The Illusion of Insignificance (Hebrews 2)

(note: This material is inspired by the R. Kent Hughes commentary on Hebrews- it is such a powerful read!)

Hebrews 2:5–9

[5] For it was not to angels that God subjected the world to come, of which we are speaking. [6] It has been testified somewhere,

“What is man, that you are mindful of him,

or the son of man, that you care for him?

[7] You made him for a little while lower than the angels;

you have crowned him with glory and honor,

[8] putting everything in subjection under his feet.”

Now in putting everything in subjection to him, he left nothing outside his control. At present, we do not yet see everything in subjection to him. [9] But we see him who for a little while was made lower than the angels, namely Jesus, crowned with glory and honor because of the suffering of death, so that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone. (ESV)

We live in a world obsessed with influence, clout, visibility, and control. If you're not trending, if you're not powerful, if you're not rich, you're probably not noticed—and definitely not admired. It’s easy to feel small, invisible, even insignificant.

But Hebrews 2 gently peels back the illusion.

It starts with an interesting line:

“For it was not to angels that God subjected the world to come…”

In other words, God’s plan wasn’t to hand over the universe to angels. His design has always involved us—flawed and fragile as we are.

The writer quotes Psalm 8:

“What is man, that You are mindful of him? Or the son of man, that You care for him?”

This is David stargazing, humbled by the size of the cosmos. The moon and stars seem eternal and glorious—while we seem fleeting and forgettable. Yet, somehow, God is mindful of us. Not just aware. He cares. He designed us to rule and reflect His glory.

But we all know something’s off.

Hebrews 2:8 admits it:

“At present, we do not yet see everything in subjection to him.”

That’s a biblical way of saying—“Look around. The world’s a mess.” Humanity is supposed to be crowned with glory and honor, but it doesn’t feel that way. Most days, it feels like the world is stomping on us, not the other way around.

Now imagine being a Hebrew Christian in the first century. You’ve lost everything to follow Jesus—your standing in the synagogue, your business, maybe even your family. You walk the streets of Rome or some Italian town, poor, mocked, maybe still carrying the bruises of persecution. You're nothing in the eyes of the world. Just a joke to the people around you.

Meanwhile, the Emperor sits on a golden throne. Surrounded by marble pillars and the applause of the Senate, he has wealth, power, pleasure, fame. His word can command armies. His likeness is on every coin.

Who looks like they’re winning?

But the gospel tells a different story. Hebrews says it’s actually the exact opposite.

The emperor may seem majestic now—but decay and dust are coming. The believer may seem pathetic now—but resurrection and glory are on the way. The only difference is time.

Then comes the turn:

“But we see Him…”

We don’t yet see everything rightly ordered—but we see Jesus.

He stepped into our condition. Lower than the angels, for a little while. Bruised, rejected, acquainted with sorrow. But crowned with glory and honor because He tasted death for everyone. And by His suffering, He restores the lost glory and brings “many sons to glory.”

That’s the core of it. Jesus reverses the fall by entering into it. And because of that, our suffering isn't meaningless. Our smallness isn't final.

I’ve lived long enough now to see little flashes of this upside-down reality play out in real life.

I’ve seen the overlooked athlete who worked in anonymity for years and then, when the time came, rose up and became All-State. I’ve seen the quiet eighth-grader—mocked, overlooked—grow and mature until the same people who laughed at him weren’t laughing anymore.

And I’ve seen the opposite.

Mighty men who built their lives, their names, their companies—who once walked in confidence and controlled boardrooms—slowly fade. Illness takes its toll. Memory slips. Hands shake. They become shadows of the strength they once had, stirring a coffee cup with effort, and quietly disappearing from the stage.

If that’s where the story ends, it’s all so heartbreakingly sad.

But it doesn’t end there.

Not for the one who is in Christ.

The believer may look small, worn out, irrelevant—but God is not done writing the story. The glory of Psalm 8 will be fulfilled. The crown is coming. The image of God will shine again, fully restored.

So when life feels heavy and the world tells you that you don’t matter, remember:

You are not insignificant.
You are not forgotten.
And your end is not fading—
Just wait and see.

Song: What is Man? (Psalm 8)

What Would Rush Say Today?

I miss Rush Limbaugh. There were national voices who helped me make sense of the chaos and noise in my late teens and early 20's. Rush Limbaugh and Billy Graham had optimistic messages that resonated with people. So here is what I think his monologue would sound like today......

"My friends…

I want to speak directly to the young people tuning in—those who are trying to make sense of this chaotic, upside-down world we’re living in. And I know, I know—it feels like the center isn’t holding. Like the system is rigged. Like nobody’s listening.

And let me tell you—you’re not crazy.

But you are being lied to. You're being manipulated. You're being pushed into little ideological boxes that make you useful to someone else's agenda.

So let me give it to you straight.

America is the greatest country in the history of the world.
No footnote. No apology. The greatest. Not because of conquest. Not because of luck. But because we were built on ideas. Dangerous, revolutionary ideas: that government should be limited… that individuals are made in the image of God… that liberty matters more than control… and that truth is not a social construct.

Now, I know the cultural left wants to tell you otherwise. They’ll say capitalism is evil. The Constitution is outdated. Faith is oppressive. History is shameful. Gender is fluid. Speech is violence. And borders? Don’t even get them started.

But here's the dirty little secret, folks: they don't want to fix the system.
They want to replace it—with something darker, something top-down, something global, green, woke, and unaccountable.

And who gets hurt the most?
Not the elites in their gated compounds.
You.
You, the young person trying to buy a home. Raise a family. Speak your mind. Find your place in a country that seems to be losing its soul.

Now, don't misunderstand me—I’m not here to sugarcoat things. The Right has its problems too. Weak knees. Shallow messaging. And yes, some people who take it too far.
But the immediate danger—the clear and present threat—is coming from the radical, unhinged Left. They riot. They rewrite. They cancel. They corrupt. And they call it “progress.”

