Living in Tents, Aiming for Eternity

DID YOU KNOW

Did you know that Scripture describes your physical life as a temporary tent, not a permanent home?

Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 5:1, “For we know that if our earthly house, this tent, is destroyed, we have a building from God… eternal in the heavens.” The word he uses for “tent” comes from the Greek skēnos, referring to a temporary dwelling—something movable, fragile, and subject to wear. As a tentmaker, Paul understood this vividly. Tents stretch, tear, weaken, and eventually collapse. He was not speaking abstractly; he was describing a reality he worked with daily. In doing so, he gives us a powerful lens through which to understand our lives. What we often treat as permanent—our bodies, our plans, our earthly security—are, in fact, temporary structures.

Yet this is not meant to discourage us; it is meant to reorient us. If I see my life as a tent, I begin to hold it differently. I care for it, but I do not cling to it. I invest in it, but I do not anchor my identity in it. This perspective aligns with the Hebrew understanding of life as a journey, often captured in the word halak, meaning “to walk.” We are passing through, not settling down. When I remember this, I begin to live with a lighter grip and a clearer focus, recognizing that my ultimate dwelling is not here, but with God.

Did you know that God has already prepared an eternal “building” for you that cannot decay?

Paul contrasts the tent with something far greater: “a building from God, a house not made with hands.” This phrase echoes deeply into the Old Testament, where human hands built the tabernacle and later the temple. Those sacred spaces were beautiful, but they were still temporary. They could be destroyed, and eventually, they were. But what God prepares is different. It is not subject to decay, corruption, or time. The Greek phrase acheiropoiētos—“not made with hands”—emphasizes divine origin and permanence.

This truth reshapes how we interpret loss and uncertainty. When something in this life deteriorates—health, relationships, stability—we are reminded that none of these were meant to be ultimate. Jesus Himself pointed to this greater reality in John 14:2: “In My Father’s house are many mansions… I go to prepare a place for you.” What awaits us is not an improvement on this world but an entirely different order of existence—secure, eternal, and fully aligned with God’s presence. This is the inheritance secured through Christ, the unexpected King who entered Jerusalem not to establish an earthly throne, but to open the way to an eternal one.

Did you know that your eternal future is meant to shape how you live right now?

Paul does not present eternity as an escape from the present, but as a motivation within it. In 2 Corinthians 5:9, he writes, “Therefore we make it our aim… to be well pleasing to Him.” The word “aim” comes from the Greek philotimeomai, which carries the sense of ambition or driving purpose. In other words, eternity does not make life less meaningful—it makes it more focused. If I know where I am going, it changes how I walk today.

This connects beautifully with Psalm 37:23: “The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord.” The Hebrew word kun suggests being established, made firm, or directed. When my life is anchored in eternal truth, my daily decisions begin to reflect that stability. I am no longer driven by fear or urgency, but by purpose. I do not need to rush ahead or retreat in anxiety. I can walk steadily, knowing that each step is part of a larger, eternal design. This is what resurrection life looks like—it is not just life after death, but life informed by eternity now.

Did you know that the Holy Spirit is given to you as a present assurance of your eternal home?

Jesus promised in John 17 that His followers would not be left alone. The Holy Spirit was given as a Comforter, but also as a guarantee. Paul later describes the Spirit as a “deposit” or “guarantee” of what is to come (2 Corinthians 5:5). The Greek word arrabōn refers to a down payment—something that secures a future promise. This means that eternity is not just something we hope for; it is something we begin to experience even now through the presence of the Spirit.

This changes how I endure the “meantime.” I am not waiting in emptiness; I am living in assurance. The Spirit reminds me of truth when I am uncertain, strengthens me when I am weak, and directs me when I am unsure of the path ahead. He bridges the gap between the temporary and the eternal. In a world that often feels unstable, His presence becomes a steady anchor. This is part of what Jesus was revealing in His unexpected entry into Jerusalem—He was not just coming to change circumstances, but to establish a kingdom that begins within and extends into eternity.

As I reflect on these truths, I am invited to reconsider how I am living today. If my life is a tent, am I investing more in the temporary than the eternal? If a permanent dwelling awaits me, am I preparing my heart for it? If eternity shapes my present, are my choices aligned with that reality? These are not questions of fear, but of focus. They gently call me back to what matters most.

The beauty of this perspective is that it frees me. I no longer need to cling to what is fading or be overwhelmed by what is uncertain. Instead, I can live with purpose, anchored in the assurance that what God has prepared is far greater than anything I experience here. And until that day comes, I am called to walk faithfully, guided by His Spirit, reflecting His kingdom in the everyday moments of life.

