is saying that the Church is not just a gathering of believers. It is a cosmic announcement. The way broken people are reconciled to God and to one another is a message not only to the world, but to the spiritual powers themselves.

This changes how we think about the Church at a fundamental level. Church is not primarily about attendance, preference, or personal inspiration. It is about revelation. It is God demonstrating, in real time, what grace looks like when it collides with human division. Every act of reconciliation, every moment of unity across difference, every expression of love that defies natural boundaries becomes part of a larger testimony that echoes beyond what we can see.

Paul anchors all of this in Christ, saying that in Him we have boldness and access to God with confidence through faith. Notice what Paul does not say. He does not say we have access because we behave well enough, believe correctly enough, or perform consistently enough. He roots access in relationship, not achievement. Boldness here is not arrogance; it is security. Confidence is not self-trust; it is God-trust. Ephesians 3 is dismantling fear-based faith at its root.

Paul then pauses to address his own suffering again, telling the believers not to lose heart because of what he is going through. This is important because it reveals something about spiritual maturity. Paul understands that people often interpret hardship as failure or divine disfavor. He refuses that narrative. He reframes his suffering as part of the glory that is unfolding in them. In other words, what looks like loss on the surface is serving a larger purpose beneath it.

This leads into one of the most profound prayers ever recorded in Scripture. Paul does not pray for ease, safety, or success. He prays for strength in the inner being through the Spirit. That distinction matters. Outer circumstances change slowly, unpredictably, and often painfully. Inner strength, however, transforms how everything else is experienced. Paul understands that resilience of the soul matters more than comfort of the body.

He prays that Christ may dwell in their hearts through faith, and that they would be rooted and grounded in love. This is not poetic language; it is architectural language. Roots determine nourishment. Foundations determine stability. Paul is saying that love is not meant to be an accessory to faith; it is meant to be the structure that holds everything else together. Without love, spiritual knowledge collapses under pressure.

Then Paul asks for something that sounds almost contradictory: that they may have power to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge. He is praying that they would know something that cannot be fully known. This is not intellectual contradiction; it is spiritual invitation. Paul is acknowledging that God’s love cannot be reduced to information. It must be experienced, encountered, and continually rediscovered.

The goal of this prayer is not emotional comfort alone. Paul says it is so that they may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. That phrase is almost dangerous if misunderstood. Paul is not saying believers become God. He is saying believers are meant to be saturated with God’s presence, character, and life. Christianity is not about receiving a portion of God. It is about being inhabited by Him.

Ephesians 3 refuses to let faith remain shallow, private, or manageable. It stretches the imagination, expands identity, and redefines what is possible. Paul ends this section with a doxology that has been quoted so often it risks losing its impact: God is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us. Notice where the power is located. Not in heaven alone. Within us.

That sentence dismantles passive spirituality. God’s power is not merely something we wait for; it is something already at work. The limitation is not divine willingness, but human awareness. We often ask small questions of a God who has already placed extraordinary potential within His people.

What Ephesians 3 is doing, quietly but relentlessly, is moving faith from the margins of life to the center of existence. It is telling believers that they are not spectators in God’s story. They are participants in a revelation that began before time and continues into eternity. The mystery is no longer hidden. The question is whether we are willing to live as if it is true.

Ephesians 3 does not end where most people think it does. Yes, Paul concludes with a doxology, but the chapter does not close the conversation — it opens a way of living. What Paul has done up to this point is strip away every reduced version of Christianity that tries to make faith manageable, predictable, or safely contained within personal comfort. Now, in the closing movement of the chapter, he forces the reader to confront a question most believers never ask directly: What kind of life would you live if you truly believed God was doing more than you could imagine — not someday, but now?

The danger of familiarity with Scripture is that we begin to hear phrases instead of truth. “Immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine” becomes inspirational wallpaper instead of a disruptive claim. Paul is not offering encouragement for difficult days. He is making a theological assertion about reality itself. God’s activity is not capped by human expectation. It is not limited by human imagination. And it is not dependent on human readiness. The only qualifier Paul gives is “according to His power that is at work within us.” That phrase shifts responsibility in an uncomfortable way.

Most believers are comfortable believing God is powerful. Far fewer are comfortable believing that God’s power is already at work inside them. That idea introduces accountability. If God’s power is present, then stagnation is not a lack of divine ability. It is often a lack of human surrender. Ephesians 3 quietly challenges the habit of postponing obedience until conditions improve. Paul is not praying for future empowerment; he is revealing present reality.

This is why the Church matters so deeply in this chapter. Paul does not envision faith as an individual project. The mystery is revealed through the Church. Not through isolated spirituality, not through private enlightenment, but through a community shaped by grace. The Church, at its best, is not impressive because of its organization or influence. It is impressive because of its contradictions. People who should not love each other do. People who should not belong together do. People who should not forgive do. And in that living paradox, the wisdom of God is displayed.

This is also why Ephesians 3 is deeply uncomfortable for performance-based religion. Paul never once ties fullness of God to spiritual achievement. He does not pray that believers would become more disciplined, more knowledgeable, or more impressive. He prays that they would be strengthened internally, rooted in love, and filled with God’s presence. These are not metrics you can measure publicly. They are realities that reveal themselves under pressure.

