We're Not At The Gates Yet
And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. - Matthew 16:18
The Ploughman’s Rest wasn’t particularly created as a space dedicated to elders/pastors of the church. Of course, I had hoped that these pages might be a balm for weary shepherds, and that gospel workers may find in these pages a hope in Jesus that propelled them back into the field. But these pages were meant for all of us; disciples weighed down with care, or those who shed tears in the dark hours of the night, those who felt isolated even before ‘social distancing’ was trending in Twitter.
I feel it too. I feel the tightness in my chest, the shortness of my breath. I feel the anxiety of the masses, like wading through thick fog. As a pastor, I feel the watching eyes, the wondering flock, as we all swirl in the rapidly changing news feed of these strange days. I feel the compulsion to serve my people well, yet, I watch my chronically sick daughter with dread, and sit beside my wife as she plans for the worst even while hoping and praying for the best. These days we live in are new to us, and tomorrow remains mostly unknown. Mostly.
But, dear friend, we have not arrived at the gates of hell yet. While we live in trying times, we live with the same sense of confidence our brothers and sisters have lived with for millennia.
Death is defeated. The grave has been robbed of power. Satan stands muzzled. Christ is victorious. His bride is secured. The gospel is still the power of God for salvation. Our weakness is still where Christ’s strength is made perfect. Our suffering is still light and momentary. Our hope is still living. Our future is still bright. Our inheritance is still as sure as the Spirit’s sealing presence.
We’re not at the gates yet. And even if we were; watch them swing wide and shudder at their foundations. For they shall not prevail. When all the hordes that stood against God’s purpose, gathered in premature celebration one dark Friday afternoon on a hill outside Jerusalem, they had not reckoned on the power of these words, “It is finished.” Even as that old serpent extended his fangs to strike, the heel of the eternal came crushing down. The fatal blow was struck. Any strength those gates held, trembled on that day, and now they stand broken down and ajar.
Do not lose hope, dear friend.
To the pastor who sits weary and tearful with his wife, do not lose hope. To the small group leader, wondering what to say to your fearful friend, do not lose hope. To the parent who watches anxiously over your children as they settle down to sleep, do not lose hope. To the lonely and alone, wondering how you will survive even more isolation, do not lose hope.
Those gates you see in the distance, they will not prevail. The church will be ready to meet her groom. He is coming. Look to the eastern horizon, the light will rise. Darkness and weeping may yet tarry for the night, but dawn will come, and with it joy. Watch for the Son.