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When God Makes All Things New

Thru the Bible in a Year

As we come to the final day of the calendar year, we also arrive at the final chapters of Scripture. Revelation 20–22 does not merely conclude the Bible; it gathers every longing, promise, and unanswered ache of the human story and carries them into God’s eternal future. After pages filled with conflict, judgment, endurance, and costly faithfulness, the Bible ends not in fear but in hope. The closing vision is not of chaos but of a city, not of abandonment but of communion. As one commentator observed, “The Bible begins in a garden and ends in a city, showing God’s intention to redeem not only souls but the whole of human life.” These chapters are meant to steady the reader at the threshold of eternity and to remind us that history is not drifting aimlessly—it is being brought home.

John’s vision of the new Jerusalem in Revelation 21:1–22:5 is intentionally rich with imagery that speaks to both the heart and the mind. The city does not rise from human achievement; it “comes down out of heaven from God.” Redemption is received, not constructed. The absence of sorrow, pain, death, and tears is not presented as wishful thinking but as divine action—“He will wipe every tear from their eyes.” The Greek phrase exaleipsei pân dákryon conveys a deliberate, personal wiping away, not a distant decree. God Himself tends to the wounds of His people. What has marked human existence since Genesis 3 is finally undone. Death, the great intruder, is no longer present, and with it goes the grief that has shadowed every generation.

The description of the city’s structure is equally important. The great wall and twelve gates, named for the tribes of Israel, remind us that God’s promises to His covenant people were never abandoned or replaced. The city’s cubic shape—equal in length, width, and height—echoes the Holy of Holies in the temple, where God’s presence dwelt most fully. Here, the entire city becomes sacred space. There is no separate sanctuary because the Lord Himself is the temple and the light. As G. K. Beale notes, the imagery communicates not architectural detail alone, but theological meaning: God’s immediate presence fills every dimension of life. The splendor of precious stones, pearls, and transparent gold points beyond material wealth to the beauty of holiness and the clarity of unbroken fellowship with God.

Safety and nourishment are also central to this vision. Nothing evil enters the city, not because of exclusionary fear, but because evil itself has been finally judged and removed. Flowing through the city is the river of the water of life, nourishing the tree of life, whose leaves are “for the healing of the nations.” What was barred in Eden is now freely given. Humanity does not return to innocence, but moves forward into restoration. Healing here is not remedial but sustaining—life as God intended it to be, whole and secure. The curse that fractured creation is gone, and God’s servants see His face, the ultimate fulfillment of covenant relationship.

Revelation 22:6–21 brings the Scriptures to a close with urgency and tenderness. John emphasizes that these words are “faithful and true,” grounding hope not in imagination but in God’s character. The repeated promise of Christ’s return—“I am coming soon”—is not meant to provoke speculation but faithfulness. “Soon” speaks to certainty and readiness, not chronology. The closing call is deeply pastoral: worship God alone, hold fast to the truth, and resist the temptation to alter the message for convenience or comfort. The warning against adding to or subtracting from the book underscores how seriously God treats His self-revelation. Grace does not negate truth; it depends on it.

What stands out most to me as a pastor is the final invitation: “The Spirit and the bride say, ‘Come.’” The Bible ends not with a threat but with an open call. Those washed in Christ are welcomed into the city; those outside are still being summoned. Scripture closes as it has spoken all along—with grace offered and a future promised. As Eugene Peterson once wrote, Revelation does not withdraw us from the world but trains us to see it truthfully in light of God’s ultimate victory.

Ending the year in Revelation reminds us that our personal stories are nested within a far greater one. As another year closes, we may carry regrets, griefs, or unanswered prayers, but Scripture assures us that none of these have the final word. God does. The final sentence of the Bible—“The grace of the Lord Jesus be with God’s people”—is not only a benediction for eternity but a blessing for today. We walk into the coming year not with fear of the unknown, but with confidence in the One who declares, “I am the Alpha and the Omega.”

For a thoughtful overview of the hope and assurance found in Revelation’s final chapters, see this article from Christianity Today:
https://www.christianitytoday.com/faith/2020/december/revelation-new-heaven-new-earth-hope.html

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When God Wipes the Last Tear

On Second Thought

There are certain truths in Scripture that settle deep into the human heart—truths that bring both comfort and questions, hope and holy reflection. Revelation 21:4 is one of those passages. “He will wipe every tear from their eyes.” It’s a promise many of us cling to when grief rushes in, when sorrow dries us out, or when the world feels too heavy to bear.