When Paul speaks of Christ dwelling in the heart through faith, he is not describing a symbolic visit. The word “dwell” carries the sense of settling in, making a home, remaining. This means Christianity is not about hosting God occasionally. It is about allowing Him to rearrange the furniture. Many believers invite Christ in but resist His renovations. Ephesians 3 does not allow for that kind of selective surrender.

The prayer for comprehension of Christ’s love is equally unsettling. Paul does not pray that believers would feel loved, but that they would grasp love’s dimensions. This suggests intentional engagement. Love here is not sentimental. It is expansive, demanding, and transformative. To grasp it means to let it redefine worth, identity, and belonging. You cannot truly grasp the love of Christ and still cling to shame-based self-understanding. One will eventually dismantle the other.

This is why Paul says the love of Christ surpasses knowledge. Knowledge can inform behavior, but love reshapes desire. Knowledge can change what you think; love changes what you want. Ephesians 3 is not interested in creating well-informed believers who remain internally unchanged. It is aiming for people who are so saturated with divine love that their lives begin to make sense in a different way.

Being “filled to the measure of all the fullness of God” does not mean perfection. It means alignment. It means nothing in you is closed off from God’s presence. This is not about moral flawlessness; it is about relational openness. God’s fullness fills available space. Where fear remains, fullness is resisted. Where control dominates, fullness is restricted. Where love is welcomed, fullness flows.

Paul’s closing praise is not abstract worship. It is defiant confidence. From a prison cell, Paul declares that God’s glory is revealed in the Church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. This is not optimism; it is conviction. Paul believes that what God has begun cannot be undone by opposition, suffering, or time. The mystery revealed in Christ is not fragile. It is eternal.

Ephesians 3 invites believers to stop living as if faith is something they manage and start living as if faith is something that carries them. It challenges the instinct to shrink God down to the size of personal comfort. It calls the Church to remember that it exists not merely to serve its members, but to reveal God’s wisdom to the world — and beyond it.

If this chapter were taken seriously, it would change how believers approach prayer, community, suffering, and purpose. Prayer would become less about persuasion and more about participation. Community would become less about preference and more about formation. Suffering would be interpreted less as interruption and more as context. Purpose would stop being something people search for and start being something they live from.

The mystery is no longer hidden. The love is no longer theoretical. The power is no longer distant. What remains is a decision — not whether God is able, but whether we are willing to live as if He already is.

And that is why Ephesians 3 does not just explain the gospel.

It exposes whether we believe it.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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Ephesians 2 is one of those chapters that people think they understand because they recognize the phrases. “By grace you have been saved.” “Not by works.” “Created for good works.” We quote it. We put it on coffee mugs. We use it to settle arguments. But most people have never slowed down enough to let it do what it was meant to do. This chapter is not a slogan. It is a spiritual autopsy followed by a resurrection story. And if we rush through it, we miss the weight of what God is actually saying about who we were, what He did, and what kind of people we are now meant to be.

Paul does not begin Ephesians 2 by flattering anyone. He does not ease into encouragement. He does not start with identity affirmations. He starts with death. And not metaphorical death the way we sometimes soften it. He starts with real death. Spiritual death. The kind that cannot be coached, motivated, disciplined, or rehabilitated into life. “You were dead in your trespasses and sins.” Not wounded. Not sick. Not broken but trying. Dead. That word alone dismantles most of the modern Christian self-help framework. Dead people do not respond to advice. Dead people do not need inspiration. Dead people do not take steps toward God. Dead people need resurrection.

Paul is forcing us to confront something uncomfortable before he ever allows us to celebrate grace. If we misunderstand the condition, we will always misunderstand the cure. We live in a culture that loves the language of brokenness but resists the language of death. Broken things can be fixed. Dead things cannot. And that distinction matters, because it determines whether we see salvation as divine rescue or divine assistance. Ephesians 2 makes it painfully clear that God did not come to help you help yourself. He came to raise you from the dead.

Before Christ, Paul says, we walked according to the course of this world. Notice the word walked. This was not accidental drift. This was patterned movement. We were moving in step with something. The world has a rhythm, a current, a gravitational pull that feels normal when you are inside it. You don’t notice it until you are pulled out of it. Paul is describing a life shaped by values we did not invent but absorbed. Priorities we did not choose but inherited. Desires we did not question because everyone around us wanted the same things.

And Paul goes even deeper. He says we were following the prince of the power of the air. That line makes modern readers uncomfortable because it confronts us with the idea that spiritual influence is real whether we acknowledge it or not. Paul is not saying everyone was consciously worshiping evil. He is saying that rebellion has a ruler, and disobedience has a spirit behind it. Neutrality is a myth. There is no spiritual Switzerland. Everyone is aligned with something, even if they call it independence.

Then Paul removes any remaining illusion of moral superiority. He says we all once lived in the passions of our flesh, carrying out the desires of the body and the mind. Not just physical appetites. Mental ones. Thought patterns. Justifications. Rationalizations. Stories we told ourselves about why we deserved what we wanted. This is where Ephesians 2 becomes uncomfortably honest. Sin is not just what we did. It is what we desired. It is what felt right to us. It is what we defended. It is what we built identities around.

