A Sting in the Tale/Chapter 1
1
The seed of change
Luke 8:1–15
After this, Jesus travelled about from one town and village to another, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom of God. The Twelve were with him, 2and also some women who had been cured of evil spirits and diseases: Mary (called Magdalene) from whom seven demons had come out; 3Joanna the wife of Chum, the manager of Herod's household; Susanna; and many others. These women were helping to support them out of their own means.
4While a large crowd was gathering and people were coming to Jesus from town after town, he told this parable: 5‘A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path; it was trampled on, and the birds of the air ate it up. 6Some fell on rock, and when it came up, the plants withered because they had no moisture. 7Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up with it and choked the plants. 8Still other seed fell on good soil. It came up and yielded a crop, a hundred times more than was sown.’
When he said this, he called out, 'He who has ears to hear, let him hear.'
9His disciples asked him what this parable meant. 10He said, 'The knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of God has been given to you, but to others I speak in parables, so that,
"though seeing, they may not see;
though hearing, they may not understand."
They were coming from all directions, like fans converging on a football ground. They came alone, they came in groups. Husbands brought their wives, mothers brought their children, youths brought their mates. Some seemed to have brought their whole town with them. They came because they were sick and handicapped and thought he might heal them. They came because they were poor and oppressed and thought he might deliver them. They came because they were bored and curious and thought he might amuse them. They came... well, some of them would have had a hard job explaining why exactly they had come, except that everybody else was coming. But with whatever company and with whatever motivation they came, there was one word on Jesus’ lips which intrigued and excited them all: 'kingdom'.
'The kingdom of God has come.' That's what they said he was preaching. For the rural masses of Galilee those words were like sparks on dry tinder.
Every society has its dream of a better world: the classless society, the American dream, Utopia; and first-century Jews were no exception. Down through the latter years of the Old Testament period, as inspired prophets had wrestled with their national experience of tyranny and oppression, a dream of a coming kingdom gained sharper and sharper focus in their minds. It became clear that it would take an extraordinary intervention on God's part to transform this present evil world into the sort of world where God's people would really feel at home. A decisive victory over the power of evil would have to be won, a victory no ordinary human being could achieve.
So they looked forward to the arrival of a supernatural deliverer, one who would be anointed like the mighty heroes of the past: a new David, but greater even than David was. They waited, in a word, for the Messiah. 'Don't worry,' said the prophets, 'things are pretty bad for us Jews in this present evil age. But soon the Messiah will step out of the wings of history. And then, at long last, the kingdom of God will begin.'
Can you imagine the shock, the tremor of hope that must have gone through the population of Galilee when Jesus, a young carpenter from Nazareth, started to wander around their towns and villages saying it had happened? 'The kingdom of God has come. Repent and believe the good news,' he said.
No doubt initially many were sceptical. They were not unfamiliar with lunatics who indulged their megalomaniac fantasies by pretensions to be the Messiah. But this man did not just make messianic claims. He cast out demons. He healed the sick. And he taught; oh, how he taught! There was a charisma about him that had not been seen in Israel since the days of the greatest prophets half a millennium before. There was even a rumour that he was Elijah or Jeremiah risen from the dead. That was the measure of the astonishing impact he had made.
Had he wanted to exploit the opportunity, he could have set in motion a bandwagon of religious revival and political revolution that the authorities in Jerusalem and perhaps even in Rome would have been unable to stop. That word 'kingdom' resonated with all the Galilean masses' most glorious dreams, fired their most fanatical zeal and inspired their most passionate commitment. All he had to do when confronted by this vast multitude was to work a miracle or two and deliver a suitably firebrand speech; the whole of the Galilean countryside would have erupted in volcanic enthusiasm for his messiahship.
But the extraordinary thing is, he didn't. Instead, he told them a story. Can you imagine it, this great crowd coming to him from town after town, full of expectancy, hanging on his every word, longing to be moved with emotive oratory and impressed by supernatural power—and he sits down and tells them a story! A bizarre, perplexing riddle of a story at that: a 'parable', he calls it.
Even his closest friends were utterly bewildered by his behaviour. 'What on earth are you doing, Jesus?' they asked him. 'What is this parable business all about?' That's when he explained it to them.
The knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of God has been given to you, but to others I speak in parables, so that,
'though seeing, they may not see;
though hearing, they may not understand.'
