On Second Thought
There is a quiet tension many believers carry without realizing it. We affirm that Christ died for us, yet we often live as though we are still bound to what He died to free us from. When I read Epistle to the Romans 6:4–11, I am confronted with a truth that is not merely theological, but transformational: “Therefore we are buried with Him by baptism into death… that like as Christ was raised up from the dead… even so we also should walk in newness of life.” The apostle Paul is not describing a future hope alone; he is defining a present reality. The Christian life is not simply about forgiveness—it is about participation.
The doctrine introduced here is what theologians call identification. In the Greek, Paul uses the language of union—syn (with) Christ. This means that when Jesus died, God counted our old nature as having died with Him. When He was buried, our former life was buried. When He rose, we rose into something entirely new. This is not symbolic language meant to inspire; it is declarative truth meant to be believed. Paul later writes, “Likewise reckon ye also yourselves to be dead indeed unto sin, but alive unto God through Jesus Christ our Lord” (Romans 6:11). The word “reckon” (logizomai) is an accounting term—it means to count something as true because it has already been established.
What challenges me is how often I wait to feel this reality before I believe it. Yet Scripture reverses that order. I am not called to feel alive in Christ and then believe it—I am called to believe it so that I may live it. This is where the sufficiency of Christ becomes not just doctrine, but daily practice. If His work is complete, then my identity is settled. If my identity is settled, then my struggle is no longer about becoming something new, but about walking in what has already been accomplished. As one commentator insightfully observed, “The secret of holy living is not imitation, but identification.”
This brings us into the heart of our weekly focus—seeing the Jesus no one expected. In Gospel of Luke 19:28–44, Jesus enters Jerusalem not as a conqueror on a warhorse, but as a servant on a donkey. The crowd could not reconcile what they saw with what they expected. Yet in that moment, Jesus was revealing the very nature of His kingdom. Victory would come through surrender. Life would come through death. Authority would be established through sacrifice. The same paradox applies to us. We become “more than conquerors” not by striving harder, but by surrendering deeper into what Christ has already done.
Paul declares in Romans 8:37, “In all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.” The phrase “more than conquerors” comes from the Greek hypernikaō—to overwhelmingly prevail, to surpass victory. Notice that this victory is not achieved through effort, but through relationship—“through Him who loved us.” The sufficiency of Christ means that nothing needs to be added to His work. The only thing required is that we align ourselves with it by faith.
This shifts how I approach my daily walk. Instead of asking, “How do I overcome this?” I begin to ask, “How do I stand in what Christ has already overcome?” Instead of striving to defeat sin, I begin to recognize that its authority has already been broken. Instead of chasing transformation, I begin to live from it. This does not eliminate struggle, but it reframes it. I am no longer fighting for victory; I am fighting from victory. That is a significant difference.
Yet here is where many of us hesitate. We understand justification—we are declared righteous—but we struggle with participation—we are called to live as those who have been raised. It feels too bold, too complete, almost too good to be true. But this is the nature of grace. It does not merely improve us; it redefines us. The resurrection of Jesus was not just proof that He is alive; it is proof that we are included in His life. As Paul writes in Ephesians 2:6, we have been “raised up together, and made to sit together in heavenly places in Christ Jesus.”
On Second Thought
Here is the paradox that may unsettle us if we sit with it long enough: the greatest obstacle to living the Christian life may not be our weakness, but our unwillingness to accept how complete Christ’s work already is. We often assume that growth requires gradual earning, that maturity comes through accumulating spiritual achievements. But what if the deeper truth is that growth comes from surrendering our need to add anything at all? What if the very thing we keep trying to build has already been given?
We admire effort because it feels measurable. We trust process because it feels controllable. But the gospel invites us into something far less manageable—dependence. To say that I am crucified with Christ and raised with Him means that I no longer define myself by what I can produce, but by what He has accomplished. That is both freeing and unsettling. It removes pride, but it also removes excuses. If I am already alive in Him, then the question is no longer whether I can live differently, but whether I will believe differently.
And perhaps this is why Jesus entered Jerusalem the way He did. Not to meet expectations, but to dismantle them. Not to affirm human assumptions about power, but to redefine them entirely. In the same way, He meets us not where we expect Him to, but where we most need Him to be. And often, that place is not at the end of our effort, but at the beginning of our surrender.
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