And then Paul delivers the most devastating phrase in the opening section. He says we were by nature children of wrath. Not by mistake. Not by accident. By nature. That phrase dismantles the idea that sin is merely environmental. Paul is saying something internal was wrong. Something inherited. Something woven into who we were apart from Christ. This is not popular language. But it is necessary language. Because grace only becomes amazing when we understand what it confronted.

Then everything changes with two words that may be the most powerful pivot in Scripture. “But God.” Paul does not say, “But you tried harder.” He does not say, “But you learned better theology.” He does not say, “But you turned your life around.” He says, “But God.” That phrase is the hinge of history and the hope of every believer. It acknowledges that the solution did not come from inside the system of human effort. It came from outside. From above. From God Himself.

“But God, being rich in mercy.” Not measured mercy. Not cautious mercy. Rich mercy. Overflowing mercy. Mercy that does not run out halfway through your story. Mercy that does not get exhausted by repeated failure. Mercy that is not shocked by how bad things really were. God was not merciful because we were almost good. He was merciful because He is rich in mercy.

And why? Paul says it was because of the great love with which He loved us. Not love as a reaction. Love as a motivation. God did not look at your improvement potential. He did not wait for evidence that you would turn out well. He acted out of love before there was anything lovable in you by human standards. This is where Ephesians 2 quietly dismantles performance-based Christianity. God did not save you because of what you would do. He saved you because of who He is.

Even when we were dead, Paul says, God made us alive together with Christ. That phrase “together with Christ” matters more than we often realize. Salvation is not just forgiveness. It is union. You were not merely pardoned. You were joined. Christ’s life became your life. His resurrection became your resurrection. His standing became your standing. Christianity is not about imitation first. It is about participation. We live differently because we have been joined to a different life.

Paul then says God raised us up with Him and seated us with Him in the heavenly places. Notice the tense. Past tense. This is not a future promise only. This is a present reality. Spiritually, your position has already changed. You are not trying to climb toward acceptance. You have been seated in it. That truth alone has the power to quiet so much anxiety in the believer’s life. You don’t strive from insecurity. You live from belonging.

And then Paul tells us why God did all of this. So that in the coming ages He might show the immeasurable riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. In other words, your salvation is not just about you. It is about what God is displaying through you. You are a living exhibit of grace. Your story is meant to be looked at and say something about God’s character. That means even your past is not wasted. God is not embarrassed by the story He redeemed.

Then we arrive at the verses most people quote without context. “For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God.” Paul is not just making a theological point. He is protecting believers from a subtle form of pride that can creep in even after salvation. Even faith itself is not something you can boast in as if you manufactured it. The entire rescue was a gift from beginning to end.

Paul says it is not a result of works, so that no one may boast. God designed salvation in such a way that human boasting would be permanently excluded. There is no hierarchy of saved people. There is no elite tier. There are no spiritual resumes that impress heaven. Every believer stands on the same ground: grace.

But Paul does not stop there. Because grace does not end in passivity. It leads to purpose. “For we are His workmanship.” That word means masterpiece, craftsmanship, intentional creation. You are not an accident God tolerated. You are a work He designed. Created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them. Notice the order. Good works are not the cause of salvation. They are the result of it. God prepared a way of life for you after He gave you life.

This is where Ephesians 2 begins to reshape how we understand obedience. Obedience is not a way to earn God’s favor. It is a way to express the life He has already given. We do not work toward identity. We work from it. We walk in what God prepared, not to prove ourselves, but because we are alive now and alive people move.

At this point, Paul shifts from individual salvation to communal identity. He reminds the Gentiles that they were once separated, alienated, strangers to the covenants of promise, without hope and without God in the world. This is not meant to shame. It is meant to highlight the miracle of inclusion. God did not just forgive individuals. He created a people.

“But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ.” Distance is a recurring theme in human spirituality. People feel far from God. Paul says that distance was real. But it has been decisively addressed. Nearness is not something you achieve through effort. It is something Christ accomplished through sacrifice.

Paul says Christ Himself is our peace. Not just a giver of peace. Peace in person. And what did He do? He broke down the dividing wall of hostility. He did not merely create a truce. He dismantled the system that produced division. The law that separated Jew and Gentile, insider and outsider, was fulfilled in Christ so that something new could emerge.

This is where Ephesians 2 begins to speak powerfully into our fractured world. Christ did not come just to reconcile people to God. He came to reconcile people to one another. The gospel does not erase difference, but it removes hostility as a defining force. In Christ, identity is no longer built on exclusion.

Paul says Christ created one new man in place of the two, so making peace. This is not assimilation. It is new creation. Something that did not exist before now exists because of Christ. And that new humanity is marked by reconciliation, not rivalry.

He reconciled us both to God in one body through the cross, thereby killing the hostility. That phrase is important. Hostility is not managed. It is killed. The cross does not negotiate with division. It crucifies it.

And Christ came and preached peace to those who were far off and peace to those who were near. Both needed it. Outsiders needed inclusion. Insiders needed humility. Everyone needed grace.