(Luke 8:10).
Unpopular and controversial words. They contradict the popular view of parables as moralizing stories told in picturesque imagery to aid the understanding of simple, unsophisticated rural people. On the contrary, Jesus says he speaks in parables not to make it easier for people to understand, but to make it harder. 'Though seeing, they may not see; though hearing, they may not understand.'
Whatever you make of that, it's quite clear that Jesus was not as impressed by these crowds, streaming out of all Galilee to see him, as we might have been if we'd been there. He was not at all convinced that they were really on his wavelength. He'd grown up among them, you see. He knew perfectly well what their ideas of the kingdom of God were, and they were as different from his own ideas as chalk from cheese. The last thing he wanted to do was to foster their mistaken notions by courting popularity with them. He hints, in fact, that he feels rather as the prophet Isaiah did, when he was told to preach to a people whose hearts would be irredeemably hardened against his words. In Isaiah's day it seems that Israel had become so infatuated by pagan idols that they could neither see nor hear that God had judicially abandoned them to spiritual blindness and deafness themselves.
It's that divine decree from Isaiah 6:9 which Jesus is quoting when he speaks in verse 10 of listeners who cannot understand. The Galilean masses, according to Jesus, are in a similar spiritual state to the Jews of Isaiah's Jerusalem. They are incapable of comprehending the new revelation of the kingdom of God which he had brought because their minds are prejudicially closed against it. Some commentators go so far as to conclude from verse 10 that Jesus deliberately adopted a strategy of concealment, of hiding his true opinions from the masses. They suggest that he was so disillusioned with the Jewish people and convinced that like Isaiah's Jerusalem they would reject him in the end, that he deliberately camouflaged his message to confirm them in their condemned state of unbelief.
It's an arguable theory, but I think it somewhat overstates the case. After all, if Jesus wanted to conceal his message from the crowds altogether, why preach at all? And what are we to make of the impassioned exhortation, 'He who has ears to hear, let him hear'? That certainly sounds as if he desires an intelligent response to his words.
I think it's closer to the truth to interpret Jesus as saying in verse 10 that he uses parables as a kind of filter. Among the thousands who come out to see him for all the wrong reasons, he believes there are some who are genuinely open to the truth. A tiny minority, maybe, amid that vast, spiritually deaf multitude; but though few, they did have ears to hear. His parables were a filter that identified those true disciples. Those who came to Jesus looking for just a political leader, a nationalist revolutionary or a spell-binding miracle-worker went away disillusioned. They found, to their disappointment, just a teller of stories. But those who were drawn to him by some deeper magnetism stayed. In their hearts God's Spirit was working. They were being inwardly called to follow him. Though they were perplexed at first, just like all the others, they were also intrigued, longing to understand what he was really getting at, sensing that somewhere buried in the tantalizing obscurity of his parables lay the clue to that kingdom of God for which their hearts longed. 'To you,' he says to them, 'the knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of God has been given.' This is in fact a fundamental characteristic of all Jesus' ministry. You don't get to grips with his message from the safe distance of a detached curiosity. Spiritual illumination is the privilege of those who are personally committed to him, and share the intimacy of a personal relationship with him. Unlike so many orators, Jesus' head was never turned by the flattery of the crowds. He wasn't fooled by the illusion of success that big numbers conjure up. The 'megachurch' mentality with its consumer-oriented 'gospel according to market research' held no appeal for him. He saw through it. He was perfectly content to invest himself in just the twelve men and the handful of women whom Luke names for us. Provided they were real learners, real disciples, he was prepared to give the whole of himself to such a tiny band.
Significantly, the interpretation of the parables that Jesus goes on to unfold elucidates this sifting process further. Behind the pastoral imagery of the sower and the seed is the solemn and serious truth that only some who hear his words are ultimately blessed by him. Tragically, many are evangelized, and yet not saved. Though the initial response may look promising, the path of disciple- ship proves too demanding.
Before we look at that interpretation in detail, it is worth noting that the simple fact that Jesus does interpret his parables in this fashion explodes two common contemporary theories about parables. Some recent New Testament commentators have argued that parables should not be interpreted at all, but simply retold in contemporary dress. A parable, they argue, is a rhetorical device that's designed to make an immediate impact on a live audience, so to interpret a parable is a bit like explaining a joke. The punch-line is bound to get lost in the very attempt to do so.
