The Gospel - Part 6: Living out the Gospel Truth - What Having Faith Really Means
We’ve spent this study walking through the full, covenantal picture of the Gospel—God’s faithfulness to His promises made to Israel, the future hope of resurrection, the return of the Messiah, and the restoration of all things. But the Gospel is not just a message to believe—it’s a reality to live by. Now that you’ve seen the grand arc of God’s redemptive plan, the question becomes: How will you respond?
We are not meant to walk away from these truths unchanged. The Gospel draws us into a new way of seeing, living, and hoping. It reshapes how we handle suffering, how we treat others, how we talk about justice, and how we engage the world around us. One of the most sobering and hope-filled themes in Scripture—the Day of the Lord—calls us to live with clarity, humility, and purpose in light of that coming day. The Day of the Lord hasn’t happened yet.
This future moment—described by Jesus in Matthew 25—is when destinies are settled, justice is given, and the full weight of God’s glory is revealed. Until then, we live in the current age with a heart for the age to come. We suffer, we groan, and we wait—not with despair, but with hope.
As Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 4, our “light and momentary troubles” are producing in us “an eternal weight of glory.” And in Romans 8, he speaks of our groaning and waiting for the adoption to sonship—the redemption of our bodies—a phrase pointing directly to the future resurrection. This is our true hope.
But some have tried to move the timeline. Early church thinkers developed what came to be called realized eschatology—the idea that these promises have already been fulfilled in a spiritual way. But Paul and the other apostles push back: we are still waiting. We are saved in hope—our salvation is secure in God’s promise, but we do not yet possess its fullness. We are still waiting for the day when what we now believe by faith will be ours in reality.
Fix Your Eyes on What’s Coming
How should we live now, in light of the Gospel and the Day of the Lord? First, we must live with humility. If God has not yet settled all accounts, then ours remains open as well. This realization should strip away any sense of pride, self-righteousness, or presumption. We are still in the process of being shaped, tested, and held accountable for how we respond to God’s grace. A message first proclaimed by John the Baptist and then by Jesus, wasn’t just a call to moral improvement—it was an urgent summons to humble oneself, turn from self-reliance and sin, and prepare for God’s imminent reign and judgment:
“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” (Matthew 3:2; 4:17)
Second, we live with hope. The Gospel assures us that things will not always be this way. God’s justice is not only coming to confront evil but also to restore what is broken. No suffering is wasted; even the pain we experience now is producing in us an eternal weight of glory.
Third, we live with urgency. The Day of the Lord is not a metaphor—it is a real, appointed day in history. That means now is the time to repent, to turn toward righteousness, and to proclaim the hope we’ve been given. When others are hurting or searching for answers, few truths are as powerful as the simple promise: “Things won’t always be this way.”
Finally, we live with our eyes fixed on eternity. This present age is fleeting. What we see, touch, and feel now is temporary. But what is coming—what God has promised—is eternal. That vision should shape how we live, how we relate to others, what we value, and how we bear witness to the world.
Faith is the Right Response to God's Plan
Faith is the appropriate human response to God’s plan to redeem the world.
The New Testament builds its understanding of faith on two key passages from the Hebrew Scriptures—what we call the Tanakh. These two verses form the foundation of how Jesus and the apostles talked about faith:
Genesis 15:6 – “Abraham believed God, and it was credited to him as righteousness.”
Habakkuk 2:4 – “The righteous shall live by faith.”
These verses aren’t used in isolation. When Paul or the other apostles quote from the Old Testament, they’re not proof-texting like we sometimes do. They’re invoking entire stories. So when you see Paul reference Habakkuk 2, you don’t just go read the one verse. You go back and read all of Habakkuk to understand what’s being drawn on.
That’s a good Bible study principle:
When the New Testament quotes the Old, it’s often summoning the entire narrative.
Genesis 15:1-6
So let’s look at Genesis 15:1–6.
“But Abram said, ‘Sovereign Lord, what can you give me since I remain childless, and the one who will inherit my estate is Eliezer of Damascus?’ And Abram said, ‘You have given me no children; so a servant in my household will be my heir.’