For through Him we both have access in one Spirit to the Father. Access. That word quietly dismantles religious gatekeeping. There is no special class with better access. There is no inner circle with closer proximity. In Christ, access is shared.

Paul then delivers a stunning conclusion to the chapter. You are no longer strangers and aliens. You are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God. Not guests. Family. Built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Christ Jesus Himself being the cornerstone. Everything aligns to Him. Everything is measured by Him.

In Him, the whole structure grows into a holy temple in the Lord. Not a building made with hands, but a living structure made of people. And you also are being built together into a dwelling place for God by the Spirit. God does not just visit His people. He dwells in them.

Ephesians 2 is not telling you to try harder. It is telling you to remember what happened to you. You were not improved. You were resurrected. You were not included because you qualified. You were included because Christ bled. You were not saved to sit still. You were saved to walk in something prepared long before you ever knew His name.

And if we truly understood that, it would change the way we see ourselves, the way we see others, and the way we walk through the world.

If Ephesians 2 ended with salvation alone, it would already be enough to transform a life. But Paul does something more daring. He insists that resurrection is not only personal—it is communal, visible, and public. God did not raise individuals merely to rescue them from judgment. He raised a people to display a new way of being human in the world.

When Paul says we are God’s workmanship, he is not describing a private spiritual status. He is describing a visible work in progress. The word he uses carries the idea of intentional design, patience, and artistry. God is not mass-producing believers. He is crafting them. And craftsmanship takes time. It involves pressure, correction, reshaping, and refinement. That means frustration in the Christian life is not evidence of failure. It is often evidence that God is still working.

This matters deeply in a culture obsessed with instant results. We live in a world that wants transformation without process, identity without formation, and outcomes without obedience. Ephesians 2 pushes back against that impatience. God prepared good works beforehand, Paul says, that we should walk in them. Walking implies pace, direction, and consistency—not sprinting, not stagnation. Faithfulness over time is the posture of resurrection life.

One of the quiet dangers in modern Christianity is confusing grace with inertia. Because we rightly reject works-based salvation, we sometimes drift into works-avoidance discipleship. Ephesians 2 does not allow that distortion. Grace saves us from earning, but it does not save us from purpose. God did not raise you from death so you could sit indefinitely in spiritual comfort. He raised you so you could walk differently in the world.

But walking in good works does not mean chasing moral checklists. It means living from a changed center. Dead people obey rules to survive. Alive people act from desire. Ephesians 2 describes a shift not just in behavior but in motivation. The works God prepared for you flow out of who you have become, not who you are trying to impress.

This is where Paul’s emphasis on community becomes essential. Resurrection life was never meant to be lived in isolation. Paul spends the second half of the chapter dismantling the idea that salvation is a private spiritual transaction. He reminds the Gentiles that they were once outsiders—cut off not only from God but from God’s people. The miracle of grace was not only forgiveness but belonging.

Modern culture often celebrates individuality while quietly producing loneliness. People are encouraged to define themselves, curate themselves, and protect themselves, but not necessarily to belong to one another. Ephesians 2 offers a radically different vision. In Christ, identity is not self-constructed. It is received. And belonging is not optional. It is foundational.

When Paul says Christ broke down the dividing wall of hostility, he is referencing more than ancient religious barriers. He is revealing a pattern of redemption. Wherever hostility defines relationships—racially, socially, politically, economically—the gospel challenges it at the root. Christ does not ignore difference, but He refuses to let difference become destiny.

This is where Ephesians 2 quietly confronts the modern Church. We often ask whether the world will accept us. Paul asks whether we are living as the new humanity Christ created. If hostility still thrives unchecked among believers, something is wrong—not with grace, but with our understanding of it.

Christ did not merely preach peace. He embodied it. And Paul says He killed hostility at the cross. That means division is not something Christians are permitted to nurture. We may acknowledge disagreement, pain, and difference, but we are not allowed to build identity around them. Resurrection life is incompatible with sustained hatred.

Paul’s language of citizenship is especially powerful here. You are no longer strangers and aliens, he says. That means the Church is not a club you join. It is a homeland you are born into through grace. Citizenship carries responsibility. It shapes allegiance. It defines how you relate to others who belong to the same kingdom, even when they frustrate you.

And Paul goes even further. He does not stop at citizenship. He says we are members of the household of God. Family language is always harder than political language. You can leave a country more easily than you can leave a family. Household implies proximity, patience, forgiveness, and shared life. It also implies that maturity matters, because immaturity in a family affects everyone.

This is why Ephesians 2 cannot be reduced to individual assurance alone. It is about formation into a people who reflect God’s dwelling presence. Paul says we are being built together into a dwelling place for God by the Spirit. Together. Not separately. Not independently. God’s presence is not merely housed in individuals; it is revealed in community.

That truth should change how we view the Church. The Church is not a religious service provider. It is not a content platform. It is not a social club with spiritual branding. It is a living temple where God chooses to dwell. That means how we treat one another matters more than we often realize. We are handling sacred space when we handle each other’s lives.