There is a profound element of truth in that view. Parables are deliberately mysterious and elusive. There is an air of paradox and surprise which is intended to subvert the presuppositions of the listener. By drawing us into his story Jesus disarms our psychological defences so that unwelcome and unpalatable truths can strike home to our hearts like a missile seeking its target. And in consequence it is undoubtedly difficult to preach the parables in a way that recovers that original dramatic impact. Nevertheless, Jesus clearly believed neither that it was impossible to explain parables, nor that their point was irretrievably lost in the process of trying to do so; because here he interprets a parable himself.
A second thesis commonly defended by scholars today, and also contradicted by Jesus' example here, is that parables are sermon illustrations designed to make a single point, and therefore should never be treated as allegories. Once again, there's an important element of truth in this. Medieval scholars sometimes allowed their imaginations to run riot in seeking hidden allegorical meanings within parables.
For example, if you study the conclusion of this parable in the gospels of Matthew and Mark, you'll find it ends slightly differently. The seed on the good ground yields varying quantities of harvest: some a hundred-fold, as here in Luke's account, but also some sixty-fold and some thirty-fold. Luke has abbreviated the story slightly in this respect. Medieval commentators eagerly seized upon the longer ending and engaged in all kinds of speculative ideas about its significance. One popular theory was that the hundred-fold yield represented martyrs who had given their lives for Christ; the sixty-fold yield represented monks who had taken a vow of celibacy; and the thirty-fold yield? 'Well,' it was argued, 'obviously the thirty-fold yield represents those whose diminutive contribution to the kingdom of God is simply that of being an obedient wife!'
Clearly such a reading of Jesus' picture language is illegitimate. There's no reason at all for believing that he intends to make any comment about martyrs, monks or obedient wives in the parable of the sower. Much of the detail in his parables in fact has no hidden, secondary meaning at all, but is there simply to add colour to the story.
It will not do, however, to insist that parables have only a single lesson to teach. For Jesus' own interpretation of this parable has decidedly allegorical features. The sower, the seed, the stony ground and the weeds all stand for different things. So it's clearly a mistake to draw too sharp a line between parable and allegory, or to place some arbitrary limit on how much teaching content a parable may be intended to convey.
In fact, I want to suggest to you that there are at least three vital lessons which Jesus is trying to communicate in this parable.
1. How the kingdom of God progresses
This is the meaning of the parable: The seed is the word of God (Luke 8:11).
We began with Jesus' gripping announcement of the kingdom of God. The powers of evil are fleeing before his face. Demons are being exorcised. Cripples are being healed. The signs of his messianic mission to transform the world are clearly apparent. But how is the world to be changed? That's the inevitable question: how is the kingdom to be brought in? What strategy will Jesus employ to precipitate this decisive transformation in world history? Will he raise up an angelic army and march on Jerusalem or Rome? Will he call down supernatural fire from heaven to consume the wicked? What means does he intend to use to bring in the kingdom of God? This was in fact a great source of debate among Jews in his day. And it is the answer to that very question to which he refers when he speaks of the 'secrets of the kingdom of God'. He claims to bring privileged information on this vital point from the highest possible intelligence source in the universe, from heaven itself. And the clue to that secret strategy, for those who are able to penetrate the parable in which it is encoded, lies in the cipher of the seed.
Putting the evidence of all his parables and teaching together, it is clear that Jesus anticipated that the kingdom of God would come in a way hitherto unforeseen by the Jewish people. It would arrive in three phases, rather than in a single apocalyptic crisis. First, there would be a time of planting as the Messiah arrived, incognito and disguised, to sow the seed of the kingdom in the hearts of a few chosen disciples. Then there would be a period of growth as that seed, multiplied through their testimony, fertilized many other lives until eventually the spores of the kingdom had become distributed throughout the world. And finally there would be a time of reaping when the Messiah would return, this time amid universal public acclamation, to harvest the fruit which the seed he had sown had produced, and so bring in the full manifestation of the kingdom of which the prophets had spoken.