Then the word of the Lord came to him: ‘This man will not be your heir, but a son who is your own flesh and blood will be your heir.’
He took him outside and said, ‘Look up at the sky and count the stars—if indeed you can count them.’ Then He said to him, ‘So shall your offspring be.’
Abram believed the Lord, and He credited it to him as righteousness.” (Genesis 15:1–6)
In this story, Abraham is being asked to trust God for something unseen—a promise not yet fulfilled. That’s the kind of faith Paul is talking about. A faith that trusts in what God has said, even when we can’t yet see it.
You probably recognize that famous line at the end of Genesis 15: “Abraham believed the Lord, and He credited it to him as righteousness.” But let’s take a closer look at what that actually means.
The word translated “credited”—whether you look at the original Hebrew or the Greek from the Septuagint (which the New Testament quotes)—doesn’t refer to a gift being handed over. It’s not about God giving Abraham a reward. It’s a word that means “to consider,” “to reckon,” or “to regard.” God is not distributing something external here—He’s recognizing something internal. He looks at Abraham’s trust and says, “That right there—that’s righteous.”
Traditionally, many have interpreted this verse as God giving righteousness to Abraham like a gift. But that’s not how the word works. Look it up in any good lexicon or Bible dictionary. You’ll find that it speaks of God’s mental evaluation, not a transactional gift. God is acknowledging something about Abraham’s response.
And it’s not a small matter. Abraham isn’t hoping for a white picket fence, a quiet life with Sarah, and a couple of kids. The stakes are cosmic. God has promised to bless all the families of the earth through Abraham’s offspring. But Abraham has no child, and both he and Sarah are past childbearing age. So in Genesis 15, Abraham asks the obvious: “What will You give me, since I remain childless?” God responds: “Your own son will be your heir.” Then He takes Abraham outside and says, “Look at the stars... so shall your offspring be.”
Abraham hears that promise and believes. That’s it. He doesn’t have evidence, a timeline, or biological proof—just God’s word. And God sees his faith and says, “This is righteousness.” This is what Adam and Eve failed to do. They didn’t trust God’s word. But Abraham did.
The passage continues with God sealing the promise through covenant—cutting animals in two and passing between the pieces Himself. This shows Abraham that God isn’t just making a statement; He’s binding Himself to the promise.
Paul reflects deeply on this moment in Romans 4. He writes:
“As it is written: ‘I have made you a father of many nations.’ He is our father in the sight of God, in whom he believed—the God who gives life to the dead and calls into being things that were not... Without weakening in his faith, he faced the fact that his body was as good as dead... Yet he did not waver through unbelief... being fully persuaded that God had power to do what He had promised. That is why ‘it was credited to him as righteousness.’” (Romans 4:17–22, selections)
So what did Abraham believe? That God has the power to raise the dead and bring something out of nothing. In Paul’s words, Abraham hoped against hope. And that hope, that trust, was considered righteous.
And notice Paul’s point: “This is why it was credited to him.” Not because Abraham earned anything, but because he trusted God’s character and promise, even when everything around him said otherwise.
This is the core of faith. Faith is trusting that God will do what He said, even when we can’t yet see it. This theme runs through the entire biblical story. In fact, Paul uses this moment with Abraham as a model for how we’re called to live—especially as we wait for the Day of the Lord.
Every sin, every compromise, every shortcut we take comes from a lack of faith. It’s a coping mechanism, a way of saying, “I’m not sure God’s going to come through, so I’ll take matters into my own hands.” Every temptation is basically a test: Do I trust God to make things right, or do I feel like I need to fix it now?
If we really believe in the Day of the Lord—if we believe Jesus is returning to bring justice, restore all things, and raise the dead—then we can endure suffering, stay faithful, and let go of the need to “grab” what we want now. Jesus said plainly: “You’re a fool if you make a withdrawal now from what’s meant to last forever” (a paraphrase of Jesus’ teaching, from His words about storing up treasure in heaven rather than on earth (Matthew 6:19–21) and from parables about stewardship and eternal reward (like Luke 12:13–21, the parable of the rich fool).