But I want you to hear this loud and clear:

You are not powerless.
You are not voiceless.
And you are not alone.

The older generation? We haven’t always listened. That’s true. You’ve been handed a heavy burden: inflated costs, digital confusion, moral chaos. We told you to work hard, and then we changed the rules mid-game.

But this country—this idea called America—still belongs to you.
And it can still be saved. Not by rage. Not by mobs. But by clear thinking. Courage. Faith. Conviction.

Look beyond the hashtags. Question the slogans. Open your mind—and guard your heart.

Because when the storm really comes—and it will—the only thing that will hold is truth. And the only thing that will matter… is who has the guts to stand for it.

And that, my friends… is the undeniable truth of life.

[Cue bumper music, fade out with signature chuckle.]
“Talent… on loan… from God.”

Rejecting and Neglecting — Hebrews 2

There’s a line in Hebrews 2 that stops me cold every time I read it:

“Therefore we must pay much closer attention to what we have heard, lest we drift away from it.”
— Hebrews 2:1

It’s not a shout. It’s not a threat. It’s more like the quiet warning of a friend on the shore: “You’re drifting.”

Then verse 3 presses the weight home:

“How shall we escape if we neglect such a great salvation?”

What gets me is that word: neglect. It doesn’t say reject. That would seem easier to spot. But neglect is quieter, subtler. John Calvin saw the danger and wrote, “It is not only the rejecting of the gospel, but even the neglecting of it that deserves the severest penalty in view of the greatness of the grace which is offered in it.”

Rejecting the gospel is obvious. It’s a closed door, a hardened heart, a voice that says, “No thanks.” Neglect, though, is more dangerous in its subtlety. You don’t fight it—you just drift. No big decision. No scandal. Just slow inattention. A soul that slips into sleep. A heart that still sings on Sundays but no longer stirs.

The word "drift" here paints the picture of something slipping past—like a ring sliding off a finger, or a boat slowly pulling away from its anchor. Sometimes it happens on calm waters. Life is easy, distractions are many, and we slowly lose our grip. Other times the sea is stormy, and we drift not from laziness but from weariness. That may have been the case for the original audience of Hebrews. A small church under pressure. Not renouncing Christ, just tempted to let go. Drifting under duress.

Either way, it’s the same call: Pay much closer attention to what we have heard.

It’s a tension, because it’s the Lord who saves us and sustains us. He is the author and perfecter of our faith. We don’t cling to Christ in our own strength. But we’re still told to stay alert, to stay anchored, to stay awake.

So how do we do that?

We meditate on the value of what we’ve been given. This isn’t ordinary news—it’s a great salvation. A rescue we didn’t earn, a grace we couldn’t buy.

We think on the cost. Jesus didn’t die to make us comfortable. He suffered, bled, and bore our sin. When we remember what it cost Him, we’re less likely to treat it lightly.

We saturate ourselves in the Word. The Bible isn’t just a book—it’s a lifeline. When we fill our minds with truth, we build spiritual muscle memory. We begin to hold fast without even realizing it.

We reflect on what the Lord has done. Look back. Remember. Recall His goodness, His provision, His rescue. Don’t let spiritual amnesia take root.

And sometimes, yes, we imagine the regret if we were to drift away. That isn’t fear-mongering. That’s honest self-examination. What would it cost my soul, my family, my witness, if I slowly slipped away from Christ?

This isn’t an easy topic. But Hebrews doesn’t back away from it—and neither should we. The same letter that warns us also comforts us: He is able to save to the uttermost those who draw near to God through Him. He will hold us fast.

But part of His holding is His warning.

So let’s pay attention.

Not to earn anything.

But because grace this great should never be ignored.

The Plumb Line in His Hand: Zerubbabel and the Day of Small Things

“For whoever has despised the day of small things shall rejoice, and shall see the plumb line in the hand of Zerubbabel.”
— Zechariah 4:10

This verse has stirred my heart for years. I return to it often—especially in seasons of discouragement, waiting, or when the work seems too small to matter. But lately, I've been thinking more deeply about it. I want to explore the scene behind it—the historical story of exile and return, the fragile hope of restoration, and the quiet power of seeing the right person with the right tool in hand.

To fully grasp what’s going on in Zechariah 4:10, it helps to walk through the history that brought us here.

The Story Behind the Plumb Line: Return and Restoration

In 586 BC, Jerusalem fell. The Babylonians destroyed the temple, razed the walls, and carried off Judah's people into exile. But God was not done with His people. Through the prophets Jeremiah and Ezekiel, He promised a return, a rebuilding, and a restoration.

Fast-forward to 538 BC: the Persian king Cyrus the Great, stirred by the Spirit of God, issues a decree allowing the Jewish exiles to return to Jerusalem and rebuild the temple (Ezra 1:1–4). This is the first wave of returnees, led by Zerubbabel (a descendant of David, appointed governor) and Joshua the High Priest.

Their mission: rebuild the temple of God in a city still in ruins.

But it wasn't easy.

The foundation is laid, but opposition quickly halts the project. For 16 years, the site sits silent. The people grow distracted, discouraged, and disillusioned. “Small things,” they might have called it. Little progress. No glory. Nothing worth shouting about.

But then—God raises up Haggai and Zechariah, two prophets who speak life and urgency back into the remnant.

A New Sight: The Plumb Line and the Spirit

In a series of visions, Zechariah sees a lampstand and two olive trees—images of divine supply and partnership. Then comes this striking image:

“This is the word of the LORD to Zerubbabel: Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit, says the LORD of hosts. Who are you, O great mountain? Before Zerubbabel you shall become a plain. And he shall bring forward the top stone amid shouts of ‘Grace, grace to it!’”
— Zechariah 4:6–7

And then, the moment that gives me chills:

“…They shall rejoice when they see the plumb line in the hand of Zerubbabel.”
— Zechariah 4:10

Why rejoice at this?

