Tag: Kingdom of God

The Kingdom Has Come Near

The Kingdom Journey

As we have been discovering over the last year of blog posts, the “kingdom of God” was not a new idea initiated by Jesus. Throughout Israel’s history, God’s kingship was a central confession. The Psalms proclaimed, “The Lord reigns!” (cf. Psalms 93:1; 97:1; 99:1). God was Israel’s true King – ruling with justice, righteousness, and steadfast love (hesed).

Yet by the time Jesus appeared in Galilee, that kingdom vision felt distant. Israel had endured centuries of foreign domination – Babylonian, Persian, Greek, and now Roman. God’s people lived in their land but did not rule it. They waited for deliverance – for God to act again as He did in the Exodus, overthrow oppressors, and restore His reign among them.

The prophets kept that hope alive. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Daniel, and others spoke of a coming day when God would reign in fullness, when peace and justice would flourish, and when all nations would come to know the God of Israel. By the first century, this hope often took on political and messianic expectations. Many longed for a new Davidic king – a Messiah who would reestablish Israel’s sovereignty and throw off Rome’s yoke.

Into that setting came Jesus, saying, “The kingdom of God has come near.”

Mark’s Gospel wasted no time getting to the heart of things. After introducing John the Baptist and recounting Jesus’ baptism and temptation, Mark moves straight to the core of Jesus’ message:

“After John was put in prison, Jesus went into Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God. ‘The time has come,’ he said. ‘The kingdom of God has come near. Repent and believe the good news!’” (Mark 1:14–15)

These verses functioned as a thesis statement for Jesus’ ministry. Everything that followed – His teachings, healings, table fellowship, death, and resurrection – flowed from this announcement: The kingdom of God has come near.

Not the Kingdom They Expected

For many, Jesus’ announcement must have sounded electrifying. Was this finally the moment when God would set things right?

But as Jesus’ ministry unfolded, it became clear that the kingdom He proclaimed was not the one many expected. He spoke not of political revolt, but of transformed lives. He welcomed the poor, the outcast, the sinner, and the marginalized. He declared that the kingdom belonged to such as these.

In other words, the kingdom arrived not through might or coercion, but through mercy.

God’s reign was not being reestablished on a throne in Jerusalem but revealed in human lives yielded to His will. The divine rule came near in the person of Jesus Himself. Wherever He went, the kingdom broke in – healing the sick, forgiving sinners, restoring the broken.

Repent and Believe

Jesus’ announcement came with a summons: “Repent and believe the good news.”

Repentance (metanoia) meant more than feeling sorry for sin. It meant reorientation – a turning away from old ways of imagining God’s reign and a turning toward what God was now doing in and through Jesus.

But repent from what?

Israel was called to turn from false expectations – nationalistic hopes of deliverance by force, empty religious performance, and self-assured confidence in being God’s chosen people. The kingdom was not coming through them, but to them – and that required humility.

And so does our repentance.

To “believe the good news” was to trust that God was acting, that His reign was breaking into the world, and that life under His gracious rule was now possible.

Why It Was Good News

Mark tells us Jesus came “proclaiming the good news of God.” In the ancient world, the Greek word euangelion (good news) referred to royal announcements – a new king, a decisive victory, a turning point in history.

Jesus’ use of the word was no accident. His message was royal news: God was reclaiming His world.

But for whom was this news good?

For the poor, it meant hope.
For the captives, freedom.
For the blind, sight.
For the oppressed, liberation (see Luke 4:18–19).

For sinners and those on the margins, it meant forgiveness and restoration. In short, the kingdom was good news – very good news – for everyone who knew they needed God.

Yet it was unsettling news for those who thought they already possessed Him. The self-assured, the powerful, the religious elite – they often found Jesus’ proclamation of the kingdom threatening. The arrival of the kingdom through Him was leveling the playing field – exalting the lowly and humbling the proud.

The kingdom of God turned the world upside down (or perhaps, right side up).

The Nearness of the Kingdom

“The kingdom of God has come near.”

That nearness was not merely chronological but relational. In Jesus, God’s reign drew close – visible, tangible, embodied. He revealed what life under God’s rule looked like. On earth as in heaven.

And the nearness continues.

Where mercy triumphs over condemnation, where forgiveness replaces bitterness, where hope rises from despair, the kingdom draws near again and again. It is not something we build; it is something we receive and reflect. The kingdom is God’s reign in action, lived out through those who have repented and believed the good news – the community we call the Church.

Living in the Kingdom Today

Jesus’ first words in Mark were not abstract theology but an invitation to a present reality.

To live as citizens of the kingdom today is to trust that God’s reign is both already present and still unfolding. It means participating in His redemptive work – loving enemies, forgiving freely, serving sacrificially, and living as those blessed to be a blessing (Genesis 12).

The kingdom is not about escape from the world but the transformation of it. Jesus did not come to remove us from the earth, but to renew it – to bring heaven’s rule to bear in every corner of life. Again, think, “On earth as in heaven.”

So when Jesus said, “The time has come,” He announced more than a moment in history. He proclaimed the embodiment of God’s great restoration project – the King Himself stepping onto the scene and saying, “This is what life under God looks like.”

As Stanley Hauerwas observed, “Repent, and believe the good news is the radical proclamation that Jesus has unleashed a movement that puts in jeopardy the powers of this world, powers that gain their power from our fear of death and of one another.”1

That is good news indeed.


