So often, we disconnect the letters of the New Testament from their deeply relational context.

Especially over the past few centuries, these letters have been placed “under the microscope,” so to speak. They are sliced, diced, and prepared into small samples, with each word or phrase subjected to a wide range of tests and analysis, hoping to uncover a previously unknown truth, unlocking the deep mysteries of life and faith in the process. And while we should all aspire to be careful and faithful students of Scripture, might it be that we’ve lost sight of their intended purpose?

This week, as we dive into the words of Sts. Paul, Peter, and John, we must remember that the recipients of these words were known and loved by these early leaders of the Church. When Paul wrote his beloved reflection on the fruit of the Spirit (Gal 5:22-26), he had specific men and women on his heart and mind that personified and revealed to the world these beautiful virtues. When he offered a word of correction or rebuke, it was not a general word of truth but a moment of tender but firm fatherly advice to his spiritual children (Eph 4:29-32).

Similarly, Peter’s reflection on the power of God to guard and protect his people brought comfort to a fledgling church in need of reassurance (1 Pet 1:3-5). Likewise, in times of great trial and difficulty, John encourages his beloved children to set their eyes on the future hope of the kingdom, “that when he appears we shall be like him” (1 John 3:2). On and on we could go, yet one thing is abundantly clear in these ancient words: the way of Christ is encountered, nourished, and sustained from within the community of faith.

To be human is to be social, fashioned and formed in the image and likeness of a communal God — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. We recenter and discover afresh this original design when we journey through life with other followers of Christ. At times, we will be invited to use our strength to support and carry them through seasons of pain and loss. In others, we may be the weak and needy members, learning to receive just as we learn to give.

Yet in each and every season, we look to the letters of the New Testament and remember afresh, we are called to know and follow Jesus Christ as we are known and loved by his body, the Church.

The laws of the Lord are true;
each one is fair.
They are more desirable than gold,
even the finest gold.
They are sweeter than honey,
even honey dripping from the comb. (Ps 19:9b-10)

In his Letter From a Birmingham Jail, Martin Luther King, Jr. writes, “One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws.” Throughout human history, civilizations have risen and fallen, each with their own stories of justice, goodness, and mercy, as well as evil, cruelty, and hatred. At times, laws are enacted to protect the powerless and give voice to the voiceless. Yet, it seems humans are equally capable of unspeakable injustices towards their fellow man, legislating immorality and approving wickedness as the law of the land.

Of course, no one is so bold as to acknowledge the brokenness of their beliefs. As Deuteronomy 12:8 reminds us, we as humans are all too quick to do what seems right in our own eyes. We assume our motives to be pure and our intentions ordered towards the collective flourishing of society. Yet are our hearts truly this benevolent? Can we trust our own ability to discern what is good, beautiful, or true?

Increasingly, our struggle is not only against unjust laws, but the very notion of the law itself. We live with a perpetual allergy to constraint, in any form or fashion. The western world is built upon the foundation of individual choice, freedom, and autonomy. Could it be that this default lens through which we see the world keeps the world of Scripture in general, and the Psalms in particular, at arms length?

Do you believe that the law of God is truly good? Can you join your heart and life to the words of Psalm 19? “The laws of the Lord are true…more desirable than gold…sweeter than honey.” Time and time again, the Psalms go out of their way to celebrate the gift of the law, the goodness of God in revealing his will and his ways to his people. The boundaries of the law are good and pleasant (Ps 16:6), limiting and constraining us when we are prone to rush headlong into places of chaos and self-inflicted pain.

Similarly, until you reject the modern notion of absolute freedom, you will always be a slave to your own disordered desires. Is the sheep that wanders away from the flock truly free? Is the shepherd abusive and manipulative when he leaves the ninety-nine and goes after the one, bringing it back into a life of constraint?

If boundaries are unjust, they deepen brokenness and perpetuate pain. Yet, a life bounded by the love of God, hemmed in on every side (Ps 139:5), discovers a freedom unlike any the world has ever known. And so, saturate your heart and mind with the ancient words of the Psalms, tasting the sweetness and lingering in the delight that comes from a life of faithful obedience.

