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A student survey conducted at one of our local schools determined that young people see the church as being full of old people and pews. And they think that the pews have to go. There’s some good news in that survey, they didn’t say the old people should go, only the pews.
Think for a moment: How does their perception match reality?
We might immediately begin to defend the pews. They've been good enough for generations. They keep us awake. They haven’t killed anyone.
Or we might be offended that they’ve labelled us as old. We might argue that we’re not nearly as old as our grandparents were at the same age.
We might want to join James and John to ask Jesus whether we should call down fire from heaven and destroy them.
But before we get too defensive, these young people are crying out for the church to recognise and value them. They don’t think the church cares about them, they don’t think we care. They think the church is only interested in the people who’re already involved, which to them means old people.
I wonder whether they’re any different to those of any age who aren’t connected to our churches. Would the whole ‘unchurched’ and 'previously-churched’ community agree that we don’t care. Would they contend that we’re only interested in ourselves.
If we’re so busy polishing and defending our pews then they have to go. If there’s anything in our church that uses up our time at the expense of living our lives for Jesus then it has to go.
Even more urgently we have to go. Not leave the church, the community of God’s people, but go with the good news that because God loves and cares for every single person in this world so do we.
“As you go”, Jesus says, “make disciples of all nations.” Jesus cares about this because he has ‘skin-in-the-game’. He died for each and every one we encounter as we go about our lives.
How do we, as individuals and a church, need to change so that no one in our community will feel that we don’t care about them?
Renewed while we fade
by Noel Due
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So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day (2 Corinthians 4:16).
Read 2 Corinthians 4:13 – 5:1
Paul writes as one who knows fragility firsthand. His confidence is not theoretical optimism, but faith forged in suffering. The Christian life, as Paul describes it, is lived under a double truth: decay is real, and renewal is real – but they operate on different planes. We must not confuse them.
The outer self – our visible life, our strength, reputation, even our ministry – is wasting away. Paul does not soften this. Here, there is no promise of steady improvement or visible success. This is the theology of the cross speaking plainly: God’s work in us is often hidden beneath weakness, loss and contradiction. To deny this would be to lapse into a theology of glory, measuring God’s favour by external appearances.
Yet precisely here, Paul refuses despair. The inner self is being renewed – not by effort, progress, or spiritual technique, but day by day. This renewal comes through the word that is heard and believed. Earlier, Paul had said, ‘I believed, and so I spoke.’ Faith does not eliminate affliction; it speaks in the midst of it. Renewal comes from outside us, from the promise of Christ crucified and risen, applied anew even as everything visible deteriorates.
Paul presses further. What we see is temporary; what we do not see is eternal. Faith clings not to what can be measured, but to what has been promised. The present affliction, real and painful though it is, is not minimised but put into perspective by resurrection. Death is not denied; it is answered. Chapter five makes this concrete. Our bodies are tents – temporary dwellings – but God himself prepares a permanent house. This is not an escape from creation but its redemption. The Christian hope is not disembodied survival but resurrection, guaranteed by God, not secured by us.
Thus, Paul teaches the church how not to lose heart: not by denying weakness, but by locating life where God has promised it – in Christ, hidden now, revealed in glory. Until then, renewal continues quietly, faithfully, day by day.
Dear Father, this world is not yet heaven, and we cannot make it so. Forgive our feeble attempts to make heaven on earth by securing ourselves and our futures. Root deeply in us the hope of eternal life, seen and guaranteed in the resurrection of Jesus, who has raised us up with him so that where he is, we may be also. Amen.
Noel is a semi-retired Lutheran pastor, writer, teacher and professional supervisor. He is married to Kirsten, a medical doctor, and they have three children and nine grandchildren. They also have two cats.
Holy ground for unholy feet
by Noel Due
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Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground (Exodus 3:6b).
Read Exodus 3:1–6
Moses meets God not in a sanctuary but in the wilderness, not in triumph but while tending sheep – work that marks his exile and failure. But also that work and place which forms him into the person he needs to be for God’s sake. The burning bush draws him in, yet it is not spectacle for its own sake. The fire burns without consuming because this God is revealed by divine self-disclosure. Moses does not discover God; God interrupts Moses.