1Hauerwas, S., & Harrison Warren, T. (2025). Jesus changes everything : a new world made possible (C. E. Moore, Ed.). Plough.

Jesus’ Baptism

The scene at the Jordan River is one of the most beautiful and mysterious moments in all of Scripture. Jesus – thirty years old, fresh from Nazareth, with no disciples, no miracles, no sermons yet preached – stepped into the murky waters where John had been baptizing the crowds. This act seems, at first glance, unnecessary. After all, John’s baptism was a baptism of repentance. What did Jesus have to repent of? So why was He there?

The answer takes us deep into the heart of God’s redemptive story – a story of fulfillment, identification, and revelation.

Fulfillment

John’s ministry had drawn attention across Judea. People flocked to the wilderness, confessing their sins and being baptized as a sign of repentance and renewal. His message was clear and prophetic: “Prepare the way for the Lord” (Isaiah 40:3). John stood at the hinge point of history – the closing of one age and the dawning of another.

So when Jesus came to John to be baptized, Matthew tells us that John resisted: “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” (Matthew 3:14). John sensed a reversal. The greater was submitting to the lesser. The sinless One was stepping into waters meant for sinners.

But Jesus’ response mattered: “Let it be so now; it is proper for us to do this to fulfill all righteousness” (v.15).

That phrase, fulfill all righteousness, isn’t about moral perfection or rule-keeping. In the Scriptures, righteousness often refers to God’s saving action – His commitment to set things right. Or, as N.T. Wright frequently puts it, to put the world back to rights. Jesus’ baptism wasn’t a personal need; it was a divine necessity. It was His way of saying, I am fully aligned with My Father’s will, and I will walk the path before Me.

Jesus stepped into Israel’s story as its perfect representative. Just as Israel had passed through the waters of the Red Sea and then the Jordan into a new life of covenant faithfulness (Exodus 14; Joshua 3), Jesus passed through these same waters. He embodied the true Israel – obedient, faithful, and ready to inaugurate the kingdom of God.

Identification

But Jesus’ baptism wasn’t only about fulfillment but also about identification.

In choosing baptism, Jesus identified Himself with the very people who needed repentance and renewal. He stepped into the same waters as sinners – not to confess His own sin, but to stand in solidarity with theirs (and ours).

This is the Incarnation made visible. The eternal Word does not remain distant or aloof. He entered fully into human brokenness. He doesn’t shout from heaven, “Get your act together.” He stepped into the muddy Jordan and said, in effect, “I’m with you.”

John’s baptism had become a sign of repentance for those longing for forgiveness and a new beginning. By entering those waters, Jesus declared Himself to be the One who would make that forgiveness possible. Paul later captures this mystery when he writes, “God made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us” (2 Corinthians 5:21). That began in the river Jordan.

It’s easy to miss how radical that act of identification is. The Messiah – the one John had said was coming with fire and Spirit – came first with humility and submission. The very first public act of Jesus’ ministry was to align with sinners. That’s what divine love looks like.

Then Came the Revelation

As Jesus rose from the water, heaven opened. Matthew tells us, “The Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on Him. And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased’” (Matthew 3:16–17).

The moment is profoundly Trinitarian – the Son standing in the water, the Spirit descending upon Him, and the Father speaking from heaven. It’s as if the curtains of eternity were pulled back for just a moment, revealing who Jesus truly is. What began as an act of humility becomes a moment of divine affirmation.

This was no private whisper. The Father’s voice publicly announced what the world needed to know: God’s kingdom had arrived in His beloved Son. The Spirit’s descent marked Him as the anointed One – the Messiah.

Fulfillment, Identification, Revelation—For Us

What happened that day at the Jordan wasn’t just for Jesus; it was for us. In His baptism, Jesus inaugurated the kingdom breaking into human history. He fulfilled righteousness, identified with humanity, and revealed the heart of the Father.

Our own baptism carries those same echoes. When we step into the waters, we are identifying with Him – dying to the old and rising to new life. Baptism isn’t a private ritual; it’s a public declaration that we belong to the One who first stood in the river for us.

Jesus’ baptism also invites us into a deeper trust in the Father’s love. Before Jesus had preached, healed, or done anything “public,” the Father’s voice declared, “You are my beloved Son.” That same affirmation is offered to us in Christ. Before we accomplish anything, before we succeed or fail, God says, “You are my beloved child.”

In a world driven by performance, this is good news. God’s righteousness isn’t about earning approval; it’s about relationship. It’s about restoration. It’s about making all things new.

An Encouragement for 2026

The calendar has turned again. New numbers. New planners. New hopes.  And maybe a few old fears are tagging along behind them. Some of us arrive at 2026 energized, eager to build, create, and press forward. Others arrive weary, limping across the threshold, unsure how much strength we have left to give. Most of us arrive somewhere in between.

So before we rush into resolutions, goals, or carefully curated visions of a “better year,” let me offer some words of encouragement, rooted not in optimism, but in hope.  Not the thin hope that says things will probably work out, but the thick, resilient hope that has learned to trust God even when they don’t.

God is Not in a Hurry

One of the quiet lies we absorb is that urgency can equal faithfulness. That if we are not producing, achieving, or fixing something quickly, we must be failing. But Scripture consistently reveals a God who works slowly, patiently, and deeply. As digital people, we need to be reminded that we are following an analog God.