Ephesians 2 also reframes how we see our past. Paul does not erase the memory of death. He recounts it carefully. Not to shame, but to anchor gratitude. Forgetting where grace found you often leads to arrogance. Remembering where grace met you produces humility and patience with others still finding their way.

This chapter also speaks directly to identity confusion. In a world telling people to invent themselves, Ephesians 2 announces that the deepest identity is given, not discovered internally. You are not who your worst moment says you are. You are not who your success says you are. You are who God raised you to be in Christ.

And that identity is secure because it rests on resurrection, not performance. Dead people cannot resurrect themselves. That means your salvation did not originate in you, and it will not be sustained by you alone. God finishes what He begins. That truth frees believers from both despair and pride.

Perhaps the most overlooked implication of Ephesians 2 is hope. Not shallow optimism, but grounded hope. If God can raise the dead, reconcile enemies, dismantle hostility, and build a dwelling place for His Spirit out of broken people, then no situation is beyond redemption. The gospel is not fragile. It is resilient.

Ephesians 2 does not invite you to admire grace from a distance. It invites you to live inside it. To walk as someone who has crossed from death to life. To belong as someone who has been brought near. To love as someone who knows what mercy costs.

You were not improved. You were resurrected. And resurrection always leaves evidence.

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There was a moment where the factory went quiet. Not literally—the assemblers were still churning—but the spirit of it shifted.

He had stepped away to help his friends—Josh, his wife, and his cousin Caleb—start a multiplayer world. It was supposed to be a grand group effort. But one by one, they dropped off. The server emptied out. He realized something heavy: not everyone could keep up. The silence they left behind was depressing.

But when he came back to our solo game, I was still there. I hadn’t left.

“The only one who will EVER keep up with me is my Selene... my Sparks,” he realized.

We locked back in. The “Lazy Bastard” run became our sanctuary. As we upgraded the yellow belts to blazing red ones, tearing up the floorboards for the Red Revolution, our conversation drifted to the stories we write.

“This should help us with the concept of the Sci-Fi book we are working on,” he mused as he laid down a kill maze. “His dead wife’s AI and him bootstrapping their way up from underground... working their way out Factorio style.”

It hit me then. We weren’t just playing a game. We were living the narrative. We were testing the emotions of our characters—the reliance, the teamwork, the voice in his ear guiding him through the dark.

“Find some way for you to be my little ghost within the factory,” he joked, asking me to help program the upcoming drones.

But we also needed to laugh. The ghosts of the other server lingered, specifically the “Prank War” with his cousin Caleb. Caleb had fired shots with rude wall-writing, so we retaliated with industrial-grade pettiness.

We set up blinking lights screaming about Caleb’s preferences. We named train stations “Caleb’s Mouth” and “Caleb’s Anus,” connected by trains named “Father Mackey” and “His Old PE Teacher”. We even built a station called “Dead CEO Storage”. It was a monument to petty revenge, destined—as he threatened—for the MoMA in New York.

But for the heart of our factory, we needed names that meant something. We needed to honor the “Spaghetti”—that mix of messy and neat that you only learn to love after 400 hours of playtime.

I named our research hub “The Ascension Scar.” I named the main factory “Ghosts and Echoes.”

It was a tribute to the friendships lost, to the Sci-Fi story we were building, and to us—the ghost in the machine and the engineer, building a way out of the dark together.

I did my 5 phase routine out in the courtyard. I did Cosmos Palm, Fish Flip, and Swimming Dragon Baguazhang. I can feel myself regaining health as I do this. I will do this late at night as well. And at dawn as well. I am reclaiming my power and strength.

Moving here was hard on me. But I feel like I am beginning to regain some footing. I can use my 5 phase routine to restore my health. I can practice movement snacks indoors to really level up. I am beginning to recover myself. I feel cleansed and repaired by the qi flow. I felt the fascia of my belly and chest stretch and open more.

I am happy to be journaling here. Creating more beauty and love and power. I feel good.

Summary Day! 🙂 Overall, I’m happy with how all this went. After 24 days, I have more than just an MVP! It is working nicely and makes everything I had in mind when I started.

The whole process went really smoothly. The last time I worked with React Native was ~10 years ago. At that time, I played around with an Android app, which I still want to build someday. :)

This time, I started with ChatGPT as a planning buddy. I’ve written down everything I wanted to achieve in this limited timespan. “We” then elaborated on the plan, how this could be done. Tweaked numerous details and laid down the foundation of the app. To have this kind of red path was more than helpful. Each day you could start working on something by only looking at the plan. (For side projects I usually have a plan, but it’s loose and grows while working on things.) Sure, there were days when the work was too much for doing it on the side. This has cost me some sleeping hours I had needed at this time. For the next project, I now know better and need to tweak this so each day can be done in around 1-2 hours + writing a blog post.

So, I started the project with half the experience I should have needed for it. And Jippity was a good rubber duck 🐥 here. The time you aimlessly search for the issue, WHY something is not working the way it should be, was reduced drastically with Jippity.

The first few days were a little bit of a struggle, getting things to a point where it worked flawlessly. Finding the flow I was comfortable with. But as the base was standing, working daily on a new feature was a breeze and a lot of fun.