Even if you succeed in getting what you want now—power, comfort, revenge—it will rot. But if you wait on the Lord, everything you entrust to Him will last. All of this hinges on whether or not you believe that God will settle every account in His timing, not yours.
This is what Abraham’s life represented, and this is why he became the figurehead of faithfulness throughout Jewish and Christian tradition. Though he was promised the land, he never possessed more than a burial plot. And yet, he never stopped believing. Hebrews 11 says he lived in a tent instead of building a permanent house because he was waiting for “a city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God.”
Stephen, in his speech to the Sanhedrin in Acts 7, even reminds the leaders that Abraham had not inherited a single square foot of the promised land. And yet, his hope remained. Why? Because his confidence was not in what he saw—but in what God had said.
The early followers of Jesus carried this same conviction. Many Jewish leaders in the Second Temple period wondered: Is God waiting for us to act? Should we fight? Should we take the land by force? That was the logic behind the violent Jewish Zealot movement, which sprang out of the Pharisees. But the disciples of Jesus rejected that thinking. They believed God had appointed a day, just as Isaiah said, when He would come in fire and fulfill every promise. And Jesus confirmed that day by rising from the dead, proving that resurrection is real, and that God keeps His word.
Habakkuk 2
In Habakkuk 2, the same theme continues. The prophet is crying out for justice in a broken world, and God tells him, essentially: “It’s coming. Be patient. Live by faith in the meantime.”
And the Lord answered me: “Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so he may run who reads it. For still the vision awaits its appointed time; it hastens to the end—it will not lie. If it seems slow, wait for it; it will surely come; it will not delay. “Behold, his soul is puffed up; it is not upright within him, but the righteous shall live by his faith.” (Habakkuk 2:2-4)
These stories lay the groundwork for the New Testament vision of faith—not as vague belief, but as trust in God’s future promises. In particular:
the resurrection of the body
the return of Jesus
the kingdom of God fully established on earth
and justice finally given on the Day of the Lord
And the church's role—our role—is not to claim those things have already happened. It’s to wait, trust, and live faithfully in the tension between what has begun and what has not yet been fulfilled.
Faith in the Age to Come
During the post-exilic period, many Jewish expectations about restoration were slowly being reshaped. When the exiles returned to Jerusalem under Ezra and Nehemiah, they anticipated that God would fulfill the glorious visions of Ezekiel—the rebuilt temple, the return of God's presence, and a renewed kingdom. But when they laid the foundation of the Second Temple, something unexpected happened: the older generation, those who remembered Solomon’s temple, wept. It wasn’t because they were overwhelmed with joy—it was disappointment. The new temple was underwhelming. It didn’t live up to the glory they had hoped for.
In response, prophets like Haggai and Zechariah had to reassure the people: “The glory of this latter house shall be greater than the former” (Haggai 2:9). The message was clear—God would fulfill His promises, but not necessarily in the way or timeline people expected. Over time, Jewish thinkers began to see that the promises of restoration—glory, kingdom, Messiah, resurrection, justice—were not unfolding in the present age as they had hoped. Instead, these hopes began to consolidate and point toward a future age.
One scholar described it this way: a group emerged who embraced what we now call apocalyptic eschatology. These were Jews who believed in the promises of the Tanakh, but concluded that the current world, as it stood—under pagan rule and corrupt leadership—was not the setting where God’s promises could be fulfilled. They believed that a dramatic intervention by God was necessary. And this conviction led to a new framework: instead of seeing the promises gradually fulfilled in the present age, they began speaking in terms of two ages—“this age” and “the age to come.”
This language—common in the New Testament but not found in the Hebrew Bible—reflects that shift. The “age to come” was seen as the time when God would fulfill everything: the resurrection of the dead, the restoration of the Davidic kingdom, the judgment of the nations, and the reign of the Lord from Zion. There would be no gradual merging from this age into the next. The transition would be sudden, dramatic, and unmistakable. God would descend in fire with angels, just as the prophets described. This would be the Day of the Lord—the decisive moment when God would do all that He had promised.