Jesus spent thirty years largely unnoticed before three years of public ministry. Seeds are planted underground long before they break the surface. Transformation happens in hidden places – hearts, habits, minds – often long before outcomes can be measured (if at all).

As we step into this new year, remember this: God is not behind schedule.  We are not late. We are not failing because the work feels unfinished.

Grace does not rush; it forms.

Faithfulness’s Long Obedience

The kingdom of God rarely announces itself with spectacle. More often, it whispers. It looks like ordinary obedience – showing up, loving people who are hard to love, forgiving when it costs us something, telling the truth when silence would be easier.

Faithfulness is profoundly countercultural in a world addicted to novelty and speed. Yet Jesus never calls his followers to be impressive. He calls them to be faithful.

In 2026, may you not feel called to do more. May you, instead, feel called to do more right things – again and again.  That counts.  That matters.  That is kingdom work.

Jesus Still Sets the Agenda

One of the great temptations of every new year is to baptize our plans and ask Jesus to bless them. But discipleship has always meant something more disruptive (and more freeing) than that.

Jesus does not simply improve our lives; he reorients them.

He invites us into a way of being human that runs counter to the anxious striving of the age. He calls us away from vengeance and toward forgiveness, away from accumulation and toward generosity, away from fear and toward trust.

As you discern the shape of 2026, ask not only “What do I want this year to look like?” but also, “What kind of person am I becoming?”  Because formation, not productivity, is the true measure of a life with God.

You Are Not Alone

If the last few years have taught us anything, it’s that isolation erodes the soul. We were not made to carry burdens alone, discern alone, or suffer alone. The Christian life has always been communal – people walking together, sometimes slowly, sometimes clumsily, always dependent on grace.

If you’re weary, name it.

If you’re carrying grief, don’t tuck it away.

If you’re unsure of what comes next, you’re not alone. God so often does his deepest work not in isolation, but in the shared space of our lives together. We need one another more than we know.

The Renewal of all Things

The Christian story is not one of escape from the world, but renewal within it. God’s promise has never been to discard creation, but to redeem it – to participate in healing what is broken and restore what has been lost.

That includes you and me, our relationships, and the places where we feel stuck, disappointed, or unsure.  Transformation rarely looks the way we expect. It often comes disguised as patience, endurance, and hope that refuses to die.

So as 2026 unfolds – with all its unknowns, challenges, and hopes – hold fast to this: God is present. God is faithful. God is at work, even when we cannot yet see it.

A Pauline Prayer for the Year Ahead

May this ancient prayer of the Apostle Paul carry you into the year ahead…

16 May He grant you out of the riches of His glory, to be strengthened and spiritually energized with power through His Spirit in your inner self, [indwelling your innermost being and personality], 17 so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through your faith. And may you, having been [deeply] rooted and [securely] grounded in love, 18 be fully capable of comprehending with all the saints (God’s people) the width and length and height and depth of His love [fully experiencing that amazing, endless love]; 19 and [that you may come] to know [practically, through personal experience] the love of Christ which far surpasses [mere] knowledge [without experience], that you may be filled up [throughout your being] to all the fullness of God [so that you may have the richest experience of God’s presence in your lives, completely filled and flooded with God Himself].  20 Now to Him who is able to [carry out His purpose and] do superabundantly more than all that we dare ask or think [infinitely beyond our greatest prayers, hopes, or dreams], according to His power that is at work within us, 21 to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations forever and ever. Amen. (Ephesians 3:16-21, AMP)

John at the Jordan: A Familiar Act, a Radical Message

As we discovered in the previous post, when John appeared along the Jordan River, calling people to be baptized, he wasn’t inventing something new. Ritual washing was already woven into Jewish life. From the Temple mikva’ot in Jerusalem to the purifying baths found in nearly every Galilean village, immersions were familiar acts of cleansing – acts that symbolized a person’s desire to approach God with purity.

But John’s baptism was different. He took a familiar ritual and reoriented it – not around the Temple, not under priestly oversight, but around a message: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near” (Matthew 3:2). What had long been an act of purification became a call to transformation.

A Baptism Outside the System

In the first century, ritual washings were part of the rhythm of faith. These washings – tevilah in Hebrew – were repeated again and again as needed. They prepared one externally for worship, but didn’t change the heart.

John’s setting was the first sign that something new was happening. He wasn’t at the Temple. He wasn’t officiating under the watchful eye of priests. He was out in the wilderness – at the Jordan, the river that once marked Israel’s entry into the Promised Land. There, at the symbolic border of new beginnings, he called people not to repeat a ritual, but to prepare for a divine encounter.

“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!” — Pieter de Grebber, “St. John the Baptist Preaching Before Herod,” 17th century )

Repentance: More Than Regret

John’s call was simple yet seismic: “Repent.” The Greek word metanoia literally means “to change one’s mind,” but it carries far more than intellectual reconsideration. In Hebrew thought, repentance – teshuvah – means turning around.

There is an order to repentance. Before one can turn around and change direction, they must first come to a realization that they might, in fact, be going the wrong way – a change of mind.. What did the people have to change their minds about? About God? About His nature? About their role as God’s kingdom people? About justice and mercy?

Turns out, the first-century Jewish people had a lot to change their minds about. Likely that’s why John (and later, Jesus) called the religious leaders a brood of vipers (Matthew 3:7, Matthew 12:34). The religious leaders (priests, Pharisees, Sadducees, zealots, etc.) were actually leading people away from God by misrepresenting his character, relying on their own national ideologies.