Because the right leader now holds the right tool. It means something is finally going to happen. The work of rebuilding will be aligned, grounded, and guided—not by guesswork or human ambition, but by a plumb line and the Spirit of God.

What Is a Plumb Line?

A plumb line is an ancient building tool—a simple weight on a string that uses gravity to establish true vertical. Just as a compass finds magnetic north, a plumb line helps a builder establish a perfect 90-degree line, ensuring a straight wall and a solid structure. You can’t build without fixed standards. Our eyes deceive. We need truth to align our work.

And in the hands of Zerubbabel—God’s chosen governor and restorer—it becomes a symbol of hope. People aren’t rejoicing over the tool alone. They’re rejoicing because the work will now proceed rightly, under the hand of a faithful leader and by the Spirit of the living God.

 Coaches and Leaders: You Hold the Plumb Line

This is where I want to speak directly to coaches, mentors, and teachers—those who build lives, not walls.

You hold the plumb line.

Your athletes, your students, your team—they rejoice when they see you lead with fixed standards and faithful love. You mentor not just by discipline, but by aligning that discipline with truth. You hold the whistle not as a symbol of power, but as a plumb line—a reminder of what’s right, what’s straight, and what’s possible through the Spirit of God.

You may feel like what you’re doing is small. Early mornings, film sessions, character talks, quiet prayers. But these are not “small things” to God.

If you're holding that plumb line with faithfulness and humility—your work matters eternally.

 And What About the Mountain?

Don’t miss this: there’s still a “great mountain” in front of Zerubbabel—massive obstacles. But the Word says:

“Before Zerubbabel you shall become a plain.” (Zech. 4:7)

The mountain will fall. The top stone will be set. The project will be completed—not by might, nor by power, but by God's Spirit.

So coaches, teachers, mentors—pick up the plumb line again. Let your young men and women see it in your hand. Lead with clarity, consistency, and love. And let them rejoice—not just because of what you're doing—but because of what God is doing through you.

Historical Markers and Scripture Trail 

Here’s a brief guide to place all this in context:

Year	Event	Scripture
586 BC	Temple destroyed, exile begins	2 Kings 25
538 BC	Cyrus’s decree; Zerubbabel & Joshua return	Ezra 1–2
536 BC	Temple foundation laid	Ezra 3
520 BC	Haggai & Zechariah begin prophesying	Haggai 1–2; Zech. 1–8
516 BC	Temple completed	Ezra 6:14–15
458 BC	Ezra returns with the Law	Ezra 7–10
445 BC	Nehemiah rebuilds Jerusalem’s walls	Nehemiah 1–6
430s BC	Final reforms (Nehemiah, Malachi)	Neh. 13; Malachi 1–4

 God loves to begin in small, humble, overlooked ways.

A whisper from a prophet. A remnant holding tools. A plumb line in a governor’s hand.
A whistle in a coach’s hand.
A lesson. A prayer. A practice done with excellence.

Don't despise the day of small things.
God is still building.
And the world will rejoice when they see His Spirit working through you.

My View on the Writer of Hebrews

Note: The author of course is God, breathing the Holy Spirit- however I have a theory that I lean to on the human transcriber of this amazing book of the Bible. 

As I’ve been studying Hebrews again, one observation keeps capturing my attention: the writer of Hebrews is reading the Old Testament in Greek, not Hebrew.

That may sound like a technicality, but once you begin to notice it, it opens up a world of interpretive insight—and it even adds weight to the question of who wrote this incredible book.

LXX and MT—Two Old Testaments?

The traditional Old Testament is preserved in what’s called the Masoretic Text (MT)—the authoritative Hebrew version, carefully copied by Jewish scribes for centuries. Most of our modern English translations (like the ESV, NASB, and NIV) are based on this Hebrew text.

But long before Jesus walked the earth—around the 3rd to 2nd century BC—a group of Jewish scholars in Alexandria translated the Hebrew Scriptures into Greek. That translation is known as the Septuagint, or LXX (named for the tradition of 70 translators).

The Septuagint became the standard Bible for Greek-speaking Jews scattered throughout the Roman Empire. And when the New Testament writers quoted Scripture, especially when writing to a Greek-speaking audience, they often used the Septuagint.

It used to bother me when I looked up quoted OT verses in the New Testament. I would go back and read the referenced text and it read differently in places.... but God was faithful to strengthen me as I dug into it. If you are ever reading the Bible and it seems mysterious, or contradictory, pray to the Lord and in time He will strengthen you. That has been my experience now for over 40 years!

Nowhere is this more clearly seen than in Hebrews 1.

Example 1: Hebrews 1:7 and Psalm 104:4

In Hebrews 1:7, the writer quotes Psalm 104:4:

Hebrews 1:7 (quoting the Septuagint/ LXX):
ὁ ποιῶν τοὺς ἀγγέλους αὐτοῦ πνεύματα, καὶ τοὺς λειτουργοὺς αὐτοῦ πυρὸς φλόγα
"He makes his angels spirits, and his ministers a flame of fire."

Compare that to the Hebrew Masoretic Text of Psalm 104:4:

Psalm 104:4 (Hebrew - Masoretic Text/ MT):
עֹשֶׂה מַלְאָכָיו רוּחוֹת מְשָׁרְתָיו אֵשׁ לֹהֵט
"He makes the winds his messengers, flames of fire his servants."

The word order and subject-object relationships differ. In the Hebrew, winds and fire are made into God’s messengers and ministers. But in the Septuagint (and Hebrews), the angels themselves are turned into wind and fire.

It’s a subtle difference, but in Hebrews, the emphasis is on the angels as created, elemental forces—changeable, majestic, but not eternal. That sets up the contrast with the Son in verse 8, who is addressed as God, seated on an eternal throne.