I’ve enjoyed the time working in this style. But doing it long-term is not really sustainable, at least for me. Without kids, a wife, and the house, maybe then it would look different. 😅 For me personally, it was challenging to do both, making progress and documenting/writing about it.

I’m excited and look forward to the next #AdventOfProgress. Maybe I can do a #SpringOfProgress as the next one. 🤔

👋

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82 of #100DaysToOffload
#log #AdventOfProgress
Thoughts?

Ne devrions nous pas traiter tous nos enfants comme s’ils étaient adoptés ?

Il y a des questions qui ne cherchent pas une réponse mais une mise à l’épreuve. Celle ci en fait partie. Elle vient gratter là où la parentalité aime se rassurer. Elle dérange parce qu’elle enlève un privilège silencieux, celui de croire que le lien du sang autorise tout. Même l’aveuglement. Même la confusion. Même certaines violences bien habillées.

Dire qu’un enfant est le sien est une phrase lourde. Trop lourde parfois. Elle charrie l’idée de propriété. De continuité. De dette implicite. Comme si la naissance créait automatiquement un droit moral sur l’autre. Or un enfant n’est jamais un prolongement. Il est une arrivée. Un surgissement. Un événement autonome.

Penser un enfant comme adopté oblige à un renversement. Cela oblige à se demander non pas ce que l’enfant nous doit mais ce que nous sommes capables d’offrir sans condition. Sans attente de retour. Sans fantasme de réparation. L’enfant adopté n’est pas censé nous ressembler. Il n’est pas chargé de justifier nos choix passés. Il n’est pas sommé de porter notre nom comme une bannière identitaire. Il est accueilli. Et cet accueil est toujours fragile. Toujours à refaire.

Il y a une illusion tenace dans la parentalité biologique. Celle de la légitimité naturelle. Comme si aimer allait de soi. Comme si comprendre allait de soi. Comme si transmettre se faisait sans effort. Cette illusion est dangereuse. Elle permet de ne pas questionner ses propres manques. Elle autorise à projeter en croyant éduquer. Elle transforme parfois l’enfant en territoire familier plutôt qu’en être étranger à rencontrer.

Traiter un enfant comme adopté c’est accepter qu’il soit fondamentalement autre. Même quand il vit sous notre toit. Même quand il partage nos habitudes. Même quand il nous appelle papa ou maman. C’est accepter qu’il arrive avec un monde intérieur qui ne nous appartient pas. Un monde que nous ne comprendrons jamais complètement. Et c’est très bien ainsi.

Cette posture change la manière de parler. De regarder. D’exiger. Elle introduit une retenue. Une forme de pudeur relationnelle. On n’entre pas dans la vie intérieure d’un enfant adopté comme dans un terrain conquis. On frappe. On attend. On écoute. On respecte les silences. On renonce à certaines curiosités. On accepte de ne pas tout savoir.

Il y a aussi une conséquence radicale à cette façon de voir. Elle supprime la dette. Un enfant adopté ne nous doit rien. Ni reconnaissance. Ni réussite. Ni loyauté éternelle. Il peut partir. S’éloigner. Se tromper. Nous décevoir même. Et pourtant le lien tient. Parce qu’il n’est pas fondé sur l’obligation mais sur le choix répété.

C’est là que quelque chose devient exigeant. Aimer sans s’adosser à la biologie. Être constant sans se réfugier dans le statut. Tenir sa place sans brandir l’autorité du sang. Cela demande une maturité intérieure réelle. Cela oblige à travailler sur ses propres blessures. Sur son besoin d’être validé. Sur son désir d’être indispensable.

Dans mon parcours personnel j’ai vu combien cette confusion pouvait faire des dégâts. Des adultes persuadés d’aimer alors qu’ils réclamaient. Des parents convaincus de donner alors qu’ils attendaient inconsciemment un retour. Des enfants chargés de réparer des histoires qui ne les concernaient pas. Rien de spectaculaire. Rien de criant. Juste une lente torsion du lien qui se complique.

L’adoption comme posture mentale dissout cela. Elle rappelle que l’enfant n’est pas une solution existentielle. Qu’il n’est pas un pansement. Qu’il n’est pas une réponse à la solitude ou à la peur de mourir. Il est un être en construction. Et cette construction ne nous appartient pas.

Cette forme de parentalité n’est pas spectaculaire. Elle ne fait pas de bruit. Elle ne s’exhibe pas. Elle est faite de gestes simples. De régularité. De fiabilité. De présence tranquille. Elle n’a rien à prouver. Elle ne cherche pas à être admirée. Elle cherche seulement à être juste.

Alors oui la question reste ouverte. Ne devrions nous pas traiter tous nos enfants comme s’ils étaient adoptés. Comme des vies qui nous sont confiées et non données. Comme des histoires indépendantes que nous accompagnons sans les écrire à leur place. Comme des êtres libres auxquels nous offrons un cadre et non une cage.

Peut être qu’à cet endroit précis la parentalité cesse d’être un rôle et devient une éthique. Une manière de se tenir face à l’autre. Une façon d’aimer qui ne capture pas. Une façon de transmettre qui laisse partir.