John’s message of repentance wasn’t merely to feel sorry or guilty. It meant rethinking about God, His character, and especially the nature of His kingdom…

…because it was breaking in!

Preparing the Way

John’s ministry echoed the words of Isaiah:

“A voice of one calling in the wilderness, ‘Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him’” (Isaiah 40:3).

To “prepare the way” meant to ready the heart for God’s arrival. Just as ancient workers leveled roads for a coming king, John’s preaching cleared the inner landscape – removing obstacles of pride, hypocrisy, and indifference.

His baptism was a symbol of readiness. Those stepping into the Jordan weren’t simply washing away ritual impurity; they were acknowledging their need for renewal and pledging themselves to hear a new narrative.

This is why tax collectors and soldiers came, confessing their sins (Luke 3:10–14). It’s why Pharisees, used to controlling religious access, bristled at John’s independent authority (Matthew 3:7–9). John’s message cut through social boundaries and religious assumptions. He was leveling the ground for the coming King.

The Wilderness as God’s Classroom

I suspect the wilderness wasn’t accidental. Throughout Israel’s story, God met His people in desolate places – calling them out of comfort to confront their need. From Moses’ encounter at the burning bush to Israel’s forty years of wandering, the wilderness was where God stripped away illusion and invited trust. 1

By situating his baptism there, John was signaling a return to dependence on God. The wilderness was a place of renewal and recalibration – a spiritual reset for those willing to leave old thinking behind.

And the Jordan itself carried deep memory. This was the river Joshua crossed when Israel finally entered the land of promise (Joshua 3). To stand in those waters again was to reenact a moment of covenant renewal – to step forward in faith toward God’s future.

A Radical Message in Familiar Waters

So when John called Israel to the Jordan, he wasn’t rejecting tradition – he was fulfilling it. He transformed an external practice into an internal awakening, a ceremonial act into an ethical summons, and a repeated ritual into a watershed moment.

John’s baptism didn’t cleanse in order to make one fit for Temple sacrifice; it cleansed to make one ready to meet the Lamb of God who would take away the sin of the world (John 1:29).

And that was radical.

The Heart of the Matter

Repentance, then, was not a demand to do better but an invitation to be changed. It was not a self-improvement program but a surrender to God’s transformative work.

The act of entering the water symbolized death to the old self and emergence into new life. It prefigured the deeper baptism Jesus would later offer – baptism with the Holy Spirit (Mark 1:8), an inner renewal only God could accomplish.

John’s message pressed toward that truth. “I baptize you with water for repentance,” he said, “but after me comes one who is more powerful than I… He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire” (Matthew 3:11).

The familiar act pointed beyond itself – to a greater cleansing, a truer renewal, a living relationship with the King Himself.

A Call That Still Echoes

John’s voice still echoes across the centuries. In a world that often substitutes religious performance for heart change, his message calls us back to the Jordan – to the place of turning, of release, of preparation.

Repentance remains the doorway to encounter. It is the act of aligning our hearts with God’s kingdom and making room for His reign.

  1. I think of a statement credited to Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel: “It took one day to take the Israelites out of Egypt, but forty years to take Egypt out of the Israelites.” ↩︎

John the Baptist Didn’t Invent Baptism

Before John the Baptist ever called people to the Jordan, the Jewish world already knew something of water and washing. Immersion wasn’t a novelty. It was woven into daily life, into rhythms of purity, preparation, and belonging. John didn’t invent the idea — he simply took it out of the Temple courts and into the wilderness.

The Mikveh: Ritual Purity and Readiness

The Hebrew word mikveh means “a gathering” — often of water — and it came to describe a pool used for ritual immersion. These baths, carved into stone and fed by “living” water (rain or spring), appear throughout first-century Israel. Archaeologists have uncovered mikva’ot (plural) near the Temple Mount, around Qumran, and in Galilean villages — evidence of how normal immersion had become by the time of Jesus.

In Jewish life, immersion in the mikveh wasn’t about moral guilt but ritual status. It restored purity so one could reenter worship or communal life after contact with impurity — things like childbirth, disease, or death (see Leviticus 15; Numbers 19). Priests immersed before serving; ordinary people did so before festivals or Sabbath meals. It was familiar, repeatable, expected.

In other words, the mikveh wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about fitness — being fit to approach God’s presence.

A mikveh near the base of the Southern Steps of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem

Proselyte Immersion: From Outsider to Insider

By the first century, another form of immersion had emerged: that of Gentiles converting to Judaism. A convert underwent three steps — circumcision (for men), immersion, and a temple sacrifice. The immersion symbolized a transition from impurity to purity, from outsider to member of God’s covenant people.

Rabbinic writings later summarized, “By three things did Israel enter into the Covenant — by circumcision, immersion, and sacrifice.” The convert, it was said, became “like a newborn child.” It was a fresh start — but again, a ceremonial one.

Prophets, Purity, and the Promise of Cleansing

Long before mikva’ot were carved in stone, the prophets had used washing language symbolically:

“Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean,” Isaiah pleaded (1:16). “I will sprinkle clean water on you,” promised Ezekiel, “and you shall be clean … I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you” (36:25–27).

Water had always hinted at something deeper — not just the washing away of dust, but the cleansing of the heart.