Example 2: Hebrews 1:6 and Deuteronomy 32:43

Hebrews 1:6 provides a fascinating example of how the New Testament relies on the Septuagint (LXX), the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, revealing a striking difference from the Hebrew Masoretic Text (MT):

Hebrews 1:6 (quoting the LXX):
καὶ προσκυνησάτωσαν αὐτῷ πάντες ἄγγελοι θεοῦ
"Let all God’s angels worship Him."

This quotation is drawn from Deuteronomy 32:43, but the differences between the Hebrew and Greek texts are significant.

In the Hebrew Masoretic Text, Deuteronomy 32:43 reads:
הַרְנִינוּ גוֹיִם עַמּוֹ כִּי־דַם עֲבָדָיו יִקּוֹם...
"Rejoice, O nations, with His people; for He will avenge the blood of His servants..."

Notably, the Hebrew text makes no mention of angels or worship, focusing instead on nations rejoicing and God’s vengeance.

However, the Septuagint expands the verse significantly:
εὐφράνθητε, οὐρανοί, ἅμα αὐτῷ, καὶ προσκυνησάτωσαν αὐτῷ πάντες ἄγγελοι θεοῦ
"Rejoice, O heavens, with Him, and let all God’s angels worship Him."

This additional material in the Greek—absent in the Masoretic Text—introduces the heavens and all God’s angels worshiping Him. This provides the author of Hebrews with a powerful prooftext to demonstrate the Son’s superiority, as even angels are called to worship Him (Hebrews 1:4–14). This interpretive angle is simply not available in the Hebrew text.

This lead to  a thought and some research.....

Why the difference? 

The Septuagint may reflect a different Hebrew source text or a theological expansion by its translators. Notably, fragments from the Dead Sea Scrolls include a longer version of Deuteronomy 32:43 that aligns more closely with the LXX, mentioning "sons of God" or "heavenly beings," which could correspond to "angels." This suggests the LXX’s reading may preserve an older or alternative tradition.

So What Does This Tell Us About the Author?

The reliance on the Septuagint here is not an isolated case. The author of Hebrews frequently draws on the LXX (e.g., Psalm 95:7–11 in Hebrews 3:7–11), reflecting its widespread use in early Christianity. This example underscores how textual traditions shaped New Testament theology, particularly in affirming the Son’s divine status. Throughout Hebrews, the author uses the Septuagint’s structure and phrasing—even when it differs from the Hebrew Masoretic Text. This tells us that the author:

• He read and interpreted the Old Testament in Greek.

• He was comfortable building theological arguments from the Greek translation, even when it deviated from the Hebrew.

• He was highly literate, skilled in rhetoric, and familiar with Jewish traditions from a Greek-speaking context.

And that leads me to the question of authorship.

Why I Lean Toward Apollos

There are many theories about who wrote Hebrews. It’s anonymous for a reason—perhaps intentionally—but the internal clues point toward someone like Apollos.

In Acts 18:24–28, we meet Apollos:

“Now a Jew named Apollos, a native of Alexandria, came to Ephesus. He was an eloquent man, competent in the Scriptures... fervent in spirit... he powerfully refuted the Jews in public, showing by the Scriptures that the Christ was Jesus.”

That sounds like someone who could write Hebrews. Apollos was:

• From Alexandria, where the Septuagint was produced and widely used.

• A gifted communicator, eloquent and mighty in the Scriptures.

• Trained enough in theology to defend the Messiahship of Jesus from the Old Testament.

He’s mentioned again in 1 Corinthians, where Paul praises him as a fellow minister of the gospel, even acknowledging that some people in Corinth preferred Apollos’s preaching style: “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth” (1 Cor. 3:6).

Martin Luther was one of the first to suggest Apollos as the author of Hebrews, and that influenced me of course! Apollos fits the context: a Hellenistic Jew, steeped in Scripture, educated in the Greco-Roman world, and able to write with force, depth, and beauty.

Does Not Damper My High View of Scripture

I’m struck by how God uses such different voices to reveal His Word. Sometimes it’s the earthy boldness of Peter, or the passionate logic of Paul. And sometimes (possibly) it may be a brilliant Alexandrian preacher who burns with Scripture and sees Jesus woven through every line.

Hebrews may remain anonymous, but the fingerprints of a teacher like Apollos are all over it. And even if we never know for sure, the clarity and majesty of its message remain: the Son is supreme, eternal, and worthy of worship—even by the angels.

And let me say this clearly—none of this study diminishes my high view of Scripture. On the contrary, it deepens it. Seeing how God sovereignly used languages, translations, cultures, and people to bring His truth to light only increases my awe. I more fully embrace the providence of God to produce, protect, and promote His Word across centuries and empires.

This isn’t textual trivia—it’s treasure. Beautiful, rich, Spirit-breathed treasure. The kind that rewards those who dig deeply and invites us to place holy thoughts in our imaginations. The Word of God is not brittle or fragile—it is alive, multi-layered, and full of glory.

__________________

post script:

Scholars who are skeptical of inspiration or divine authorship sometimes say things like:

“The New Testament misquotes the Old Testament.”

“The NT writers build theological arguments on mistranslations.”

“Scripture evolved, and these changes show human error.”

They often point to places like Hebrews 1:6 or 1:7, where the Septuagint and Hebrew text diverge.

On the surface, it can feel unsettling. After all, if Hebrews 1:6 quotes a line about angels worshiping Christ that isn’t in the Hebrew Old Testament, how can we say the Bible is consistent?

But this is where we need to move from fear to faith—and into deeper study.

The New Testament Writers Knew What They Were Doing

The writers of the New Testament weren’t careless with Scripture. They were using the Scripture available to their audience—and for Greek-speaking Jews and Christians throughout the Roman Empire, that meant the Septuagint.

The Septuagint wasn’t a random or flawed translation—it was the Word of God in Greek, translated by devout Jewish scholars, centuries before Jesus. It was recognized and trusted, and in many cases, it even reflects an older or alternate Hebrew textual tradition that may have been lost in the MT stream.