So the answer to that vital question, 'How is the kingdom of God to arrive?' lies in the metaphor of the seed. And what is that seed, this vital instrument by which the new world of the kingdom is sown in the very midst of the old world? Here in his first parable Jesus leaves his disciples in no doubt on that point. The seed', he says, 'is the word.' The preaching of the gospel will be the seminal agent of change. It will germinate God's cosmic revolution. It brings in the kingdom. 'The seed is the word of God.'
It's hard to overestimate the importance of that single brief sentence. Sadly, the church through the centuries has not always believed it. Again and again, other things have usurped the prime place the Word ought to have on the Christian agenda. Once, for instance, the church revered bread and wine more than the Bible; the altar instead of the pulpit stood at the centre not only of her architecture but also of her theology.
There are still those who even today would take us back to such sacramentalist superstition if they could. But in our generation the threat to the primacy of the Word has usually come from other directions: social action, for instance. In recent years many Christians have become much more politically involved. For too long, Christians have treated the political arena as a no-go area, as if Jesus were Lord of everywhere else except there. Not so. Christians have a responsibility to be the salt of the earth in Council offices and in parliamentary debates, just as much as through evangelistic crusades or overseas missions.
Nevertheless, there is a danger of over-compensating for our previous neglect of social issues. People can lose touch with Jesus' priorities. The pendulum can swing to the opposite extreme. God's new society is not brought in by Act of Parliament, still less by machine gun. It is brought in through the Word.
Jesus was familiar enough with the revolutionary politics of his own day. Many of the zealot freedom fighters came from his home area of Galilee. But their tactics were not for him. It was the wrong seed, and he knew it. The seed is the Word. A Word which, when you hear it on the lips of Jesus and his disciples, does not concern itself directly with social and economic structures; a Word which offers no utopian strategy for the immediate overturn of institutional evil; a Word, rather, which is about personal repentance, personal forgiveness, personal faith and personal discipleship. It is a Word which, as we observe in this very parable, is targeted not on the politicized masses but on the hearts of responsive individuals. Notice the third person singular in Jesus' invitation: 'He who has ears to hear, let him hear' (Luke 8:8).
Superficially, no doubt, this seems a most unpromising strategy. How can we possibly bring about the dramatic transformation to which the prophets referred when they spoke of the kingdom of God merely by a 'Word'? But Jesus was convinced of it. That's why he eschewed the political path and chose instead to be a preacher and a teacher. That Word, as we shall see in our next parable, demands social action of a most practical and sacrificial kind. Jesus was certainly not unconcerned about political structures and economic injustice. But he insists that it is the Word that must come first. By his own public ministry he modelled his conviction that 'the seed is the Word of God'.
2. Inevitable failure and disappointment
Some fell on rock (Luke 8:6).
Look carefully at how Jesus tells the story. He describes, you notice, one homogeneous sowing and four different soils. If a modern expert in the science of advertising were to tell the parable, it might well be the other way round. He would speak of one homogeneous soil and four different sowers. 'The first sower sowed the seed this way, but it didn't work; the second sower used a different tactic, but that was no good either; the third tried yet another method, but still had no success; and then finally along came the sower who had done his market research and perfected his advertising technique, and so he got a harvest. Well done, sower!'
'No!' says Jesus. That's not the way it is. The success or failure of the seed of the Word does not seem to depend on the sower's technique at all. On the contrary, the seed is sown in what seems like an artless, almost wasteful way that demands no skill at all. It's just 'scattered'. For it is not the function of the sower to change one soil into another. It is rather, says Jesus, the function of the seed to highlight the intrinsic fertility or infertility of the soil. It is the quality of the soil, not the expertise of the sower, that determines the harvest.
Of course, we don't like that. It robs us of our best excuse for our rejection of the gospel, namely that the preacher was no good. It is the soil that makes the difference. Spiritual fertility does not lie in the gift of the teacher. But Jesus insists that this is the way it is. Spiritual fertility does not lie in the gift of the evangelist. And for that reason he must anticipate three categories of disappointment.
a. Those along the path
...the ones who hear, and then the devil comes and takes away the word from their hearts... (Luke 8:12).
