The DOXA of the Present Age: GLORY Revealed in the GROANING Saints

I. Introduction: The Longing of the Age

The world staggers under its own weight. Streets bustle, screens flash, and yet, a quiet heaviness presses into hearts — an unspoken lament, a groaning of lives weighed down by sorrow, injustice, and oppression. Creation itself seems to stagger like a drunkard under the burden of sin (Isaiah 24:20).

Amid this, the question rises: Where is the glory — the δόξα — that should mark the present age?

Imagine Nehemiah hearing of Jerusalem’s broken walls. While the palace buzzed with daily routine, he sat in mourning, weeping through the night, fasting and praying. One man, broken with grief, aligned fully with God’s heart — and history began to shift.

This is the kind of longing God calls His people to bear. It is not despair. It is covenantal intensity, the ache that positions hearts to receive and release the glory of heaven.

II. Understanding δόξα: Glory Reconsidered

The Greek word δόξα carries a depth the English word “glory” cannot contain. Biblically, it is manifested presence, weight, honor, radiance.

Under the Old Covenant, glory was external and temporary — Moses’ face shone, but even that radiance faded. Under the New Covenant, glory is internal, transformative, and enduring (2 Corinthians 3:7‑18).

This glory is not merely aesthetic; it is powerful and visible through obedience, sensitivity, and holiness. When saints bear it, their lives become a canvas for heaven’s radiance, illuminating darkness without fanfare.

III. The Saints’ Ache as Access Point to Glory

The groaning of saints is the Spirit’s own voice echoing through human hearts. Paul groans over Israel, Nehemiah weeps over Jerusalem, Jesus weeps over a city bustling in unawareness.

This sensitivity is not weakness. It is alignment with God’s mind. It is the heart that refuses to normalize brokenness, the soul that cannot rest while injustice thrives.

Take Hudson Taylor, the missionary to China: for decades he carried a deep burden for a land most in Europe ignored. His persistent intercession became fuel for decades of obedience, opening doors no one else could reach.

It is in this holy ache that God finds hearts He can entrust with His glory.

IV. Radical Longing and Covenant Language

History is full of saints whose intensity startled the world. John Knox prayed, “Lord, give me Scotland or I die.” Corrie ten Boom spent years risking her life to protect the persecuted.

These cries are not about physical death; they are covenantal declarations: the world is secondary to God’s purposes, and nothing — not comfort, not fear, not life itself — should stand in the way of obedience.

As believers already “dead in Christ” (Romans 6:4), fear no longer governs. Pain and longing become channels for divine intervention. The unfulfilled ache is not a burden — it is the mechanism through which heaven begins to break into earth.

V. The Subtle Presence of Present Glory

New Covenant glory often moves quietly, which is why it can feel absent in a world conditioned to expect spectacle. We look for fireworks and dramatic signs, yet heaven’s radiance advances through transformed lives, faithful obedience, mercy, and endurance. The ache of saints is the signpost of its presence.

Picture a modern intercessor, quietly praying through the night, sensing suffering unnoticed by others, compelled by grief to act in mercy. Or consider a believer in a war-torn region who chooses forgiveness over revenge, feeding the hungry enemy at great personal risk. A life reconciled, a family healed, a soul encouraged — these quiet breakthroughs are manifestations of glory breaking in through sensitive hearts.

Though the world appears dark, heaven is already at work through those willing to feel its grief, pray its prayers, and act in its strength.

VI. The Call to Action

God invites us to live as conduits of this glory in practical ways:

– Cultivate the mind of Christ to perceive what others ignore.

– Let your sensitivity guide intercession and obedient action.

– Act faithfully, even when the outcome is unseen.

– Rely on God’s sufficiency, not your own strength (2 Corinthians 3:4‑6).

Nehemiah rebuilt walls. Paul carried the weight of nations in his prayers. Those who groan with God, who refuse to settle for apathy, become instruments of heaven.