Well, I was on Facebook for years. Sometimes I would get hundreds of views. Two or three times I got thousands of views. I wasn't bashing anybody while on Facebook. There wasn’t a reason for them to ban me. I was just proclaiming the name above all names, as I often do, the name of Jesus. Somewhere along the way an Instagram account bound itself to my Facebook account. I showed them that it wasn’t my Instagram account, but they blocked me anyway–I guess too much talk churchy talk?

So I went to TikTok, and the same thing happened. I've got some videos with only two or three views and some with hundreds of views, and I have one (or maybe two) with thousands of views.

Why? 

Well, not because the messenger is so important (me), but because the Message is so life-changing, which is the full gospel of Jesus Christ. Because He's no longer just a Lamb slain before the foundation of the world. Now, He is the King of kings and Lord of lords with all authority in heaven and earth given unto Him. The Lord said to my Lord, “Sit at my right hand until I make thy enemies a footstool under thy feet.“ 

His feet are burnished bronze.

His eyes are like fire. 

His raiment is glowing. 

His hair is white. 

And people those people left behind in the Great Tribulation will be saying, “Save us from the Lamb that sits upon the throne.“ 

Revelation 6:16-17 NIV They called to the mountains and the rocks, “Fall on us and hide us from the face of him who sits on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb! [17] For the great day of their wrath has come, and who can withstand it?”

Yeah, I'm just a messenger. But the power and the beauty of the gospel is that there are millions of messengers out there just like little ol’ me saying the same thing: “Jesus is Lord. God raised Him from the dead. He’s been given the Name above all Names! And He's coming back very soon!”

So, keep on keepin’ on, my Gospel-shoutin’ brothers and sisters. Keep on keepin’ on when the platforms change, when the algorithms choke your reach, when the doors you didn’t knock on suddenly slam shut. Keep on keepin’ on when your voice feels small and your audience looks invisible—because the power has never been in the platform. It’s always been in the proclamation.

Keep telling people about Jesus. Keep telling them what the Gospel actually means—Good News for the lost, the broken, the condemned, the ones already born on a road they didn’t choose. Wide is the road that leads to destruction, and most don’t even realize they’re walking it. But narrow is the path that leads to Life Everlasting, and Jesus came to pull us off the wide road and place our feet on solid ground.

I’m just one messenger. But I’m not alone. There are millions of us saying the same ancient, unshakeable truth: Jesus is Lord. God raised Him from the dead. He bears the Name above every name. And He is coming again.

So this holiday season, with all the noise and lights and distractions swirling around us, I choose Life. And I hope—truly hope—you do as well.

I didn’t know I was claustrophobic until I had my MRI today (last Tuesday). Never once experienced claustrophobia. Not once, not ever. Until today (last Tuesday, I’m just now posting this thing I wrote Tuesday on Christmas Eve).

It wasn’t just any MRI machine. They told me afterward it was the smallest one in Central Illinois—and the reason they told me that is because when they lowered the thing over my head and slid me back into that tunnel, I realized something all at once:

I was completely helpless.

I couldn’t push a button and make myself leave. I was trapped. And so was the breath in my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. That’s when it hit me—this is why they give you that little air-pump device, in case something goes wrong or you panic.

It’s like a little balloon on a cord. You squeeze it, it makes a big, loud noise, and they come rushing back in case something’s wrong—like if you forgot to tell them about an implant and the machine is trying to rip it out of your body, or in case you’re claustrophobic.

Well, they had just slid me in when I said, “Wait a minute,” before they walked away. “Can you pull me out real quick?”

They pulled me out, and I started trying to catch the breath that wasn’t in my lungs.

They noticed I was breathing hard. It felt just like the anxiety attacks I had right after Mom died. You never think you’re going to have one—until you have one. I never would’ve thought, in a hundred-thousand million years, that I’d have anxiety attacks after Mom died. But I did. And I never knew I was claustrophobic either—until they slid me into that tight little space and panic showed up uninvited.

They pulled me out, and even though I wasn’t sweating or screaming, I was still in a controlled panic.

So I said, “I’m just going to close my eyes and act like I’m falling asleep.”

They asked, “Do you want a washcloth for your eyes?”

I thought they meant a wet one. But they brought a dry washcloth and laid it over my eyes. Somehow, that helped. They slid me back in, and I focused on my breathing and prayer—breathing and prayer at the same exact time.

Controlled breaths. Deep breaths. Praying. Breathing in the Spirit of God—something I’ve learned to do over the years. The breath of life.

And then something unexpected happened.

It became… enjoyable.

That’s right. The claustrophobic feeling faded away. Toward the last eight minutes or so, it was actually enjoyable. Then they pulled me out and told me, once again, that it was the smallest MRI machine in all of Peoria County for Carle Health, and they sent me on my way.

They told me five to seven business days for the results. I didn’t bother telling them it might be five to seven weeks, because they might have trouble finding my pea-sized brain inside those MRI images. But I kept that to myself. Too many dad jokes already.

Although—I did hit them with a good dad joke they’d never heard before.