Groups like the Essenes took this seriously. The Dead Sea Scrolls describe daily immersions tied to covenant faithfulness and inner purity. For them, water symbolized moral renewal — a visible act expressing invisible obedience.

A Familiar Form, a Coming Shift

So when John began calling Israel to the Jordan, he wasn’t performing a strange ritual. He was using a symbol everyone already understood. Immersion was a language his hearers spoke fluently.

What was new was the location — outside the Temple system — and the message behind it. But we’re not there yet. For now, it’s enough to see that John’s work grew out of a long Jewish conversation about cleansing, belonging, and readiness before God.

In an earlier post, Baptism, Pickles, and Steel Poles, we compared baptism to both the preserving of cucumbers and the strengthening of steel. Ordinary materials — transformed by immersion. That’s what was happening in Israel’s ritual life long before John: familiar practices pointing toward deeper transformation.

John didn’t invent baptism; he reinterpreted it. He stood in a long tradition of washing and readiness — but instead of pointing people to the Temple, he pointed them toward repentance and the coming King (and His kingdom).

Before the new could begin, the old had to be remembered. And the old, as it turns out, had always been whispering: “Get ready.”

For those who love to learn more, some sources…

On the Mikveh:

On Proselyte Baptism:

Isaiah’s Kingdom Message

We would be remiss in this “kingdom journey” if we didn’t spend time with Isaiah and his 60-year ministry as a prophet. His prophetic voice rang out in one of Israel’s darkest seasons. His book spans decades of judgment, grief, promises, and breathtaking visions of God’s kingdom breaking in.

Isaiah’s ministry began in the eighth century B.C. during the reign of Uzziah (Isaiah 6:1). He served as a prophet in Jerusalem, speaking to kings and common people alike. His call was both daunting and exhilarating as he announced God’s word to a people who largely did not want to hear it. He saw firsthand their idolatry, injustice, and false worship. He warned them that Assyria, and later Babylon, would be instruments of God’s judgment.

Isaiah was not simply a prophet of doom. He was also a prophet of hope. His message unfolds in a rhythm of judgment and restoration, not an uncommon theme in the Hebrew scriptures. Israel would be cut down like a tree, but “the holy seed will be the stump in the land” (Isaiah 6:13). In other words, God’s kingdom story and the role of his people were far from over.

Isaiah in the Shadow of Exile

Isaiah straddled a critical time in Israel’s history. Some of his prophecies addressed the immediate threat of Assyria, but his vision stretched far beyond. He foresaw Babylon’s rise and the devastating exile that would follow (Isaiah 39:5–7). For Judah, this meant the unimaginable: the temple destroyed, the land lost, the people scattered.

What do you say to a people stripped of their identity and hope? Isaiah’s answer was to re-anchor them in the character of God. He reminded them that the Holy One of Israel was not confined to stone walls or earthly thrones. Even in exile, God was King.

“Comfort, comfort my people, says your God” (Isaiah 40:1). These words echo like cool water in the desert. Isaiah dared to declare that exile was not the end. God was still writing the story, still keeping covenant, still shaping a people for Himself. The kingdom would come, not by human might but by God’s own faithful hand.

The Prophet Isaiah, Michelangelo (1509, Sistine Chapel)

The Kingdom Vision

Isaiah’s prophecies pulse with kingdom language. He envisioned a day when swords would be beaten into plowshares, and nations would learn war no more (Isaiah 2:4). He pictured a highway in the wilderness, where God Himself would lead His people home (Isaiah 35:8–10). He described a feast of rich food for all peoples, where death is swallowed up forever (Isaiah 25:6–8).

These aren’t just nice images. They are glimpses of God’s reign breaking into human history. Isaiah insisted that God’s kingdom is not limited to Israel’s borders – it is global, cosmic, and eternal.

But who could possibly bring such a kingdom?

Pointing to the King

Isaiah repeatedly pointed forward to a figure who would embody and establish God’s reign. Sometimes he called Him the shoot from Jesse’s stump, a Spirit-filled ruler who delights in righteousness and justice (Isaiah 11:1–5). Other times, He is the Servant of the Lord, who suffers on behalf of His people, bearing their sins to bring them peace (Isaiah 53:4–6).

For Christians, these words unmistakably point to Jesus. He is the child born, the son given, the one called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6). He is the Servant who was pierced for our transgressions and crushed for our iniquities. He is the Spirit-anointed King who announces good news to the poor and freedom for the captives (Isaiah 61:1–2; see Luke 4:18–21).

Isaiah, centuries before Bethlehem, gave Israel a vocabulary of hope that would only make full sense in Jesus.

Kingdom People Then and Now

Isaiah’s voice continues to call out across the centuries. His message to exiles is just as relevant to us. We may not be dragged off to Babylon, but we know what it is to live in a fractured world where kingdoms rise and fall, where injustice festers, and where hope feels fragile.

Isaiah’s kingdom vision re-centers us. It reminds us that our story is not defined by loss or despair but by the faithful God who keeps His promises. It challenges us to live as kingdom people even in exile (both real and perceived) – to pursue justice, to care for the oppressed, to keep our eyes fixed on the coming King.

The same King that Isaiah saw in the temple, high and exalted, with the train of His robe filling the sanctuary (Isaiah 6:1), is the King who took on flesh and walked among us. He is the crucified and risen Lord who promises, “Behold, I am making all things new” (Revelation 21:5).