Jesus is candid here about the prolific waste of effort which sharing the good news of God's kingdom will often seem to be. As he speaks, he's looking out at that vast crowd, who are streaming to hear him. Many would be tempted, I'm sure, to label these casual adherents as 'converts'. After all, the mere fact that they were coming to Jesus from their homes surely indicates some kind of spiritual response, doesn't it? But Jesus is not so easily convinced. 'No,' he says, 'this is a very mixed multitude I see. Some of these people who have come out to hear me are quite obviously hardened against my Word.' That hardening may come from intellectual pride: 'He doesn't seriously expect me to believe that, does he?' Or from moral obstinacy: 'There's no way I'm going to stop doing that, just because he says so.' Or from self-righteousness: 'Me, a sinner? How dare he!' Or it may be simply the hardening of bored indifference: 'Guess this just isn't my scene. I'm into yoga, you see.'
Though they had come to hear his Word, it bounced off them like water off a duck's back. Their hearts were coated in spiritual Teflon, so nothing stuck. Perhaps they thought they were being clever, sophisticated, not taken in by all that 'kingdom of God' nonsense. But notice the one whom Jesus identifies as silently and secretly campaigning behind this defiant, cynical attitude. 'The devil comes and takes away the Word so they can't believe and be saved,' he says.
Jesus is convinced that a personal force of evil is at work seeking to discredit the Word, and to distract minds from giving attention to it. Every evangelist encounters his demonic opposition. Perhaps he's at work among readers of this book too?
b. Those on the rock
... the ones who receive the word with joy when they hear it, but they have no root... (Luke 8:13).
Others in the crowd represent only a superficial decision, an initial enthusiasm that doesn't last. Their response to the Word is pure emotion, the kind of animal excitement that you get from being part of a big crowd, or the kind of warm fuzzies that you get from watching a sentimental movie. They 'receive the word with joy', says Jesus, but then circumstances change, the adrenalin subsides, the intoxication of the moment fades. Perhaps they begin to feel cheated. 'They told me Christianity made you feel happy. Well, I don't! They told me Christianity would give me friends. Well, I haven't got any! It must have been just an adolescent phase I went through, just a flash in the pan. I'm not going to be a Christian any longer.'
'They have no root. They believe for a while, but in the time of testing they apostatize,' says Jesus. Who hasn't observed this? The spiritual five-minute wonders. For a while they're wonderful Christians. They go through all the baptismal or confirmation classes. They get involved in everything. But six months later they're nowhere to be seen.
c. Those among thorns
... those who hear, but as they go on their way they are choked... and they do not mature... (Luke 8:14).
There are still others who turn out to be distracted disciples. Again, there's an enthusiastic initial response. But unlike the case of the superficial decision, these people do not seem to renege on their commitment to Jesus altogether. They retain some kind of Christian identity. They don't 'fall away' in that sense. But as time goes on, Christ becomes less and less significant in their lives. The couch grass of rival interests clogs their energies. The bindweed of materialism and worldliness saps all those early hopes of spirituality.
In youth, perhaps, it is educational goals, sporting achievement or sexual attraction that's responsible for this diversion of interest. In mid-life it's financial stress, family responsibilities, or career ambition. In old age it's preoccupation with health, the garden or the grandchildren. Whatever stage in life we're at, there are dozens of such distractions. 'As they go on their way,' says Jesus, 'they are choked by life's worries, riches and pleasures.' And the result is that 'they do not mature'. They're in a state of arrested spiritual development. They call themselves Christian, but it's become just a church-going habit, not a vital, personal faith.
Make no mistake about it, telling the good news of God's kingdom is full of discouragement. Many people will hear and never return. Others will rush to make a decision for Christ, only to disappear. Still others will sit in the pew week after week like passengers on a train, but never display anything more than a nominal commitment.
In all this scene of disappointment there is, however, one comfort for the evangelist.
3. Enduring evidence
Still other seed fell on good soil. It came up and yielded a crop, a hundred times more than was sown (Luke 8:8).
The seed of the Word is the only way to increase the kingdom. And increase it will. In spite of frustrating losses and wasted efforts, Jesus assures us that the farmer will have a splendid crop at the end of the day. For there are those who 'with a noble and good heart... hear the word, retain it, and by persevering produce a crop' (Luke 8:15).
Commentators disagree about how many of these four soils may represent hope of salvation. All agree that the seed sown along the path certainly does not. The text itself excludes such a possibility. 'They cannot believe and be saved,' says Jesus of those hardened hearts.