This eschatological conviction is precisely what stands behind Paul’s statement in Romans 4:17, when he describes the God whom Abraham believed as “the God who gives life to the dead and calls into being things that do not exist.” It’s a powerful statement—and it echoes a distinct Hebraic way of speaking about the future.
In biblical Hebrew, there's a unique linguistic feature often referred to by scholars as the “prophetic perfect”. This refers to the use of perfect verb tense (which normally describes past, completed action) to talk about future events. Why? Because in the worldview of the prophets, if God said it, it’s as good as done.
Here are a few examples:
In Joshua 1, God says: “Be strong and courageous, for I have given you this land.” That statement is in the past tense—“have given”—even though Israel hadn’t yet conquered it. Why? Because it was certain.
In Isaiah 53, we read: “He was wounded for our transgressions... he was crushed for our iniquities.” All in the past tense—even though Isaiah was writing centuries before the suffering servant (Jesus) would come. Again, the language communicates certainty, not chronology.
In Deuteronomy 28, the blessings and curses of the covenant are all written in the perfect tense: “I have made you the head and not the tail,” or “I have withheld the rain.” These are conditions based on obedience or disobedience, and yet they’re stated in the past tense to underscore their inevitability.
This is what’s happening in Genesis 17, when God says to Abraham: “I have made you the father of many nations.”Abraham doesn’t even have a child yet—but in God’s eyes, it’s already done. And this becomes foundational for how faith is understood in both Jewish and Christian thought.
In short, when Paul says in Romans 4 that Abraham believed in the God who “calls into being things that do not exist,”he’s tapping into this prophetic confidence—that what God promises is already secure. This is not just poetic language; it reflects the deep conviction that God’s word is more certain than present reality.
This way of speaking—even when translated into Greek—continued into the New Testament. Some New Testament passages may sound like events have already happened when in fact they refer to future realities. This often causes confusion, but once we understand the Hebraic mindset, it becomes clearer. The use of perfect or aorist tense in Greek, like the prophetic perfect in Hebrew, can sometimes communicate certainty rather than timing.
So why don’t more teachers point this out? Often, it’s simply a translation decision or longstanding convention. It’s not usually intentional—it’s just that these linguistic patterns have been rendered the same way for centuries. Translators often know what’s going on, but they prioritize smooth English over grammatical oddities. Still, if you’re reading Scripture carefully—especially in the prophets or the later parts of the Torah—you’ll notice this pattern: God speaks about the future as if it has already happened. That’s how certain it is.
When Paul says that God “gives life to the dead and calls things that are not as though they were” (Romans 4:17), it’s not just poetic language. That’s a deeply Hebrew way of communicating certainty. Throughout the Bible, when God speaks about future events in the past tense, He’s doing something intentional: He’s inviting a response. He’s looking for trust—faith. And so He speaks with certainty, even about what hasn’t happened yet, to draw out that response of belief and obedience.
Maybe this is just how Hebrew works. Or maybe God Himself shaped Hebrew to work this way. Either way, it stuck. The language of faith is the language of trust in a faithful God who speaks with certainty.
Clearing Defining Faith
So what is faith, really?
At its core, faith means arranging our lives around the message of God. Especially in the New Testament, the Greek word pistis—usually translated “faith”—doesn’t just mean believing facts. There’s been a lot of scholarly debate around this word, and while those discussions can get technical, the heart of the issue is this: pistis often carries the idea of loyalty, allegiance, and relational trust, not just intellectual assent.
Before we get caught up in linguistic debates, let’s step back and ask: how would a first-century Jew understand faith?
Well, let’s start with Abraham. When later Jews or Christians reflected on Abraham, they didn’t say, “Wow, he had great doctrine.” What stood out was his obedience. Like James says, you can see his faith by what he did (James 2:18–24). Abraham believed, and that belief was proven by his actions.