So when Hebrews quotes the LXX, it’s not an error. It’s a Spirit-inspired use of the Word of God as received and known in that time and context.

Theological Arguments Still Stand

Even when the wording is different, the doctrinal point remains intact—or is even enhanced. In the case of Hebrews 1:

Psalm 104:4 in Greek emphasizes angels as changeable forces—supporting the contrast with Christ’s eternal throne.

Deuteronomy 32:43 in Greek includes the worship of angels—fitting beautifully with Hebrews’ theme of Christ’s supremacy.

These are not manipulations or dishonest proof-texts. They are legitimate, Spirit-led readings of God’s Word, consistent with the unfolding revelation of Jesus Christ.

God’s Sovereignty Over the Whole Process

God is not limited by language barriers or textual variants. He was working through scribes, translators, apostles, and even diverse manuscripts to bring His truth to the world. The fact that a book like Hebrews—so rich, complex, and Christ-exalting—uses the Greek Scriptures as its foundation is not a problem.

Faithful Christians Have Always Affirmed This

Even early Church Fathers, Reformers, and modern scholars who hold a high view of inspiration and inerrancy have understood this issue.

Augustine and Jerome debated the Latin Bible's use of Greek vs. Hebrew texts—but both saw God at work in the process.

Luther, who leaned on the Hebrew Bible for translation, still believed Apollos could have written Hebrews using the LXX.

Today, most evangelical scholars affirm that the truth and authority of Scripture are preserved—not in identical wording across all versions, but in the Spirit-guided message and unity of God’s Word.

The Radiance- Hebrews 1:3

 

Hebrews 1:3- I can't move on from this powerful text- 

“He is the radiance of the glory of God, and the exact imprint of his nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power.”
—Hebrews 1:3

There are verses in Scripture so rich, so full of truth and beauty, that they beg to be read slowly. Hebrews 1:3 is one of them. It’s cosmic, personal, and weighty—all at once.

Radiance, not Reflection

Jesus is not just a mirror of God’s glory. He is the radiance—the outshining, the brilliance, the light that comes from the source itself. He is not merely like God; He is God made visible. The Greek word used here (apaugasma) evokes the blazing light of the sun—not the glow on a wall, but the sunbeams that hit your skin. It’s not borrowed glory. It is glory emanating from its source.

When you want to know what God is like, you look at Jesus. He is “the exact imprint of His nature”—not a rough sketch or suggestion, but a precise expression. Just as an ancient seal leaves its image in wax, Jesus bears and reveals the full identity of God. His compassion, His power, His humility, His anger at injustice—these are not merely godly traits. They are God Himself in action.

The Word of His Power

The phrasing here is unexpected: we usually think of the “power of His word.” But Scripture says He upholds all things by the word of His power. It’s a small shift that carries a profound truth: His word is not just expressive—it is active, sustaining, and cosmic. It’s not merely that He has powerful words. It’s that His power goes forth through His Word, and that Word is Christ.

This echoes Psalm 33:6—“By the word of the Lord the heavens were made.” From creation to now, the universe is held together not by unseen forces but by the living, sustaining voice of the Son.

Tracing the Glory

The Greek word for glory, doxa, carries more than just the idea of brilliance or beauty—it echoes the Hebrew kavod, meaning weight or substance. God’s glory is not a passing sparkle; it is the heavy, holy presence that bends knees and fills space with awe. When the Bible speaks of glory, it speaks of something felt as much as seen—something that rests with gravity on the soul.

The story of God’s glory runs like a golden thread through the Bible:

• In the wilderness, God’s glory descended in a cloud and fire.

• At Sinai, it shook the mountain.

• In the tabernacle and temple, it filled the space with unapproachable light.

• In Ezekiel’s vision, the glory departed—a terrible judgment.

• But then, in Bethlehem, the glory returned—not in fire, but in flesh.

“We have seen His glory, the glory of the only Son from the Father.” (John 1:14)

Now, because of Jesus, the radiance of God lives in us.

Paul says, “Christ in you, the hope of glory” (Colossians 1:27). We, the Church, are now temples of that same glory. We carry His radiance—not perfectly, but truly.

What Does This Mean?

It means your life, your words, your presence—all of it is meant to reflect the One who radiates God's glory. It means the same voice that holds galaxies together is the voice that calls your name.

It means you're not just waiting for glory—you’re part of it. Radiance dwells in you.

Let the weight of that change how we live today.

Song Link: The Radiance

"In Screens We Trust...?" Revisited and Rewritten – 2025

I originally posted this in 2015- it was not an easy topic then- that original post remains on jayopsis.com, here is an update:

We’re living in a time when truth is harder than ever to pin down. And more and more, I find myself alarmed—not just by what people believe, but how they come to believe it. The tools of deception have gotten stronger. The screens we stare at are more convincing than ever... and more capable of lying.

In 2015, I wrote about the tragedy in Ferguson and how social media, cable news, and presuppositions twisted the facts into opposing narratives. I wrote: "Ferguson is a microcosm of a real problem we have in the world of social media and 24-hour news for profit."

Now in 2025, I believe Ferguson was a preview of something worse. Because we’ve entered a world where even the evidence can be faked.

It used to be, “seeing is believing.” But now? Not anymore. We are rapidly losing our grip on what can be trusted.

We’re now seeing viral videos, photos, and audio clips so convincingly generated by AI that people will swear by them—defend them—act on them—without a second thought. They look real. They sound real. And sometimes, they're nothing more than digital puppetry.

We’re no longer victims of bad reporting. We’re victims of synthetic reality.

In Screens We Trust?

Back in his book Future Crimes (2015), Marc Goodman saw it coming. In Chapter 8—aptly titled "In Screens We Trust"—he began with a quote from the 1992 film Sneakers:

“The world isn’t run by weapons anymore, or energy, or money. It’s run by ones and zeros... It’s all about information—what we see and hear, how we work, what we think.”

That was fiction. Now it's frighteningly true.