But there are many who would like to argue that the other three soils, though differing in the degree of spirituality which they represent, all nevertheless represent a saving response to the gospel. 'After all,' they say, 'the seed sown among the stones and among the weeds still germinates, doesn't it? The Word is received. A decision for Christ is made. The path of discipleship is at least begun. Such responsive individuals are surely assured of eternal life. Even if their lack of sustained commitment and spiritual growth forfeits some heavenly rewards, it can't forfeit heaven itself.'
I am unconvinced by that optimistic viewpoint. What, I ask myself, about Jesus' searching words in the Sermon on the Mount about those nominal disciples who had made a verbal profession? 'Not everyone who says to me, "Lord, Lord," will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only he who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, "Lord, Lord..." [and] I will tell them plainly, "I never knew you. Away from me...!"' (Matthew 7:21-23). Or what about that solemn picture of the vine he gives us in the gospel of John? 'The branch which does not bear fruit', he says, 'is cut off, and thrown into the fire' (see John 15:6). What about the solemn warning to apostates in the letter to the Hebrews? 'Land that produces thorns and thistles is worthless,' says the writer. 'In the end it will be burned' (Hebrews 6:8). What about the frightening admonition of the risen Christ to those half-hearted so-called believers in the church at Laodicea? 'Because you are lukewarm... I am about to spit you out of my mouth' (Revelation 3:16).
The implication of this parable is that for Jesus the only adequate response to the Word is one that issues in an enduring spiritual productivity. Nothing less would do. John F. MacArthur put it very well in The Gospel According to Jesus:
Fruit-bearing is the whole point of agriculture. In the harvest weedy soil offers no more hope than does the hard road or the shallow ground. All are equally worthless for all are equally fruitless. Fruit-bearing is the whole point of agriculture and it is also the ultimate test, then, of salvation.
Jesus is warning us in this story that initial professions of faith are a misleading statistic. It is long-term changes in lifestyle, not mere short-term enthusiasm, that really cheer the heart of Christ.
Some well-meaning Christians treat faith like fire insurance. 'Decide for Jesus right now!' they say, 'because once you've paid that single once-in-a-lifetime premium, you have eternal life, and you must never, never doubt it. By this simple step of faith you have guaranteed for yourself admission to heaven absolutely and irrevocably.'
But such a presentation can dangerously distort New Testament Christianity. It leads professing Christians to think they can live the rest of their life as they please. They've made their 'decision for Christ'—so they are safe. They may surrender to all kinds of moral failure or spiritual declension, and yet insist they are 'saved'. Didn't the evangelist tell them that they had eternal life and that they must never doubt it? They had got their fire insurance. They had paid their single lifetime premium. They were, as a result, eternally secure.
Well, the New Testament would not agree. It insists that assurance of eternal salvation is valid only if it is supported by the clear evidence of spiritual growth and productivity. That doesn't mean we are saved by our good works. But it does mean that the only reliable evidence of our salvation is goodness.
It is those who by persevering produce a crop who are secure, says Jesus. Endurance is the hallmark of the truly converted man or woman. Jesus offers no assurance to the complacency of fruitless branches.
The story is told of how the Victorian preacher Charles Spurgeon, while walking to his church in London, came across a drunk clinging to a lamp-post. 'I'm one of your converts, Mr Spurgeon,' said the drunk.
'You may well be one of my converts,' replied Spurgeon, 'but you're certainly not one of God's converts, or you wouldn't be in this condition.'
The seed of the Word, when it is savingly received, doesn't just make a temporary impact. It produces enduring change. True faith is not an ephemeral whim in the emotional excitement of an evangelistic meeting. It's not just a nominal nod of the head in the direction of the altar when the Creed is repeated on a Sunday evening. True faith is a deliberate and determined pledge of the heart to a faithful obedience to Christ and his Word, which perseveres through trials and opposition and sustains its growth lifelong. I'm not saying Christians don't have setbacks; of course they do. But they endure. And it is only those who endure to the end who are saved.
There is on the other hand such a thing as an abortive conversion experience, just as there was Judas among the disciples. That's why the New Testament exhorts us:
See to it, brothers, that none of you has a sinful, unbelieving heart that turns away from the living God... We have come to share in Christ if we hold firmly till the end the confidence we had at first (Hebrews 3:12, 14).
The kingdom of God begins in our lives when God's rule begins there. And how does God assert his rule in our lives? It is, says Jesus, by the obedient attention we pay to his Word.