The opening line of any good story is meant to capture the imagination and point in a specific direction.

It casts light upon the path that lies ahead, inviting, even compelling the reader to enter into the unfolding narrative. Often, the full significance of these lines is not grasped or understood until the conclusion of the story, with hindsight unveiling the true weight of those first few words.

Many examples come to mind. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” (A Tale of Two Cities). “Call me Ishmael” (Moby Dick). “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen” (1984). “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife” (Pride and Prejudice). Others could be added to this list, yet there is one opening line that at first glance seems curiously technical and, frankly, forgettable:

“The book of the genealogy of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham” (Matt 1:1, ESV).

Was St. Matthew unaware of the importance of an opening line? Did he not realize his missed opportunity? When telling the greatest story ever to be told, why would he, with painstaking detail, recounting 42 generations of Israel’s history, with such memorable lines as “And Aram begat Aminadab; and Aminadab begat Naasson; and Naasson begat Salmon” (Matt 1:4, KJV)?

Let us not sell Matthew short. In truth, he is a masterful storyteller, who is fully aware of that which we all too quickly forget, namely, that the story he tells is fulfilled in the coming of Christ, but this is not where the story begins. As Christopher Wright says in his book, Know Jesus Through the Old Testament, “We will only understand Jesus properly if we see him in the light of this story, which he completes and brings to its climax.” If we separate Jesus from the history of God’s people, his mission becomes unintelligible and the story is stripped of its true power.

As we are reminded each year at Christmas, in the words of O Little Town of Bethlehem, “The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.” Behind each of these seemingly inaccessible genealogical accounts, remarkable stories of hope and fear are found. Hope that God will keep his promises to restore his people and heal the world (Isa 38:7). Fear that God has forgotten these promises and abandoned his people to their own sin and suffering (Ps 13).

In Christ, the promise of God is fulfilled and our deepest fears are destroyed. As we study and memorize passages from the Old Testament, the full story of Christ is slowly but surely revealed. And so, from the opening line, Matthew tells the story precisely how it must be told, for as he does, he invites each of us to recenter our own stories on Christ, and find our place in the great story of God.

If you grew up in or around the church, memorizing passages of Scripture was likely a central part of your Sunday School experience.

A small army of faithful volunteers sang, brought puppets to life, and drew from a bottomless well of choreographed hand motions, all with the hopes of sending you home with a small portion of Scripture, not only written on the coloring sheet in your lap, but sealed within your head, and by the grace of God, upon your heart.

For many of us, this was both the beginning and end of our experience with Scripture memorization. Though we may still value the idea of memorization, it is likely towards the bottom of the “when I get around to it” list of spiritual disciplines. What place, if any, does Scripture memorization have in the day-to-day rhythms of our lives?

In fact, when we memorize portions of the Bible, we step into one of the most ancient forms of biblical engagement.

For most of human history, including the majority of the Christian faith, private book ownership (not to mention an app on a phone!), was an entirely foreign concept. When early Christians sat down for their daily “quiet time,” did they brew their coffee, grab a journal, and choose from one of a dozen Bibles on their shelf? Not exactly. In fact, the only way to orient their lives to the life of Christ was to worship and hear Scripture read in community. Maybe Sunday School was on to something after all!

In the early Church, Christians heard and memorized Scripture as they worshiped, moving from a gathered experience into personal reflection within the stillness of the heart. If one’s daily life was to be shaped by and oriented to the word of God, it was first encountered in worship, and then internalized and carried within one’s very being. And though we today have countless Scripture resources at our fingertips, the invitation before us is an ancient one: we must learn, like Mary, to treasure in our hearts God’s word spoken to us (Luke 2:19). And so, whether it is public reading or personal engagement, we receive the Scriptures with a heart of worship and wonder.

In this way, memorization is a close relative of meditation. We learn the words of Scripture, not as a badge of honor or sign of intellectual ability, but to invite the Lord to transform our daily deeds as we dwell upon his word. It is, as the psalmist reminds us, a journey of learning to “treasure your word in my heart, so that I may not sin against you” (Ps 119:11 NSRV).