VII. Conclusion: Hope Anchored in Glory

The glory of the New Covenant is both present and future. The world may stagger. Hearts may groan. Yet heaven is moving, through those who are aligned with God’s grief, carrying His burden without compromise.

Let this be your challenge and encouragement: do not hide from the ache, do not soften the longing, do not ignore the brokenness around you. Live so aligned with God’s heart that heaven breaks through your life into the world.

This is the glory of the present age — not fleeting radiance, but enduring, transformational, divine presence — revealed in the groaning saints, faithful to their calling.

 

 

Stop Calling Yourself a WORM: The Scandal of Our DIVINE Sonship and the GLORY That Creation Is WAITING For

Stop Calling Yourself a Worm                                                                                              The Scandal of Our Divine Sonship and the Glory That Creation Is Waiting For 

Most Christians live with a quiet, unspoken identity crisis.
They say “I’m just a sinner saved by grace,” or “I’m nothing but a worm,” or “I’m just human.”
They mean it as humility.
But what if that language is not humility at all — but a subtle unbelief that dishonors the very work of Christ and keeps the whole creation in bondage?
The New Testament does not describe us as improved sinners.
It describes us as a new creation — a completely different order of being.

1. We Are Not Improved Adams — We Are a New Species

“Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.”
— 2 Corinthians 5:17

The Greek word for “new creature” (kainē ktisis) does not mean “renovated.”
It means new kind — something that never existed before.

We are not Adam 2.0 with better morals.
We are a new humanity born from the last Adam, who is from heaven.
Paul makes this clear in 1 Corinthians 15:45–49:

“And so it is written, The first man Adam was made a living soul; the last Adam was made a quickening [life-giving] spirit…
As is the earthy, such are they also that are earthy: and as is the heavenly, such are they also that are heavenly.
And as we have borne the image of the earthy, we shall also bear the image of the heavenly.”

We have been begotten of God (1 John 5:1; James 1:18).
The incorruptible seed — the very sperma (Greek for “seed”) of God Himself — has been planted in our spirit (1 Pet 1:23).
That seed is not a moral upgrade.
It is the living life of the Son, growing toward full expression.
Because we are in Christ, we too are destined to be life-giving spirits — just as He is.
We are no longer merely natural, living souls like the first Adam.
We now carry the same heavenly, life-giving nature that raised Christ from the dead.
This is not “partaking of divine virtues.”
This is divine life taking root in us.
We are no longer fundamentally earthy.
In our new birth and innermost being, we are heavenly.

2. False Humility Is Unbelief in Disguise

When we keep saying “I’m just a sinner,” “I’m worthless,” or “I’m only human,” we are not being humble.
We are calling God a liar.

God says: “Now are we the sons of God” (1 John 3:2).
Present tense. Not “we will be someday.” Now.

God says: “We shall be like Him” (1 John 3:2).
Not just in behavior — but in the fullness of glorified sonship.

God says: “The old man is crucified with Him” (Rom 6:6).
Dead. Buried. Gone.

To cling to the identity of the old Adam — to keep mourning over a corpse that Christ has already put to death — is not humility.
It is unbelief in the resurrection life that has already been imparted.

True humility is agreeing with God:
“Yes, I was worthless in myself.
But now I am what You say I am: Your son, born of Your divine life, destined to bear the image of the heavenly Man.”

3. Jesus Is the Perfect Pattern

Jesus did not deny His identity to be humble.
He knew exactly who He was:
“I and my Father are one” (John 10:30).
“Before Abraham was, I am” (John 8:58).

Yet He humbled Himself, became a servant, and obeyed unto death (Phil 2:5–8).
His humility was not self-diminishment.
It was living His true identity in dependence on the Father.

He is our model.
“Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus” (Phil 2:5).

Real humility is knowing who you are in God — and living it without pride or shame.

4. This Is Not “Little Gods” — This Is the Gospel

We are not becoming the Creator.
We are not claiming ontological equality with God.
We are sons by adoption, begotten of His divine life, sharing in His nature by grace alone (2 Pet 1:4).

