On Second Thought
There is a quiet tension that runs through the Christian life, a tension we often feel but rarely name. We speak of salvation as something received, finished, settled—yet Scripture consistently frames it as something unfolding, deepening, and pressing forward. The reading from John 11:21–26 places us squarely in that tension. Martha stands before Jesus with grief in her voice and faith still forming on her lips. “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” Her words hold both disappointment and trust, loss and hope. Jesus does not correct her sorrow; instead, He redirects her understanding of life itself. “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in Me, though he die, yet shall he live.” Eternal life, Jesus teaches, is not postponed until after death. It begins now, in relationship with Him.
That same truth echoes in Paul’s declaration to the Colossians: “He has delivered us from the power of darkness and conveyed us into the kingdom of the Son of His love.” Colossians 1:13. The Greek verb metestēsen, translated “conveyed” or “transferred,” is decisive and complete. It describes a real relocation, not a symbolic promise. Believers are no longer under the dominion of darkness; they are already citizens of Christ’s kingdom. Yet living as citizens of that kingdom is a lifelong apprenticeship. We are fully transferred, but we are still learning how to live where we now belong. That is where the idea of “always just beginning” takes root.
The story of Danny Buggs offers a helpful window into this reality. His athletic career was marked by speed, achievement, and public recognition. Like all physical callings, it had a shelf life. When the body can no longer perform as it once did, the culture quietly moves on. Yet Buggs’s story did not diminish when his playing days ended; it deepened. Receiving Christ reframed his understanding of purpose itself. What appeared to be an ending became, in the truest sense, a beginning. The gifts that once electrified stadiums were replaced by a calling that now touches lives at a far deeper level. His story mirrors a gospel pattern: what the world calls finished, God often calls prepared.
Scripture consistently resists the idea that life in Christ plateaus. Jesus’ conversation with Martha presses beyond her theological categories. She believes in a future resurrection, but Jesus invites her to see resurrection standing in front of her. Eternal life is not merely duration; it is quality. It is life infused with the presence of Christ—marked by purpose, patience, joy, and power even amid sorrow. Paul reinforces this when he writes elsewhere, “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation” (2 Corinthians 5:17). The Greek kainē ktisis suggests not renovation but newness of kind. Yet this newness unfolds daily. The believer does not simply arrive; the believer grows.
This perspective reshapes how we interpret loss, aging, and even death. If eternal life has already begun, then nothing experienced in Christ is wasted. Service offered quietly, faithfulness practiced unseen, suffering endured with hope—all of it carries eternal weight. Death itself becomes, as the study so aptly states, a doorway rather than a conclusion. The Christian life does not move toward irrelevance but toward fullness. We may lay down certain roles, abilities, or seasons, but we never exhaust our calling to love God and serve others. In Christ, endings are always penultimate, never final.
There is deep pastoral comfort here. Many believers quietly fear that their best years are behind them or that missed opportunities have permanently diminished their usefulness. The gospel speaks a different word. Because Christ is our life, every stage becomes a threshold rather than a terminus. Eternal life means that obedience today matters because it participates in something that will never end. It means that repentance is never too late, growth is never finished, and hope is never misplaced. To belong to Christ is to live in a constant state of beginning—not because we are unstable, but because God is endlessly at work.
On Second Thought
Here is the paradox that quietly reshapes our faith: the more secure we are in eternal life, the freer we become to release our grip on temporary definitions of success. We often assume that beginnings are marked by uncertainty and endings by clarity. Yet in Christ, the opposite is often true. It is our endings—of careers, seasons, strength, or certainty—that reveal how much of our life was anchored in something passing. Eternal life disrupts that pattern. It assures us that nothing faithful ever truly concludes. Even when circumstances close a chapter we cherished, God is not turning the page to nothingness but to deeper communion.
On second thought, perhaps the fear of ending is really a misunderstanding of what has already begun. If we truly believe we have been transferred into the kingdom of the Son, then our lives are already participating in something indestructible. That means the question is not whether we will have purpose tomorrow, but whether we will recognize it. The paradox is this: the closer we move toward what looks like an ending, the closer we often are to discovering a more enduring beginning. Eternal life does not minimize the present; it magnifies it. It tells us that today’s obedience matters not because it preserves our legacy, but because it aligns us with a kingdom that has no expiration date.
So when the world signals that a season is finished, faith listens more carefully. It asks not, “What have I lost?” but, “What is God still unfolding?” In Christ, we are never merely winding down. We are being carried forward. We are, in the deepest sense, always just beginning.
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