Living Isaiah’s Hope

To read Isaiah is to be both unsettled and comforted. We are unsettled by his honesty about sin, judgment, and the futility of our false securities. But we are comforted by his relentless insistence that God is faithful, that exile is not the end, and that a King has come – and will come again.

Like the exiles who first heard Isaiah’s words, we are invited to trust, to wait, to hope. To beat our swords into plowshares in anticipation of peace. To walk the highway of holiness with joy. To live as witnesses to a kingdom that is already here and yet still to come.

Isaiah helps us see what’s true: God is King, His kingdom is and has broken in, and Jesus is the fulfillment of the promises. And in that kingdom we find our home.

Choosing Kings: The Anarchy of Rejecting God

Anarchy1 often conjures images of chaos, but at its root, it simply means “without a ruler.” That’s a more familiar story than we might think – one that traces all the way back to Eden and runs straight through our own hearts.

Individualism comes to mind. American individualism for sure. We really don’t want anyone telling us what to do. We don’t like big government, except when we want it to provide for our individual needs.

But Americans don’t have a corner on the market. It seems anarchism has been the Achilles’ heel of humanity through the ages, starting with Adam and Eve, the original individualists who preferred to reign in their own corner of the kingdom instead of submitting to God. And humanity has maintained a pattern of anarchy.

Yahweh, sovereign over all creation, is not unaware of humanity’s innate inclination toward disorder and self-rule. Nevertheless, as we have been discovering in previous blog posts, he chose flawed people through whom to initiate the redemption of a broken world. Upon the Israelites’ settlement in Canaan, God instituted a distinctive system of governance.

He appointed judges – not through human election or self-appointment, but by divine calling. Unlike other nations, Israel had no centralized army, no system of taxation, and no bureaucratic administration – only tribes trying, however imperfectly, to live in covenant with the One who had delivered them from bondage.

But as we read in 1 Samuel 8, everything changed. The people said to Samuel, 2 “Now appoint for us a king to judge us like all the nations” (v. 5). They were willing to trade faith for familiarity – to be like everyone else, even if it meant rejecting the One who had rescued them.

Samuel was crushed. So was God.

“They have not rejected you,” God told Samuel, “but they have rejected me from being king over them.” (1 Samuel 8:7)

Let that sink in: the desire for a human king is framed as a rejection of divine kingship. God even warned them exactly what would be coming – a king would take their sons for war, their daughters for labor, their fields, their income, their freedom. “And you shall be his slaves” (v. 17).

It’s as if God were saying: You’re asking for your own oppression.

And they still said yes.

There’s an echo here of something deeply anarchist – not in the chaotic, lawless sense – but in the conviction that concentrated human power inevitably corrupts. True community doesn’t require coercion, but covenant. God’s intent was not empire, but a people shaped by justice, humility, and mutual care.

In their demand for a king, Israel was opting out of covenant trust and into tyranny. They chose domination over dependence. Control over communion. And God didn’t force them. He gave them what they asked for – and allowed them to live with the consequences.

The question lingers for us:
– Are we still choosing kings over covenant?
– Power over presence?
– Control over trust?

Maybe God’s “no” in 1 Samuel 8 isn’t just about ancient Israel. The kingdom Jesus proclaimed was never meant to mirror our systems – it was meant to subvert them. No golden thrones. No iron swords. Just a cross, a basin, and a table.

A little upside-down.
A little unsettling.
A little… anarchist.

1 Anarchy comes from the Greek anarkhia, meaning “without a ruler” (an- = without, arkhos = ruler). It has several uses depending on context – political, philosophical, social critique, etc. – but at its core, anarchy refers to the absence of formal government or authority.

2 Samuel was a prophet, judge, and faithful leader of the Israelites. He prayed when others panicked, listened when others rebelled, and helped a restless nation find its footing. His story can be found in 1 Samuel.

The Parable of the Servant King

As I read through the Gospels this past month, I was repeatedly struck by the image of Jesus as a servant. After reading John 13, I began to realize that Jesus is not only a Benevolent King, but a Servant King. So I had ChatGPT review The Parable of the Benevolent King and offer a “Servant King” version of the parable. For what it’s worth, this is what ChatGPT created…

The Parable of the Servant King and the Kingdom of Merea

Long ago, nestled between green hills and silver streams, there was a kingdom unlike any other. It bore no grand name, yet its people called it Merea, meaning “beloved dwelling.” It had no towering walls, no boastful banners, and no gleaming thrones—but it had a king.

His name was Elandir, though few addressed him by it. To most, he was simply the Servant King.

He wore no crown, save the sun-weathered hood of his traveling cloak. He carried no scepter, only a staff worn smooth from walking with the people. He lived not in a distant palace, but in a modest home at the heart of the village square, where he could be seen each day mending fences, helping mothers lift heavy buckets, or kneeling beside the sick.

Though he could command legions, he chose instead to lead by invitation, not by force. His strength was in his nearness.

The People of the Kingdom

In Merea, everyone had a place, and everyone had a part to play—not out of obligation, but out of gratitude. The king’s way inspired imitation.

The Stone-Menders fixed broken pathways, not for praise, but to ensure the elderly didn’t stumble. The Bread-Makers baked before dawn, leaving warm loaves on the doorsteps of those in need. The Fire-Keepers walked the streets on cold nights, carrying embers to reignite the hearths of the poor.