The early church fathers understood this:
“He became man that we might become god” (Athanasius) — not in essence, but by participation in the divine life that is growing in us.

We are not little gods.
We are children of God, carrying the seed of eternal life, destined to be fully conformed to the image of His Son (Rom 8:29).

5. The Cosmic Stakes: Creation Is Waiting for Us

Here is the staggering truth that should drop every jaw:

“The earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God.
For the creature was made subject to vanity… in hope that the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God.”
— Romans 8:19–21

The whole creation — earth, sky, seas, animals, stars — is groaning in pain.
It is waiting for one thing: the unveiling of the sons of God.

Jesus Himself prayed that the glory He gave us would make us one, so that the world would know the Father sent Him (John 17:22–23).

Our revelation is not incidental.
It is the mechanism by which creation itself will be liberated.
Every believer who refuses to believe and live in their true identity is (unwittingly) contributing to the delay of the liberation the entire cosmos is crying out for.

6. The Final Call

Stop contending for the corpse of the old Adam.
Stop calling yourself a worm when God calls you a son.
Stop living as though the divine life planted in you is too small to matter.

You are a new creation.
The old has passed away.
All things have become new.

Believe what God says about you.
Live as sons and daughters — not in pride, but in joyful dependence on the Father who begot you.

The glory that awaits is not a private reward.
It is the cosmic event the whole universe is holding its breath for.
When the sons of God are fully revealed — when the divine life that is already growing in us breaks forth in its completed form — creation itself will be set free.

The enemy’s greatest work is not to make us deny Christ.
It is to make us forget who we have become in Him.

Rise up.
Believe.
Be unveiled.
The creation is waiting.

“Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is.”
— 1 John 3:2

Let that sink in.
And let it set you free.

 

 

TWO Comings, ONE Reckoning: Christ’s Glory IGNITES the Earth FROM Pentecost TO the Bride’s Triumph

What if Christ has already stormed back—not in the flesh we expect, crowned in clouds, but in a blaze so fierce it rewrote the soul of the world? And what if that was just the opening thunder, a tremor before the skies shatter and he returns with his Bride to claim what’s his? I’ve stared into Matthew 16:27-28 until it burned me: Jesus promising glory, angels, rewards, and some standing there not tasting death before the kingdom crashes in. Scholars bicker—Transfiguration, end times—but I see a wilder truth: two comings, one relentless promise. Pentecost, where he descended in fire to possess us. The Second Coming, where he’ll split the heavens with his Bride to judge and reign. This isn’t tame theology—it’s the pulse of God breaking in, then breaking all.

The Riddle That Scorches

Listen to him, voice like a blade:

“For the Son of Man is going to come in his Father’s glory with his angels, and then he will reward each person according to what they have done. Truly I tell you, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom.” (Matthew 16:27-28, NIV)

Verse 27 is a war cry—glory blazing, angels thundering, every deed weighed in fire. It’s Revelation 22:12 roaring: “I am coming soon! My reward is with me, to repay all according to their works!” The Second Coming we ache for, when every eye will bleed awe (Revelation 1:7). Then verse 28 strikes like lightning: “Some won’t die before they see it”? The disciples are dust, the sky unbroken. Was he wrong? Or have we been blind—waiting for trumpets while he’s already torn the veil? This isn’t a puzzle to solve—it’s a reckoning to survive.

Pentecost: The Invasion of Glory

Jerusalem, fifty days past the empty tomb. The disciples wait, hearts pounding, clinging to his command (Acts 1:4). Then the heavens rip—wind howls like a lion, fire dances on their heads, tongues of every nation spill from their mouths (Acts 2:2-4). This isn’t a moment; it’s an invasion. Christ returns—not strolling in sandals, but crashing as Spirit, claiming his new temple: us. This is Matthew 16:28 ablaze: “Some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom.” Peter, John, the trembling faithful—they saw it, the kingdom not whispered but roared into being.