Another foundational passage is Habakkuk 2, which the New Testament frequently references when discussing faith. Let’s look at it again, but this time in the NIV translation:
Then the Lord replied: “Write down the revelation and make it plain on tablets so that a herald may run with it. For the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay... The enemy is puffed up; his desires are not upright—but the righteous person will live by his faithfulness.” (Habakkuk 2:2–4, NIV)
That last line is often mistranslated or misunderstood. The Hebrew doesn’t say “he will live by faith” as in mental belief. It says “he will live by faithfulness”—reliability. The righteous person survives because of their trustworthiness and loyalty.
But here’s the twist: some scholars have pointed out that in this context, the word faithfulness might not even refer to the person—it could refer to God’s word. In other words, the righteous one lives because he trusts that God’s promise is reliable. The emphasis is on believing God’s oracle, even when the world seems to fall apart.
This fits perfectly with the context of Habakkuk. In chapter 1, the prophet cries out to God about injustice. God’s reply? “I’m raising up the Babylonians.” Habakkuk is stunned: “How can You use people more wicked than us to bring judgment?” God’s response in chapter 2 is firm: “Write this down—it’s going to happen. It’s certain. Wait for it.”
So how do you know who truly believes? It’s the one who acts on the oracle. The faithful person flees Jerusalem when Jesus warns about its fall (Luke 21:20–22), not the one who shouts prayers and stays behind, thinking God will surely intervene. That’s not faith—that’s presumption.
To use a simple analogy: if my son is sitting in the road facing away from traffic, and I yell, “Get out of the road! A truck is coming!”—how can I tell if he trusts me? If he says, “Dad, I’ve been sitting here all day. I’m fine,” that’s faithlessness. But if he jumps up and runs, that’s faith. That’s the response God is looking for.
Faith is Trust that Acts
Faith is trust that acts.
This theme runs all through the New Testament. Faith isn’t about having the perfect theological system or passing a doctrinal quiz. It’s about responding as though God’s word is true—because it is.
Sadly, in some circles today, faith has been reduced to believing the correct doctrines. In certain conferences or sermons, you might get the impression that justification is by right ideas alone. But that’s a distortion—a hijacking of the biblical concept of faith. It’s a simple truth: God does not overcomplicate what He wants us to understand.
The prophets didn’t see it that way. Neither did the apostles. Faith, in the Bible, means trusting what God has said and living accordingly—even when the promises seem delayed, even when mockers say, “Where is this coming He promised?” (2 Peter 3:4), even when it costs us something.
That’s why Jesus and John the Baptist came preaching, “Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand.” That wasn’t vague spiritual language. It meant: David’s kingdom is coming. Get ready. Live like it’s real—because it is.
The prophets preached with fire and urgency. Often, the fulfillment didn’t come in their generation—but they still spoke with certainty, and they demanded a response.
That’s biblical faith.
The Restoration is Still Coming But the Timing is Not For You to Know
Even in the days of the prophets, the fulfillment of their words often didn’t come in their lifetime. Why? Because God was looking for faith—a real, living, responsive trust. The kind of faith that acts in the present as if God's future promises are already true. That same dynamic was at work in the first century too. God was again looking for the response of faith.
Acts 1 is a good example. After the resurrection, Jesus spends forty days with His disciples—forty days!—teaching them about the Kingdom of God. That’s essentially a forty-day Kingdom of God conference with Jesus Himself. And what’s the very first question they ask after all of that? “Lord, is it at this time You’re going to restore the kingdom to Israel?” (Acts 1:6).
Now, notice—Jesus doesn’t rebuke them. He doesn’t say they misunderstood the kingdom. Why? Because they didn’t. They knew exactly what the Kingdom of God meant. He had just spent forty days clarifying it. Instead, He tells them, “It’s not for you to know the times or seasons the Father has set by His own authority.” In other words, the restoration is still coming, but the timing is not theirs to know.
Still, based on their response, it’s clear what they thought He meant: “Not yet—but very soon.” That’s how they acted. That’s how Peter preached at Pentecost in Acts 2: “This is what the prophet Joel spoke of in the last days, I will pour out My Spirit…” Peter wasn’t making a theological timeline. He truly believed that the Day of the Lord was imminent, that the Messiah was about to return in fire and glory to establish the kingdom. And in a way, he wasn’t wrong—because God never corrected their urgency. He simply let them walk it out in faith.