We’ve all followed a GPS app that led us the wrong way—sometimes against our instincts. We ignored the little voice inside because we trusted the louder voice coming from the device.

But now, it’s bigger than directions. It’s entire realities being fabricated—events that never happened, confessions never spoken, faces and voices stitched together with chilling precision.

Deepfakes. Synthetic media. Fraudulent accounts and bot armies that manipulate perception on a massive scale.

Even back in 2014, Facebook admitted over 140 million fake accounts. That was before AI made it easy. Now, a person with zero followers this morning can post an AI-generated image of a political candidate “doing something horrible,” and by dinner, it’s trending. Fact-checkers arrive late to a room that’s already on fire.

We are drowning in information and starving for truth.

And the real danger isn’t just that these fakes exist. It’s that we want to believe them. If it supports our presuppositions, we embrace the lie. If it challenges us, we dismiss the truth. We don’t follow facts anymore—we recruit them to support our side.

The Most Dangerous Screen

Of all the screens in our lives—TVs, phones, laptops—the most deceptive one might just be the cable news screen. It pretends to inform. But most of the time, it affirms your bias, heightens your outrage, and deepens your division.

We're no longer asking, “What is true?” We’re asking, “What makes me feel justified?”

And in that environment, love loses.

The Power of Presuppositions

I’m haunted by a quote from an evangelical social commentator:

“How do you reach a generation that listens with its eyes and thinks with its feelings?”

It’s not easy. I see it in myself too. I can’t count how many times I’ve presented solid arguments only to see eyes glaze over—or how often I’ve clung to my view in the face of overwhelming counter-evidence. We all do it.

We claim to want truth, but what we really want is vindication.

What would it take for us to say: “I was wrong. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”?

Yielded and Still

In a world where everyone is screaming to be heard, I’m drawn to a quieter place.

Have Thine own way, Lord.
Have Thine own way.
Thou art the Potter, I am the clay...
While I am waiting, yielded and still.

What would happen if more of us started each day with that posture?

What if we stopped demanding our rights and started laying them down?

What if we stopped being so easily offended and started being willing to listen?

Rugged Individualism Meets Christ

I love this country, but our obsession with personal autonomy is becoming its downfall. As Tocqueville warned, no human authority deserves absolute power—not even ourselves.

The Constitution only works when governed by self-control. And self-control only works when governed by something greater—a Creator who calls us to truth, humility, and love.

We need something deeper than freedom—we need virtue.

A Route Out

So is there a way forward?

Yes. But it’s a high-cost path.

Everyone must commit to this one, simple rule:

Be hard on yourself. Be gracious to others.

That’s not a 50/50 deal. It’s 100/0. I bring my 100%, regardless of what comes back.

And I can only do that by the grace of God. Because the truth is—I fall short. I fail. I judge. I assume. I get lazy. I want to be right more than I want to be loving.

So at the end of every day, I pray:

There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.
(Romans 8:1)

I want to be someone who builds bridges, not burns them. Who serves others, even if they don't agree with me. Who tells the truth, but never with cruelty.

Because Jesus didn’t just tell the truth—He was the truth. And He died for those who rejected Him.

Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you. (Matthew 5:44)

If we lived more like that, maybe we wouldn’t need fake images to shape reality. We'd be living in a way that shapes it rightly.

The Lure and the Lie: Social Media’s Subtle Power

Let me say one more thing before I close: I’m deeply disturbed by what I see on social media—and I don’t mean just the content. I mean the effect it’s having on us.

The line between what’s real and what’s fake is almost impossible to see now. I’ve watched people—good, thoughtful people—share completely fabricated videos, AI-generated photos, and outrage-fueled stories that are absolutely false… and yet they spread like wildfire.

These aren’t just bad opinions anymore. These are designed lies. Manufactured to look real, feel real, and provoke real emotional reactions.

And the scariest part? It works. Because our hearts are already primed to believe what reinforces our worldview and reject what challenges it.

Social media thrives on that instinct. The algorithm rewards certainty and outrage, not humility and nuance. If you say, “I don’t know,” the machine ignores you. If you shout with confidence—no matter how wrong—you get amplified.

But here’s the real warning:

If we consume fake things long enough, we’ll start living fake lives.

We will become more angry than honest. More performative than prayerful. More eager to be seen as right than to be right in God’s eyes.

I’ve had to check myself. More than once, I’ve typed out a “truth bomb” and had to delete it. Why? Because even if it was true, it wasn’t loving. And truth without love becomes cruelty dressed as conviction.

So what do we do?

We test everything.

Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God...
(1 John 4:1)

We remember that virality isn’t the same as validity. Just because something moves fast doesn't mean it's from God.

We stay yielded and still. We stay anchored to the unchanging Word, not the changing feed. We pursue truth, even when it hurts. We humble ourselves before posting, sharing, liking, or reacting.

And above all, we remember that truth is a Person. Jesus said:

“I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” (John 14:6)

We follow Him—not the influencers, not the noise, not the algorithm. Because the world is burning with deception, and the only safe path forward is lit by the Light of the World.

"Hello Hamlet, I am Shakespeare"

I just started a fresh study of the book of Hebrews, and I already know it’s going to be a rich journey.

I ordered Hebrews: An Anchor for the Soul by R. Kent Hughes (from the Preaching the Word series), and even before diving too deep, I’ve been enjoying doing some background work on the book—looking into authorship theories, setting, and themes. So much mystery around who wrote it, but no mystery about its purpose: to lift up Jesus as better. Better than angels. Better than Moses. Better than anything that came before.

And right from chapter 1, it’s beautiful.

“Long ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets,
but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son…” (Hebrews 1:1–2)

That thought alone humbles and excites me: God wants to be known.

He didn’t leave us guessing in the dark. He started with creation—His fingerprints in everything. Then He spoke through the prophets—flashes of truth, glimmers of hope. And now? Through His Son. The radiance of His glory. The exact imprint of His nature.