Go back to Haggai 2:9: “The glory of this present house will be greater than the glory of the former.” The first temple choked on God’s cloud, priests staggering (1 Kings 8:10-11). The second stood hollow—no ark, no Shekinah—until Jesus strode in (Luke 2:27). But Pentecost? That’s the glory unleashed—not bound to stone, but poured into flesh. Paul saw it: “You are God’s temple, his Spirit raging in you!” (1 Corinthians 3:16). Greater? It’s untamed—a fire that doesn’t fade, a dwelling that walks.

He came “in clouds” of power—Spirit rushing from the throne, like the pillar that split the Red Sea (Exodus 13:21). The world reeled—Parthians, Medes, Elamites, every tongue under heaven stunned (Acts 2:5-11). Three thousand fell to their knees that day (Acts 2:41), a spark that torched empires. Scripture catches the flare, not the inferno—we’ll never know its full reach. This was Christ’s kingdom seizing earth, and his witnesses lived it. The “reward”? The Spirit himself, a furnace in their bones, forging them for war. Angels? Call them unseen flames—Hebrews 1:14’s “ministering spirits”—or admit we’re grasping at glory too vast to name.

The Second Coming: The Bride’s War Cry

But verse 27 isn’t done—it hungers for more. “The Son of Man is going to come in his Father’s glory with his angels, and then he will reward each person according to what they have done.” This isn’t Spirit’s whisper—it’s flesh and fury. Revelation 19:11-14 rips the curtain: Christ on a white horse, eyes molten, sword dripping justice, the armies of heaven at his heel. Angels? Yes. But the Bride too—the church, blood-washed, linen-clad, roaring back with her King. Revelation 21:2 unveils her: New Jerusalem, radiant, no longer waiting but reigning.

This is the Bema Seat’s hour. Paul trembles: “We must all stand before Christ’s judgment seat, to receive what’s due—good or ash—for what we’ve done in this skin” (2 Corinthians 5:10). Not damnation—salvation’s locked—but reward or ruin, crowns or silence. Matthew 16:27 nails it: every work judged, angels as witnesses, glory as the gavel. He caught us up (1 Thessalonians 4:17); now we ride down. Every eye will see—not a city’s gasp, but a planet’s shudder (Revelation 1:7).

Pentecost ignited the kingdom; this consumes it. The first was a lover’s breath, Spirit kissing dust to life. The second is a warrior’s shout, Bride and Groom trampling death. The Father’s glory isn’t just felt—it blinds.

The Clash of Fire and Throne

This burns with jagged edges. Verse 27’s “angels” and “glory” dwarf Pentecost’s wind—too vast for that day alone. Are they split—27 for the end, 28 for then? Or does 27 bleed into both, a promise half-born in fire, fully forged in flesh? “Reward” twists too—Spirit at Pentecost, crowns at the Bema Seat. The world “seeing”? Acts 2 staggers nations; Revelation blinds all. I say it holds: 28’s timing screams Pentecost—disciples saw it—while 27’s scale demands the end.

Joel 2:28’s Spirit floods the first ( “I’ll pour out my Spirit on all flesh”); Daniel 7:13’s Son of Man rides clouds to the last. It’s not neat—it’s alive. We’ve misread his coming, hoarding hope for a sky-split while he’s been raging in us since that upper room.

Between the Flames

Christ has come—and he will come. Pentecost was no gentle gift; it was God seizing us, fire in our veins, making us his temple when we’re barely clay. The Second Coming isn’t a distant dream; it’s a blade over our necks, the Bride’s return to rule with him, every moment we’ve lived laid bare. We stagger between these flames—carrying glory we can’t fathom, racing toward a throne we can’t escape.

I felt this once, late, alone—the Spirit hit me like a wave: he’s here, in me, frail as I am. Then the weight: he’s coming, and my hands will answer. In a world choking on despair, Pentecost screams he’s not left us. The Second Coming vows he’s not finished us. We’re not bystanders—we’re the heartbeat of his kingdom, ablaze now, bound for glory then. So tell me: if he’s come and will come, what are we doing with the fire in our souls?