Why? Because faith isn’t knowing the precise moment something will happen. Faith is trusting that it will—and ordering your life accordingly.
Even when the apostles and early disciples misunderstood the timing, their message remained true. All of them lived and spoke as if the Day of the Lord was just around the corner—and that was intentional. It didn’t compromise their authority or the inspiration of their words. God let them believe it was soon because He was looking for a faithful response, not a correct calendar.
We see this clearly in Hebrews 10, which echoes Habakkuk 2. The writer reminds the believers of how they once endured persecution and suffering, even joyfully accepting the confiscation of their property—why? “Because you knew that you yourselves had a better and lasting possession.” (Hebrews 10:34). They were confident in the promises of God, and that confidence led to radical obedience.
But over time, their confidence faded. And with it, their behavior changed. That’s the warning of Hebrews: “Don’t throw away your confidence—it will be richly rewarded… My righteous one will live by faith, and I take no pleasure in the one who shrinks back.” (Hebrews 10:35–38). He’s not talking about mental assent. He’s calling them back to the kind of faith that acts as if God's promises are certain, even when they’re delayed.
And that flows directly into Hebrews 11—the famous “faith chapter.” “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1). Without that kind of certainty, the writer says, “it is impossible to please God.” (v.6). Because faith is the fuel for obedience—it’s the belief that God will do what He said, even if we don’t see it yet.
Faith is Radical - Not a Life Improvement Plan
Jesus' teachings are so radical. Think about the Sermon on the Mount. The Sermon on the Mount is a collection of Jesus’ teachings found in Matthew chapters 5–7, where He explains what life looks like for people who belong to God’s kingdom.
It starts with the Beatitudes—blessings for the humble, the merciful, the peacemakers, and those who suffer for doing right. Jesus then talks about living with integrity from the heart, not just following rules outwardly—covering things like anger, forgiveness, marriage, honesty, generosity, prayer, and loving your enemies.
He also warns against hypocrisy, urges trust in God instead of worry, and calls people to build their lives on His words—like a house on solid rock—because these teachings are the foundation for a life that pleases God.
It’s one of the most famous parts of the Bible because it turns the world’s values upside down, showing that true greatness is found in humility, love, and righteousness.
A scholar once said of the Sermon on the Mount: “Does this really sound like someone trying to start a global movement? This kind of life would make you the most powerless, insignificant people group on the planet.” And honestly? She wasn’t wrong.
Jesus calls us to forgive, to love our enemies, to turn the other cheek, to give without expecting return, to rejoice in persecution. None of that makes sense unless you're absolutely certain that God will one day make everything right. The Sermon on the Mount only makes sense if the Day of the Lord is real. Without that conviction, Jesus’ words are absurd.
But that’s the whole point. God could have designed this age any way He wanted. But He set it up in such a way that faith would always be required. After eternal life was removed from the human experience following the fall, what was left in its place? Relational strife. Thorns and thistles—daily toil and struggle. Bodies that decay and return to dust. Every form of temptation and every test of obedience presses right into those realities.
And each time we face them, the same question confronts us: Do you trust that God will make good on His promises?
The poor, the meek, the persecuted, the humble—these are the ones Jesus said would inherit the kingdom. The world calls them weak. But in the eyes of God, these are the faithful. These are the ones living as if the oracles are true.
This is God's design for discipleship: a life that forces us to either trust Him or walk away. Faith means not just believing God once, but persevering in that belief until the end—because faith is not just about what we think. It’s about how we live.
The gospel often sounds great to many people—and in many cases, it is. Churches rarely struggle to find converts. But true discipleship is another matter. It’s not easy. There’s a catch to the gospel that isn’t always talked about: what it really means to have faith. Many approach the gospel as if it were a life-improvement plan. It’s not. Following Jesus isn’t about escaping pain—it’s about walking through it with faith. Sometimes people will metaphorically slap you in the face. And you know what Jesus says? Turn the other cheek. That’s not easier—it’s harder. It’s hard because it requires trust. It demands faith.”