And here I am, sitting with an open Bible and an eager heart, wanting to know Him more. Not because I figured out how to reach Him, but because He came to me first.

Hughes captures a great analogy - one from C.S. Lewis in Surprised by Joy (pg 227). Lewis talked about a common objection from unbelievers:

“Man can’t know God — it would be like Hamlet trying to know Shakespeare.”

At first glance, that sounds like a pretty airtight argument. Hamlet is just a character in a play—how could he ever know the playwright?

But Lewis brilliantly turned that idea around:

“Yes, but Shakespeare could write himself into the play.”

That’s the gospel.

God, the Author of all things, wrote Himself into the story. He entered our world — not just as a voice from the sky, but as a man we could see, touch, hear, and follow. Jesus is the divine character in the great story of redemption. He is the Word made flesh.

So here I am, at the beginning of Hebrews, grateful that I’m not trying to climb some invisible ladder to God. He’s the One who descended, who speaks, who reveals, who writes Himself into my story — and yours.

Let’s see where this journey takes us. 

Invictus Anyone?

I’ve always appreciated the poem Invictus, especially knowing how it helped sustain Nelson Mandela during his 27 years in prison. There’s something noble in the sheer will to endure—something God-given about the drive to live, create, conquer, win, and overcome. I never want to discourage that instinct. It’s part of how we’re wired.

Survivor stories often highlight that same spirit—the deep inner determination that pushes people past every limit. That kind of resolve is admirable.

But taken to its ultimate conclusion, Invictus is eternally dangerous. The truths it leans on—courage, perseverance, grit—are only borrowed from the deeper Truth. To persevere is good. But to recognize the living God in the middle of our pain and struggle? That’s better. That’s where transformation begins.

We all live by some kind of salvation story. The question is: what are we trusting in? At the end of the day, every worldview boils down to one of two options—salvation is either from God, or it’s from ourselves.

The idea that we can save ourselves isn’t new. It’s the old tower of Babel story repackaged: “Let us make a name for ourselves. Let us build our own way to heaven.” Whether that’s through good deeds, rituals, knowledge, or even sheer determination, man remains his own savior in every religion except Christianity.

But self-salvation—especially when it forgets God altogether—eventually takes a toll.

My oldest daughter used to be an ER nurse. Some of the stories she shared from that season in her life have stuck with me. She once helped hold the head of a gunshot victim as the family wheeled him into the emergency room themselves. Just one example among many.

But maybe the hardest thing to hear was how normalized death had become. The atmosphere she described wasn’t one of fear or mourning—it was often resignation. Sometimes, even the families didn’t cry. It was just the expected next step in a cycle of crime, addiction, despair, and decay. Life, it seemed, had lost its value.

And I can’t help but wonder—does that loss of reverence for life go hand in hand with a loss of the knowledge of God? If we thought more about Him, would we think more about eternity? And if we took eternity seriously, would we live with more purpose, with more humility, with more hope?

Hell isn’t a comfortable topic. But it’s one Jesus spoke about more than anyone else in the Bible. He called it real. He described it in haunting, unforgettable images: fire that doesn’t consume, worms that don’t die, outer darkness filled with weeping and gnashing of teeth. If those are metaphors, the reality must be worse than we can imagine.

C.S. Lewis wrote about this with his usual insight. He said the doors of hell are locked from the inside. That the damned are rebels who get exactly what they demanded—the right to rule their own lives. And in one of his most sobering quotes, he put it this way: “There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, ‘Thy will be done,’ and those to whom God says, in the end, ‘Thy will be done.’”

That’s what inspired my poem Conquered. It’s a response to Invictus—not in mockery, but in redirection. It’s not weakness to be broken before God. It’s not surrender in defeat—it’s surrender to life. To grace. To the arms of a Father who is more powerful than us, but who invites us into joy.

It's OK to lose when losing means being found.

It's OK to bow when the one you're bowing to is also the one who lifts you up.

You don't need to understand everything. You just need to be embraced by the One who does.

It is never too late. Your sin is never too great.

Let the Savior in. He’s already reaching for you.

Here is my poem again- 

Jayopsis
CONQUERED

Out of the grace that smothers me,
Shining like the sun and making me whole,
I praise my Father that in His glee
Broke and conquered my unbending soul.

In His providential and settled stance
I beat my chest and cried aloud.
His stripes of purpose and romance
Left me stripped, humbled, and bowed.

But out of the prison of wrath and tears
I rested in a couch of crisscrossed shade,
At peace and secure now for eternal years
I journey dark paths joyously unafraid.

It matters not the Accuser at the gate
Charging my many dark blots on the scroll.
God, the I AM is Master of my fate:
Jesus Christ the captain of my soul.

A Question Asked- What Were My Early Life Stories?

I received a question from a jayopsis.com reader/SoundCloud listener about my early influences. Here is my response- thought I would keep it sharable..... 

Before I could read, my mom was already planting the seeds. I remember the soft cadence of her voice as she read aloud—books, Bible stories, anything she could get her hands on. That was my first classroom: a living room, a worn couch, and a mom with the patience of Job and the voice of an angel. She probably didn’t know it then, but she was shaping a lifelong love of words.

Then came comic books—those colorful, often chaotic gateways into reading for so many of us. I didn’t know I was “learning to read.” I just wanted to know what happened next to Batman, Sgt. Rock, or Spider-Man. I absorbed dialogue bubbles and story arcs, plot twists and punchlines, all while sounding out words like “invulnerable” and “injustice.” They were fun, fast, and full of wonder—and they did more for my reading skills than any phonics workbook.

Alongside the comics were the 'monsters'. I subscribed to Famous Monsters of Filmland, watched grainy clips of Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, and Lon Chaney Jr. on an old 35mm projector, and immersed myself in the old Universal horror universe. These weren’t just scary stories—they were tragic tales. Monsters that bled, grieved, and longed for connection. They taught me empathy in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time.