But before that promise is fulfilled, John tells us something surprising—something we often glide past without a second thought: God Himself wipes the tears from our eyes. Tears in the new creation. Tears after the millennium. Tears even in the presence of God.

This detail is not incidental. It is intentional. And on second thought, it invites us into a deeper understanding of God’s heart and the final victory of redemption.

Why Tears Still Fall Before Eternity Fully Begins

We tend to imagine eternity as a moment when everything sad simply vanishes. But the Scripture paints a more compassionate and emotionally honest picture.

Before the new heaven and new earth are unveiled, something unspeakably solemn takes place. The dead stand before the Great White Throne (Revelation 20:11–15). Books are opened. The book of life is opened. And those not written in it are judged and cast into the lake of fire.

It is a moment of divine justice—but also a moment that reveals the weighty reality of human freedom.

And for the redeemed, it is a moment that touches every memory, every relationship, every story we carry from this present life.

We will know fully, as we are fully known (1 Corinthians 13:12). No longer will our vision be clouded by sin, confusion, or partial understanding. We will see every choice clearly. We will understand every motive. We will see the love of God displayed not only in His mercy but also in His justice.

But even with heavenly understanding, there will be sorrow. How could there not be?

How could we not feel the pain of those who refused the invitation of grace?
How could we not ache for those who resisted the One who sought them?
How could we not mourn the lost whom we prayed for, hoped for, wept for?

Scripture does not hide that reality. It honors the depth of human love. It acknowledges the weight of loss. And it shows us something beautiful—God meets us right there.

He does not dismiss our tears but wipes them.

He does not scold our grief but comforts it.

He does not rush us past sorrow but gathers us into His own compassion.

This moment reveals a God who is not only sovereign but tender—One who holds our hearts as carefully as He holds the cosmos.

Seeing Everything With New Eyes

The text makes an important observation: before God wipes away every tear, He reveals the hidden realities of the heart.

In that day, the counsels of every heart will be exposed (1 Corinthians 4:5). Motives will be unfolded. Choices will be seen for what they truly were. The secret movements of conscience, the resisted callings of grace, the unseen rebellions—all will be plain.

We will see that God did all He could to save.
We will see that no one perished because God was unwilling to forgive.
We will see the lengths to which divine love pursued the lost.

And then—even amid the ache—we will confess with the saints in Revelation 16:7:

“Even so, Lord God Almighty, true and righteous are Your judgments.”

This does not minimize pain; it contextualizes it in the light of perfect justice and perfect love.

When every hidden thing comes to light, we will witness the full story of redemption from a vantage point we never had on earth. We will see that God was never cruel. Never careless. Never indifferent. His patience was long. His mercy was wide. His invitations were many.

On second thought, understanding all this does not remove our tears—but it prepares our hearts for the moment when God Himself will.

The Tenderness of a God Who Wipes Tears

Think of the intimacy in those words: “He will wipe every tear from their eyes.”

Wiping a tear is something you do for a child, a spouse, a beloved friend. It is an act of closeness. It requires nearness, tenderness, and presence.

God could have simply declared, “There will be no more tears.”
But He didn’t.

He chose to personally wipe them.

This is not a distant deity. This is the Father who runs to prodigals, the Son who weeps at gravesides, the Spirit who groans with us in prayer. The God of all creation will cradle the faces of His children and remove what sorrow remains.

Then—and only then—He will usher in the reality where:

no more death

no more sorrow

no more crying

no more pain

The former things will pass away, not because we ignore them, but because God heals them.

What This Means For Us Today

If heaven makes room for tears before perfect joy begins, then perhaps we should not be ashamed of ours now.

Your tears are not signs of weak faith.
They are signs of deep love.
Signs of longing for a world that is coming.
Signs of hope in a God who sees and understands.
Signs of a heart God Himself promises to comfort.

The One who will wipe your last tear sees every one you shed today. Not one falls unnoticed. Psalm 56:8 says God keeps them in a bottle—not to preserve your sorrow but to honor your suffering.

And He will redeem every tear.

He will not waste the grief that shaped your compassion, the heartbreak that softened your spirit, or the sorrow that pushed you closer to Him.

Until the day He wipes away the last tear, He walks with you through every one before it.

A Closing Prayer

Lord, thank You for the promise that one day all sorrow will end. Thank You that You see my tears, understand their weight, and will one day wipe them away with Your own hand. Help me trust Your goodness when I don’t understand Your timing, and help me rest in Your love even when life hurts. Keep my heart tender, my faith anchored, and my hope set on the day when You make all things new. Amen.

Further Engagement

For more reading on the hope of eternity and the character of God, here is a resource from Crosswalk:
https://www.crosswalk.com/

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