Following Jesus under the curse of this broken world isn’t easy. But He promises that our obedience isn’t wasted. One day, there will be recompense. One day, God will make everything right. When you’ve given away your coat and your tunic, He will give them back. Jesus said that no one who has left land, property, family, or homes for His sake will fail to receive it back many times over in the age to come (see Mark 10:29–30). But let’s be honest—that takes a lot of faith, doesn’t it?
The truth is, to the degree that we actually believe it, that we feel it as real and substantial, to that degree we can live by faith. And if it feels distant, vague, or symbolic, our obedience will weaken. That’s why we had to start this whole conversation with the idea that this is a restoration story. Because if the story isn’t about something tangible—if it doesn’t end in a real, physical resurrection and a real, restored earth—then it's going to be hard to look someone in the eye and say, “Turn the other cheek.” It’ll sound like wishful thinking.
I mean, let’s be real—what are you going to say? “Don’t worry, one day you’ll float on a cloud, maybe with a slightly fluffier harp than the next guy”? That doesn’t hold up in the face of real suffering.
But if eternal life is real, if God will truly restore the world to paradise, and we will live with Him in renewed bodies on a renewed earth, then these decisions we make—how we live, how we forgive, how we endure—they’re not trivial. They’re weighty. They matter forever.
Sure, you can compromise now. Most people do. Everyone around you is reasoning themselves out of obeying Jesus. Of course you can get away with it—for now. But faith asks a deeper question: Is God good for what He said? Will He really make it right? That’s what the apostles kept coming back to. We have the word of the prophets made more certain. We know now: they weren’t lying. The day of the Lord is real.
So here’s the point—discipleship, what we call “following Jesus,” is really just the process of receiving His testimony about history and living according to what He said is true.
It’s important to understand—there wasn’t one monolithic “Jewish view” in the first century. Jews have always been full of opinions! But Jesus spoke in a way that clearly aligned with Jewish apocalyptic thought. He constantly used language about the resurrection of the dead, the regeneration, the day of the Lord, the day of judgment. These were not new ideas—He was confirming a worldview already present in the Jewish apocalyptic imagination.
In Luke 6, Jesus says: “Why do you call me ‘Lord, Lord,’ and not do what I say?” Then He gives this vivid image: someone who hears His words and acts on them is like a person who dug deep and laid a foundation on rock. When the flood came, the house stood firm. But the one who hears and does not act is like someone who built without a foundation—when the flood hit, the ruin was great.
That’s not just a lesson about life’s trials. The language He uses—floods, foundations, ruin—echoes the prophetic imagery of judgment, especially the Day of the Lord. This isn’t about having a tough week. It’s about final accountability.
He’s warning us: hearing is not enough. You can sit in church, agree with the teachings, even say “Amen”—but if you don’t act on His words, you're building on sand. When the storm of judgment comes, there won’t be time to start digging.
This is consistent throughout the Bible: faith is not mental agreement. It’s not just believing that something is true—it’s acting like it’s true. Counting God’s words as reliable and shaping your life around them.
Faith isn't about trusting God for small upgrades—like believing He’ll help you hit your financial goals or keep your gas tank full. Sure, ask Him for those things. He cares. But the anchor of your walk has to be in the bigger promise: There is coming a day when the struggle ends. There is coming a day when you will never die. There is coming a day when justice will roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream. That’s what gives substance to our hope.
And here's the thing—this isn't just theory. Historically, by the second century, we already see Gentile believers starting to absorb the message of Jesus through a Greco-Roman lens—a framework shaped by Greek philosophy, hero myths, and disembodied spirituality. They took the gist of the gospel but reframed it in their own categories.
But Jesus was not teaching a mystical escape plan. He was confirming the prophetic story of real, physical redemption. He was testifying to a future that will come on this earth, in this world—just transformed, healed, and fully restored.
And that future, Jesus says, is the firm foundation. Build your life on that, and when the flood comes—you’ll stand.