The first word spoken is restraint: ‘Do not come near.’ God is holy, utterly other. Lutheran theology insists upon this seriousness of God’s holiness, not as moral improvement, but as judgement. The command to remove sandals is not merely a ritual nicety; it is an exposure. Moses stands on holy ground not because he has made it holy, but because God has chosen to be present there. Holiness is not managed. It is given.
Yet this same holy God immediately reveals himself in mercy. He names himself as the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob – the God who makes promises and keeps them across generations. He is the Lord who remembers his promises. Moses hides his face, rightly fearing death before such holiness. And yet God speaks again – not condemnation, but compassion: ‘I have surely seen … I have heard … I know their sufferings.’
The burning bush confronts Moses with the law: God is holy; Moses is not. Fear is the proper response. But the gospel follows swiftly: God sees affliction and comes down to deliver. Redemption does not arise from Israel’s faithfulness or Moses’ readiness. It arises from God’s gracious initiative.
The bush that burns without being consumed points forward. God will later dwell with his people in fire and cloud (via the Tabernacle), and ultimately in flesh, bearing judgement without being destroyed, so that his people might live.
The God who reveals himself in holiness is the same God who hears your cries. Holy ground, then, is wherever God speaks mercy to sinners. And like Moses, we are called not first to understand, but to trust the One who comes down to save.
Dear Father, we thank you for the full revelation of your holiness and mercy in the cross. There, you open to the world your heart and arms, as we are crucified with Christ, only to also rise with him. Thank you for such love, and grant us an overflow of love in return. Amen.
Noel is a semi-retired Lutheran pastor, writer, teacher and professional supervisor. He is married to Kirsten, a medical doctor, and they have three children and nine grandchildren. They also have two cats.
Glory fades, the Word remains
by Noel Due
Click here to download your printable verse to carry with you today.
This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him (Matthew 17:5b).
Read Matthew 17:1–9
On the mountain of Transfiguration, glory breaks through – but only briefly. Jesus shines with uncreated light; Moses and Elijah appear – the law and the prophets bearing witness. Peter, overwhelmed, reaches for permanence: tents, structures, something to hold the moment still. Yet before he can finish speaking, the Father interrupts. The cloud descends, the voice sounds, and the command is not to build, but to listen.
This is decisive. God does not first invite us to act, ascend or stabilise glory. He calls us to receive. Listen to him. Faith comes by hearing (Romans 10:17), not by managing holy experiences. Peter’s instinct reflects the theology of glory – trying to grasp God on our terms, to preserve splendour without the scandal of the cross. But the Father redirects attention away from the dazzling scene and back to the Son’s words, which will soon speak of suffering, rejection and death. They had not previously listened to him on these things, so would they do so now?
Notice also that Moses and Elijah fade. The law that exposes sin and the prophets that announce judgement and promise both give way to Christ alone. This does not abolish them but fulfils them. The Father does not say, ‘Listen to them’, but ‘Listen to him’. Christ is not merely another messenger; he is the final Word. He is not one among many, but one of a kind! Salvation comes from outside ourselves, spoken to us by the Son, not discovered within us by mystical ascent.
When the disciples fall face down in fear, Jesus does not leave them there. He touches them and says, ‘Rise, and have no fear.’ Glory is not sustained on the mountain but carried down into the valley, where demons remain, crosses await, and faith clings to a promise rather than a vision.
The Transfiguration teaches us how God deals with his church now. We do not see Christ transfigured, but we hear him: in Scripture, preached and read. And that is enough. That same voice from the cloud still speaks forgiveness, life and salvation. Listen to him.
Dearest Heavenly Father, we thank you for the full revelation of your nature through your Son. Enable us to hear his voice by your Spirit that we may receive the blessings of faith and trust. Amen.
Noel is a semi-retired Lutheran pastor, writer, teacher and professional supervisor. He is married to Kirsten, a medical doctor, and they have three children and nine grandchildren. They also have two cats.