There were Listeners whose task was to visit the lonely, to sit, nod, and remind the forgotten they were seen. There were Messengers, not to carry royal edicts, but to deliver encouragement, celebrate births, and mourn losses with the grieving. Even the Children had their ministry—they brought laughter, drew chalk flowers on the town square, and reminded the old how to dance.

The Servant King gave no titles. He said that the most honored were those least noticed.

Each day he would rise before the sun and walk the length of the town, checking on the sick, delivering water, patching roofs, and praying quietly for his people. And when asked why he did such menial tasks, he would smile and say, “Because love kneels.”

Why So Many Came

The stories of Merea spread like spring wind. In lands where kings rode stallions and ruled with iron fists, the idea of a ruler who served seemed like a tale for children. Yet as the tales persisted, people began to wonder: Could such a place exist?

Travelers came—some limping, others tired of being used, many carrying wounds too deep to name. They expected gates, guards, and bureaucracy. Instead, they found the king himself waiting at the edge of the road with a cup of water and a question: “Would you like to come home?”

They stayed, not because of riches or promises, but because they were seen, known, and loved. Here, they weren’t asked what they could produce—but who they were becoming. In a world driven by status and achievement, Merea whispered a different word: belonging.

Those Who Chose to Leave

Yet not all who arrived stayed. Some grew frustrated at the Servant King’s ways. They wanted to climb ladders, not wash feet. They asked, “Why does no one rise above the rest here?” And the king, with gentleness, would reply, “Because we rise together.”

But for those who equated worth with control, it was not enough.

A few grew discontented with the slow pace of mercy. They wanted results, not relationship—efficiency, not empathy. They said, “This kingdom is too soft, too slow, too kind.” And the king, though grieved, did not chain them. He only walked with them to the edge of the kingdom and said, “Should you wish to return, the door will always remain open.”

Others left quietly—not out of anger, but from fear. The love they found in Merea felt too complete, too undeserved. They whispered, “I’m not worthy.” And though the king assured them, “None are, that’s why love bends low,” some still turned away, unable to receive what could not be earned.

A Kingdom That Keeps Giving

Yet the Servant King did not despair. He kept sowing seeds, bandaging wounds, listening to stories, and setting tables. The kingdom did not grow by conquest, but by kindness. It expanded not in borders, but in beauty.

Children raised in Merea grew up with strong hands and soft hearts. The old passed their wisdom to the young, and no one was left behind. Festivals were thrown, not for profit, but to celebrate life together. And in every corner of the land, the fragrance of compassion lingered.

And still, the Servant King walks the roads. Some say he’s grown older. Others say he’s only grown deeper—his eyes full of both sorrow and joy. He still waits by the gates each morning, lantern in hand, ready to welcome the next weary traveler who dares to believe that greatness might be found in kneeling love.

I Almost Bought the Farm

Quite literally! Growing up, I loved farming – despite the inherent challenges of dairy farming in the ’50s and ’60s. We didn’t have much. I remember some bleak Christmases. We only made the 3-mile trip into town if it was absolutely necessary. Dairy farming is a 365-day-a-year commitment, so youth sports and weekend getaways were out of the question. Still, I wouldn’t have traded that upbringing for anything.

But I did – I went to college to be an engineer.

After a couple of years of college, I found myself unsure of what I really wanted to do with my life. I struggled in college. My grades were probably an indicator of my uncertainty. So I dropped out for a time, choosing to work for the local company that had hired me to work in their drafting department as a junior in high school. I had employment as long as I was in school, so I continued taking one or two evening engineering courses per semester at the University of Minnesota. Evening classes in the ’70s required an in-person commute, unlike online school today.

While working and commuting to the U, a dairy farm near my home became available for purchase. Because of my uncertainty about life, I decided to consider the possibility of buying the farm and becoming a dairy farmer. A high school classmate of mine was the realtor. We had many discussions as to how I might be able to purchase the farm. I was excited about the possibilities of becoming a landowner.

I almost bought that farm. I suppose I forgot how relentless dairy farming is. But when our future feels uncertain, we often retreat to what we know best. I wonder if that’s what happened with the Israelites in the wilderness when they formed the golden calf. Moses, their leader and the voice of Yahweh, had vanished up the mountain. Their future looked uncertain. So they defaulted to what was familiar: a tangible god, something they could control.

In time – forty years’ time – they learned to trust God. They followed Him through the desert, being shaped into a people ready to live in the land He had promised. That land wasn’t just a gift, but a launch point – a base from which they would fulfill their calling to be God’s covenant people, a blessing to the world. As kingdom people, they would participate in His redemption project – new creation and an “on earth as in heaven” type restoration.

But their desert journey came with hard lessons. The biggest one? God is sovereign. They were not. Yielding to His rule brought life. Resisting brought the opposite.

Eventually, they were ready. Joshua led them across the Jordan into Canaan. The land was apportioned according to their tribal lines – though the tribes of Reuben, Gad, and half of Manasseh chose to settle east of the river.

Before they entered, Yahweh made it abundantly clear how they were to live together in the land under his Kingship. This was the point of the Torah: for God to be their God, and they His people (cf. Exodus 6:6-7, Leviticus 25:38, Deuteronomy 29:13, Jeremiah 7:23, etc).

Theologically, we know this as the Covenant Formula*

As Creator, the land belonged to Him. “The land must not be sold permanently, because the land is mine and you reside in my land as foreigners and strangers (…)” (Leviticus 25:23-25). They were guests – stewards, not owners.