As I got older, I devoured The Hardy Boys, dipped into young adult mysteries, and somewhere along the way I read Frankenstein—the book, not just the movie. That changed everything. Mary Shelley’s tale wasn’t a horror story—it was a lament, a mirror held up to science, society, and the human soul. It was beautiful and heartbreaking. From that point on, I was hooked on real literature.

Those early tastes turned into a full-course meal when I majored in English at the University of Alabama. I discovered the power of Shakespeare’s soliloquies, the sadness of Gatsby’s green light, and the searing honesty of Hemingway’s prose. Eventually, I taught English and literature from 1991 to 2002, hoping to pass on some of that same spark to my students—the way stories can shape how we see the world, how we see each other, and how we see ourselves.

I also have to mention the English Romantics- you can find the first of many posts on them here: 

Post #1 English Romantics- Blake (2022 series)

I eventually moved into school administration, but I’ve never stopped loving story. The monsters, the heroes, the mysteries, the messes—they all taught me to look beneath the surface. To see complexity in people. To look for light in the dark. To believe that stories aren’t just entertainment—they’re soul-forming.

So here's to my mom, to comics and Karloff, to Joe and Frank Hardy, to Victor Frankenstein, and to every page that led me here.

"I Am Your Friend": Re-visiting "Dances with Wolves"

I hadn’t seen Dances with Wolves since it came out in 1990. I remembered vague impressions—wide-open landscapes, slow storytelling, and a swelling score that made something deep inside me ache. I was 25 back then, and I remember walking out of the theater feeling like I had just witnessed something important, though I couldn’t quite explain why.

Watching it again recently, in small portions over several quiet evenings, I was struck not only by the epic beauty of the cinematography and John Barry’s unforgettable music, but by something more profound: the tension in how we label people—especially the use of the word savage.

As a reminder, Dances with Wolves tells the story of Lt. John Dunbar, a disillusioned Union soldier who, through an unlikely assignment to a remote frontier outpost, comes into contact with a Lakota Sioux tribe. As he gradually befriends them—learning their language, witnessing their family bonds, sharing meals and struggles—he is drawn into their way of life. He becomes known by a new name: Dances with Wolves.

The film won seven Academy Awards, including Best Picture and Best Director for Kevin Costner. It was a surprise success on every level. But more than that, it dared to invert the narrative of the “Western.” Instead of portraying Native Americans as hostile and primitive, it gave them depth, dignity, and voice.

The Word “Savage”

As I rewatched the film, it is easy to see an editors viewpoint- challenging the audience to question-Who is the real savage? Instead of bristling over what may be virtue signaling, it is a reality that we ALL have 'savage' tendencies.. and the movie attempts to find that balance, it is more subtle than current Hollywood movies that beat you to death with the UN-subtle propaganda.

The word savage has a long and telling history. It comes from the Latin silvaticus, meaning of the woods—something wild, uncultivated, untamed. Over time, it became a pejorative term used by colonial powers to describe those who didn’t share European customs or values. Savage didn’t just mean someone wild—it came to mean less than human.

In the film, we see soldiers and settlers apply this label to the Lakota, justifying their fear, cruelty, and eventual violence. But as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that the so-called savages are, in fact, the ones showing the greatest humanity—welcoming a stranger, showing loyalty, living with courage and purpose.

This tension isn't new to literature. The phrase “noble savage” is actually a literary trope that traces back at least to the 17th and 18th centuries, particularly in Enlightenment thinking. I remember first reading that phrase while reading literary criticism of James Fenimore Cooper, Last of the Mohicans.  The idea shows up, implicitly or explicitly, in the Leatherstocking Tales, especially through Cooper’s portrayal of Native characters like Chingachgook and Uncas. 

These characters were seen as tragic figures—noble, wise, but doomed to extinction as progress advanced. Many writers idealized indigenous people as uncorrupted by civilization—a kind of purity lost to those in the developed world. It was a reaction to the excesses and hypocrisies of European society, but it still carried its own kind of stereotype.

What Dances with Wolves does so well is allow these individuals to be neither villain nor ideal—just human. With flaws, virtues, wisdom, and pain. The real transformation, then, happens not in them—but in Dunbar, who learns to see and value what he once didn’t understand.

So where did the film leave me this time?

There is a long road between the phrase “You are a savage” and the statement “I am your friend.”

Those words—spoken by Wind in His Hair in one of the film’s final, most emotional moments—hit me harder than they did 35 years ago. It is a public declaration of friendship, trust, and shared identity across a chasm that once seemed unbridgeable.

Distance is important here- the farther we get away from other humans tend to make them seem more savage than they may be.

We are quick today to label people as “other.” Out of the woods. Not like us. We still do it, just with updated vocabulary. And every time we do, we’re shrinking their humanity to make space for our pride.

But Scripture teaches something deeper. All people bear the image of God. That means they are infinitely valuable—not because of how they dress or what culture shaped them, but because God Himself has imprinted His likeness upon them.

The gospel offers us an even more powerful transformation. Paul writes in Romans 5:1:

“Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

There was a time when we, too, were at war with God. Not in open rebellion always—but in quiet indifference, self-reliance, and sin. But God, in His mercy, did not label us “savage” and leave us outside the camp. Instead, He sent His Son.

Jesus says in John 15:15, “I no longer call you servants… I have called you friends.”

The great “I AM” became I am your friend.

That is the truest reversal. The divine becoming human. The innocent dying for the guilty. The justifier of the ungodly making peace—real peace—where there had once been separation.

God closes the gap and we see Him differently as well!

Dances with Wolves reminded me not only of the fragility of labels, but the depth of what real friendship looks like. It requires humility, listening, sacrifice—and sometimes it means leaving your post and stepping into someone else’s world.

My prayer is that we walk the long road from judgment to friendship in our own lives—and we never forget the One who made that journey all the way to a cross, so we could go from enemy to friend, from savage to saved.

Song: Call Me Savage