Put Off, Put On: Part Two

Confessional Roots in a Confused Age

The Colossian church needed a strong reminder: everything for growth and godliness is already in Christ. Some were saying Jesus is good but not enough, that real spirituality needs more: mysticism, legalism, asceticism. Paul says no. You don’t graduate from Jesus; you go deeper into him. “As you received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in him…abounding in thanksgiving” (2:6–7). Growth comes by walking in Christ, not chasing shiny spiritual novelties.

He calls the “extras” what they are: self-made religion with zero power over sin (2:23). It looks seasoned and holy, but it’s hollow. We’re watching the same circus now—, ouTube mystics, angel charts, conspiracy catechisms. People stopped trusting institutions and started treating internet strangers like apostles. The result is a fog of big talk that can’t mortify one lust. None of it helps you put sin to death.

Maturity doesn’t come from novelty; it comes from living the basics. In Colossians 3, Paul says, “If you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above.” That rests on three doctrines: Christ rose as Victor, Christ ascended as King, and we are united to him. If that’s true, and it is, set your mind on heaven’s agenda, not earth’s fever dreams.

When I started ministry, young and green, the “gospel-centered” wave was cresting. Keller was everywhere saying the gospel is the A-to-Z of the Christian life. True enough. But the movement got flattened into sentiment. Sermons ended with, “Isn’t it wonderful Jesus died for sinners?” It is wonderful. But grace isn’t just a warm blanket; it’s a bridle and a spur. The gospel doesn’t only console; it commands. It trains us to say no to ungodliness and yes to self-control.

David and Goliath isn’t only a parable of Christ conquering sin; it’s an example of faith. David really faced a giant and really killed him. His courage is supposed to make your spine stiffen. The gospel is not a museum piece to admire; it’s a saber to wield.

Now some folks, reacting to that old reductionism, have sprinted to “advanced” doctrines, endless timelines, fringe speculations, without mastering the basics. What we need are churches built on blue-collar confessionalism: anchored in the historic confessions and speaking plainly to ordinary people, with no patience for fads.

Confessions like the Westminster Standards summarize Scripture faithfully. They keep a church from drifting or being jerked around by trends. When we planted East River, we didn’t aim to be the “anti-mask” church; we aimed to be the Christian liberty church. Not performance politics, but conscience and jurisdiction. Confessions anchor principles so you don’t get defined by the controversy of the month.

By “blue collar,” I mean truth made plain. I grew up poor. My dad had an eighth-grade education and sat through sermons peppered with names he couldn’t pronounce and didn’t need. Smart talk isn’t the point; sanctified living is. Confessional truth applied to daily life kills dead orthodoxy and grows a holy culture.

That’s the missing combination: doctrinal depth and real-world application. We shouldn’t pick between truth and relevance. Preach Christ into everything: marriage, money, kids, county, country. That’s what we mean by: All of Christ for all of life, for all of Clermont County.

Paul says “put off the old man” and “put on the new.” Union with Christ gives new appetites, new loves, and a new war. The cultural war starts in your chest—against your own sinful desires. In Christ, sin’s dominion is broken, but the old man still whispers, “Come back.” Paul says make him a corpse. “Put to death what is earthly in you.” Not negotiate. Not leash. Kill.

But you can’t only empty; you must fill. Sweep the house and leave it bare, and worse things move in. Christianity isn’t about looking respectable; it’s about being new. So Paul continues: “Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved…”

That line, chosen, holy, beloved, comes from election. God did not pick you for your promise; he loved you because he loved you. I used to dodge Ephesians 1 like it was a hornet’s nest. “If God chooses, isn’t that unfair?” Unfair would be God not giving us what we deserve. He doesn’t. He drags rebels from the cliff’s edge and calls it mercy. We talk a lot about “free will.” But your will follows your nature. Dogs bark; sinners sin. No one chooses God until God unstops ears and quickens hearts. That’s grace. Once you see total depravity, the rest of Calvinism isn’t a stretch; it’s a map.

This doesn’t breed arrogance. It kills it. Everything we have is gift. That should change how we treat each other. Paul says the elect must “put on compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.” These aren’t decorative. They’re how a church survives Tuesday.

Compassion means you feel from the gut. God can turn a stone-hearted scoffer into someone who pities sinners he used to despise. Kindness isn’t niceness. Niceness just agrees; kindness does good when it costs. Humility isn’t a soft voice and downcast eyes; it’s knowing who you are before God—no more, no less. Meekness isn’t weakness; it’s strength with the safety on, power applied with precision. Patience is a long fuse in a short-fuse world.

Why does this matter? Because churches are full of sinner-saints. You will need to forbear. You will need to forgive. Complaints aren’t hypothetical; they’re inevitable. Stick around and someone will offend you. Maybe me. That’s life together. The test isn’t whether you avoid conflict; it’s whether you repent, reconcile, and keep the bond.

And the bond is love. “Above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.” Without love, all the virtues come off the hanger and pile on the floor. You can look gentle and be seething. That’s not peace; that’s a pressure cooker. Love keeps the church from becoming a polite graveyard.

An older German pastor once warned that “visionary dreams” about Christian community can poison the real thing. He was right. The idealist loves his blueprint more than his brothers. He arrives with demands, treats his preferences as law, and when reality refuses to obey, he becomes an accuser—of the church, of God, eventually of himself. There’s a whiff of brimstone in that path.

I saw it during the “emerging church” years. Everyone had theories about What Church Should Be. But real churches are made of sinners learning to repent together. They will not fit your fantasy. If you can’t love them as they are, you’ll never help them become what they should be. Grace is not a photo filter; it’s a surgeon’s knife. It cuts before it heals. It stings like iodine and then keeps you from rotting.

That’s Paul’s word to Colossae. You want to grow? Turn to Jesus. Put off the old man. Put on the new. Walk in the gospel’s power. Love the actual saints God gave you, not the imaginary ones in your head.

Bear with people’s oddities. Forgive like you’ve been forgiven. Stop shopping for the “perfect” church. If you must move, leave as a friend, not a flamethrower. And if you stay, and I hope you do, work things out face to face. The Holy Spirit still softens necks that used to be stiff.

Grace is not sentimental. It is more like a sunburn that tells you where you’ve been too long in the wrong light, and more like a plow that turns the soil whether you feel like gardening or not. It gives you new loves and then orders your steps. It teaches a man to shut his mouth, open his Bible, and apologize at the dinner table. It teaches a woman to bridle her tongue, guard her home, and pray like she means it. It teaches a whole church to sing loudly, repent quickly, and tell the truth even when it costs.

So, no more chasing “advanced” spirituality like it’s a magic feather. No more building ladders to heaven out of YouTube links. Christ has already come down. He is enough. He is not merely the entrance exam; he is the life. Walk in him. Kill what’s earthly. Clothe yourself in what’s heavenly. And above all, put on love. That’s the strongest doctrine in the room—the one that doesn’t just shine on paper but sweats, bleeds, forgives, and keeps the family together when everything else is pulling it apart.

Repent when you sin. Reconcile when you fight. Do good to one another. And keep walking, not past Jesus, but in him. That’s how holiness grows, one obedient step at a time, until the old man is finally silent and the new man looks like Christ.

Painting: Luke Buck