They were there at His pleasure, so to speak.

As landlord, God gave them instructions on how to treat the land and each other. Every seven years, the land was to rest. This not only rejuvenated the soil but also gave farmers, servants, and animals a Sabbath. This same principle was instituted by the United States Soil Conservation Service to combat the propensity for things like the Dust Bowl. We did something similar when I farmed, fallowing about one-seventh of our land each year. Good husbandry.

God also instituted the Year of the Jubilee. Every 50 years, property returned to its original family, debts were forgiven, and slaves were released. A full reset. A radical vision of liberty and justice.

But as far as we know, the Jubilee was never observed.

For a long time, I struggled with the fairness of Jubilee. But once I grasped that the land never truly belonged to them – it was God’s – the whole concept made sense. He was King. He owned everything. The people were simply stewards.

Somewhere along the way, they lost sight of that. Sometimes I wonder if we have too. God is still King. He still owns everything. We are still stewards – of our resources, our relationships, our work, even our time.

What would it look like if we lived more like that were true?

* A key element of the Covenant Formula is the people’s relationship with God and with each other. Jesus recapped the Formula with his infamous “Love God, love others” command (see Deuteronomy 6:4-5 and Leviticus 19:18).

Long Live the King!

“Long live the King!” is a phrase rich with historical significance, symbolizing loyalty, continuity, and the enduring nature of monarchy. Its roots appear to trace back to 15th-century France in the declaration “Le roi est mort, vive le roi!”. “The King is dead, long live the King!” is a proclamation that marked both the death of a reigning monarch and the immediate succession of the next. Over time, the phrase found its place in English tradition and thus, “Long live the Queen!” The king (or queen) was kinda a big deal, I guess.

Recent blog posts have responded to the elusive and lingering question, “What is the Kingdom of God that was central to Jesus’ gospel message?” Why is it so hard for us to wrap our heads around and understand? We have slowly been working through scripture in an attempt to get a 30,000-foot view of God’s activity related to his kingdom and his subjects, starting with Almost Getting It back in November 2024.

Over the past months, I have had many conversations with people who, like me, have come to the realization that Jesus’ primary message was indeed about the Kingdom of God, but with the lingering question of what the kingdom actually is. As mentioned previously, I’ve been wrestling with the question for several decades. Part of this blog journey is my own attempts to articulate what the kingdom is (and what it is not, by the way).

For the last couple of months, I’ve begun to wonder if we have been asking the wrong question. We want to know what the kingdom itself is. I don’t know if it’s a Western thing or a human thing, but I suspect tunnel vision results in asking wrong questions. As I ponder Jesus’ interactions with his disciples, it seems like that was an issue for them, too – asking the wrong questions. So ponder this…

Are we more captivated by the characteristics of the kingdom than by the character of the One who reigns?

We want to know stuff about the kingdom – what it is, where it is, its relation to heaven (or vice versa), etc. We are interested in the characteristics of the kingdom. A place. What if we were to focus our attention on the character of the King himself? It’s this very wonderment that led me to create The Parable of the Benevolent King. I was attempting to describe a kingdom that reflected the character of the king. In the process, the characteristics of the kingdom became evident.

I suspect that when the Israelites met Yahweh at Mount Sinai, they were discovering the character of the God who rescued them from oppression and slavery. In the theophany, they discovered his holy presence on the mountain. The gods they knew about in Egypt were tied to time and place and a bit inept.

Try to imagine what they experienced…

16 On the morning of the third day there was thunder and lightning, with a thick cloud over the mountain, and a very loud trumpet blast. Everyone in the camp trembled. 17 Then Moses led the people out of the camp to meet with God, and they stood at the foot of the mountain. 18 Mount Sinai was covered with smoke, because the Lord descended on it in fire. The smoke billowed up from it like smoke from a furnace, and the whole mountain[a] trembled violently. 19 As the sound of the trumpet grew louder and louder, Moses spoke and the voice of God answered him. (Exodus 19:16-19)

This awesome experience was followed by Him delivering a set of commandments given for the people, His subjects. Starting with the Ten, we usually view these commands as precepts on how the people were to live in the presence of a holy God. There is certainly something to that. But what if we also looked at the commands as a revelation of God’s character to a people who knew nothing of his character? Think about it. As we watch world leaders issue “commands,” don’t their directives tend to reveal their character?

Through the Ten Commandments, the people discovered that Yahweh is the only true God, not tied to time and space (Exodus 20). This God did not require images because He created them as his image bearers, as we discussed in an earlier post.

But God didn’t stop with the Ten Commandments. He instituted an additional set of commands (see Exodus 20-23). Like the bottom of the order of the first Ten, these additional couple of dozen commands are mostly related to how his image-bearers were to relate to each other. We might call them social justice laws. They talk about how servants were to be treated, about fair trade, about the treatment of widows and orphans, about how foreigners were to be treated, about justice and mercy, etc. In fact, the NIV translation’s heading for a section of these additional commands is “Laws of Justice and Mercy.”

Can you see how the commands reveal the character of the King?

So again I wonder, is our attention drawn to the discovery of the characteristics of the kingdom rather than the character of the King? Maybe Dallas Willard had that figured out when he said…

Jesus put a face on the Kingdom of God*

* Willard, D. (2024). The scandal of the kingdom : how the parables of Jesus revolutionize life with God. Zondervan Books.