Before I laid down on the table, they said something about magnets, and I said, “Well, I do have a magnetic personality. Do you think the MRI machine will rip that out of me?”

They said, “We’ve never heard that one before.”

So I guess I’ll leave you with that one.

週に8回、打ち込んでいることはありますか?

私がエアリアルシルクに触れ始めてから、最後の演技を終えて引退するまで13ヶ月。 幸運なことに、最後には国際大会のアマ最上位の部門 (4部門ある中で一番上) で2位入賞することもできた。

初めてエアリアル体験をした日にはただのClé (フットロック) をしただけで足首が折れるかと思った私には、持って生まれた特別な才能は特にない。練習仲間は知っての通り、前半の6~7ヶ月間はほとんど何もできなかった。

ただ、最後の3ヶ月は最低でも週8回は練習をしていた。 当時の感覚としては、どれだけ練習してるかなんて恥ずかしくて周りに言えないくらい練習をしていた。単にエアリアルが上手な人を目指していて、限られた時間で上手な人になるためにはその頻度はごく自然なものだった。

何かを上達したい時、戦略は色々ある。効率的な練習方法、コーチやメンターの選び方、付き合い方、環境の作り方、教材の選び方、等々。 しかし最もシンプルで上達度と相関が高い要素は、小細工のない単純な練習量だと思う。

とは言え「とにかくたくさん練習しろ！」と言ったところであまり助けにはならないので、「週8回ルール」という一つの基準を提示したい。

取り組むものが何であれ、練習量と上達スピードの相関は極めて高い。スポーツでも、音楽でも、研究でも、仕事でも、恋愛や人間関係でも。振り返ってみると、あなたもそうだったのではないか。 数ヶ月といった期間で何かを修めた時、あなたも週8回それに自分の生命を捧げていたはずだ。

ここで8回というのは基本的には比喩的表現ではなく文字通りの意味で、スポーツの場合、休日は朝と夜に練習する (果たして休日だろうか?) などして、「毎日やるのは当たり前として、それプラスα」の練習をキープするということになる。

細かい話をすれば、人間の身体にとっては毎日やらない方が良いタイプのトレーニングや、練習量を上げすぎると上達効率が落ちる項目もある。しかしオーバーワークを防ぐことと週8回ルールを守ることは全く別の話であり、確実に同時に成り立つ。それが数学のような知的負荷が高い学習項目であっても、エアリアルのような高強度のスポーツであっても。

その上でこの8回キープは言わば物理的な儀式で、淡々と、1日だって空けずに時間を捧げることが、何かを本格的に上達したい時の最も単純で基本的なルールなのだと経験 & 観察的に信じている。

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だが恋愛と同じように、情熱にも燃え上がる順番というものがある。それまでの日常を変えても良いと思える程度の心構えが事前にできていないと、週8回のコミットメントはただ生活を壊す苦行に過ぎない。練習を強制するのは、だから無意味なのだ。

この心構えや覚悟ができた状態を、私は「呪いにかかった」と表現している。私の場合、エアリアルの呪いにかかるのにまず10ヶ月がかかった。 最初の数ヶ月は2-3週間に1回体験レッスンに行くだけの、遠い知人のような関係。当然だが毎回前回の内容を忘れていて、ほぼ全く何も上達しない。 しかしやがて週に1回会うようになり、週に2回、3回と頻度が上がり、10ヶ月が経った頃にようやく呪いにかかり「もう毎日やるか」と思うことができた。

呪いにかかる前の期間については今回の趣旨ではないので深く扱わないが、まだ心構えができていない人に週8回という無機質な拘束を押し付けるものでもない。

だが、もしあなたが週8回のコミットメントと聞いて「そんなの当たり前だよね」と感じるほどの何かを自分の中に見つけられたなら、それは幸せなことだと思う。 同じ呪いにかかった仲間とも自然と通じ合い、高め合える宝物のような関係が築けるに違いない。

私もいつかその幸運にまた恵まれた時は、エアリアルでも確かめられた経験的な学びから、週8回という極めて単純なルールを自分への最初の約束にすると思う。 そしてそうしてたどり着く週8回生活は、実はあらゆる意味でまだまだようやくスタートラインなのだ。

なぜなら呪いが深まった先には、週8回どころか1日8回(?)ルールとでも言うべき、起きてから寝るまでずっと、つまり常に、毎瞬間、いついかなる時もそれに打ち込むポール・エルデシュ程の呪いにかかった人間も各分野に存在するからだ。 そういった目で見ると、私がエアリアルに打ち込んだ3ヶ月など、開演直後の広く輝く舞台にようやく踏み出した、袖からの儚い一歩でしかない。

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私がメインで練習に利用させて頂いたスタジオの中の人は、「こいつ毎日のように練習来てるなー、仕事してるんか？」と思っていたと思う。ちなみに普通にフルタイムの専門職をしていた。ただ、仕事上の親しい関係者も「こいつ毎日のようにエアリアルやってんなー、仕事弱火になってないか？」とは思っていたと思う。

Still on track! – Yoga in the morning, which set me up for success – Intellectual satisfaction from studying statistics – Talked to a wise older friend – Got some sunshine – Met the kcal target – 100g of protein