Chuck Larsen

Sometimes the days seem to stretch on without end, yet the old saying still holds its ground: “everything must come to an end.” That truth applies not only to the events that fill our calendars but also to our lives themselves. My dad was not a Bible scholar, but he had a way of summarizing deep truth in a single line. He often said, “and this too shall come to pass.” History quietly agrees with him. Civilizations rise and fall with a regular rhythm that would almost be predictable if it were not so sobering. Egypt, Babylon, Persia, Greece, Rome, and many others have all taken their turn on the stage. Because our own lives unfold in such a short span within a single era, it is easy to think things will continue as they are. Yet history reminds us that what feels permanent often is not. Even the things we assume will last, like that box of leftovers in the refrigerator, have a way of proving otherwise.

Jeremiah gives us insight into why even great nations fall. The decline of Israel was not random or accidental. It was tied directly to its rebellion against the God who had formed and sustained it. From its early days in Egypt to its strength under Solomon, Israel experienced both blessing and collapse. Jeremiah 4:28 records the seriousness of that fall: “For this, the earth shall mourn, and the heavens above be dark; for I have spoken; I have purposed; I have not relented, nor will I turn back.” That is a sobering picture. In our daily lives, we may not be managing empires, but we still wrestle with the same tendencies. We drift, we forget, and we occasionally act as if we are in charge of outcomes that clearly belong to God. History, both ancient and personal, gently reminds us that our plans are not always as sturdy as we imagine. The rise and fall of nations mirrors the smaller patterns we see in our own lives.

The New Testament, especially through Luke’s writings, shows that history is not a random collection of events but the unfolding of God’s purpose. As James Montgomery Boice observed, Luke is not merely recording the story of the early church but revealing that history has a plan. Scripture says, “When the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son” (Galatians 4:4). History moves toward Christ and finds its meaning in Him. Jesus stands at the center, drawing people into a new fellowship and shaping lives for His glory. He also promises, “Behold, I am making all things new” (Revelation 21:5). The rise and fall of nations, the passing of days, and even our own brief lives are part of a larger story. As the saying goes, all history is His story. God has spoken, and He will not turn back. In Christ, what must come to pass leads not to uncertainty, but to a future shaped by His unchanging purpose.

God’s grace can be seen throughout the Old Testament, especially in the stories that speak of judgment. In each account, the central theme is not destruction but the way of escape. Noah found safety by believing God. Lot escaped by believing God. The Israelites in Egypt were spared through faith in God’s provision. Rahab, Abraham, and many others discovered that the path to life was the same: believe God. Even in the coming destruction of Jerusalem, Jeremiah did not simply announce doom; he proclaimed hope and called the people to trust the Lord. Jeremiah 4:27 captures this balance: “For thus says the LORD, ‘The whole land shall be a desolation; yet I will not make a full end.’” The story, in the end, is not centered on those who refused to believe but on those who did. God’s grace consistently shines through, even when the skies grow dark.

That pattern speaks directly into our daily lives, though perhaps in quieter ways. We may not be building arks or marking doorposts, but we still face moments that require trust. We often prefer visible guarantees, detailed plans, and perhaps a small preview of tomorrow just to feel comfortable. Instead, we are invited to trust God without seeing the full picture. History reminds us that God refused to let Noah perish in the flood, would not allow Lot to be consumed in Sodom, and protected those who placed the Passover blood over their doors. He spared Rahab in Jericho and extended hope again and again. Even Adam and Eve were given the promise of a coming deliverer. There has always been a ray of hope in the sky, though sometimes we squint to see it, especially on days when the clouds seem to have settled in for an extended stay. The consistency of God’s grace reminds us that He has never been careless with those who trust Him.

The New Testament reveals that this steady thread of hope finds its fulfillment in Jesus Christ. He declares, “I am the root and the offspring of David, the bright morning star” (Revelation 22:16). What was promised in shadows is made clear in Him. The warnings of judgment are no longer reasons for fear but reminders of God’s love and provision. Jesus assures His followers, “My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me, and I give eternal life to them, and they shall never perish” (John 10:27-28). Scripture adds that “He is able to save forever those who draw near to God through Him” (Hebrews 7:25). Because He lives, “you shall live also” (John 14:19). In Christ, the way of escape is not a distant hope but a present reality, and even death itself becomes, as Paul wrote, “gain” (Philippians 1:21).

After the six days of creation in Genesis, God commissioned Adam and Eve to “be fruitful and fill the earth.” It was a world shaped by His voice, ordered out of chaos, and filled with goodness. Yet sin has a way of undoing what God has so carefully arranged. Rebellion does not build; it unravels. Jeremiah captures this reversal with sobering clarity as he describes Judah’s condition using the language of creation turned backward. What once had form becomes “without form and void.” What once teemed with life grows empty. In Jeremiah 4:25 he writes, “I looked, and behold, there was no man, and all the birds of the air had fled.” It is a haunting picture. The fruitful land has become barren, and the fullness of life has slipped away. It reminds us, perhaps uncomfortably, that when we drift from God’s design, things do not merely pause; they begin to come apart.

This pattern is not confined to ancient history. It quietly repeats itself in our own lives. We may not notice it at first. Life gets busy, priorities shift, and before long we find ourselves surrounded by a kind of inner clutter that we did not plan. We were meant to flourish, yet sometimes we feel a bit like a room that was cleaned last week but now seems to have been visited by a small tornado. Jeremiah’s words help us see that the issue is not simply external circumstances but the deeper condition of the heart. Without God, everything trends toward disorder. Yet Jeremiah does not leave us there. He speaks of a coming New Covenant, a time when the Spirit of God would once again move “over the face of the deep.” Lloyd-Jones described this as a “breath of hope,” like a traveler in a desert suddenly seeing an oasis. Scripture echoes this promise: “The people dwelling in darkness have seen a great light” (Matthew 4:16). Even in our confusion, there remains the quiet possibility of renewal.

That promise finds its fulfillment in Jesus Christ. Jeremiah pointed forward to a covenant that would restore what sin had undone, and Jesus declared its arrival. At the last supper, He took the cup and spoke of “the new covenant in my blood” (Luke 22:20). Through Him, order is brought back into chaos, and life is breathed into what once felt empty. The New Testament reminds us, “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation” (2 Corinthians 5:17). The same God who formed the world now works within hearts, restoring what was lost. In Christ, hope is not an illusion but a present reality. Even as we walk through the valleys of life, we carry the promise that God’s purposes are not abandoned. As Jesus said, “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly” (John 10:10).

There was a season when our children were young and seemed to have a very limited vocabulary for people they did not like. The word they reached for most often was “stupid.” We worked to correct that habit, though I must admit I have not always been innocent of using it myself. It stings when spoken and lingers longer than we expect. Yet Jeremiah records a moment when God uses language that feels just as sharp. In Jeremiah 4:22, He says, “For my people are foolish; they know me not; they are stupid children; they have no understanding. They are ‘wise’—in doing evil! But how to do good they know not.” The issue is not a careless insult but a serious diagnosis. God’s people had become skilled in wrongdoing while remaining unfamiliar with what is good. It is a sobering reversal, and it reveals how far they had drifted from Him.

At the heart of this condition is a simple but weighty truth: they did not “know God.” In the Old Testament, to know God is not merely to gather information about Him but to live wisely in relationship with Him. Sin clouds that understanding. As Constance observed, sin “blinds the intellect” and draws the mind into folly, making wrong choices seem reasonable. That pattern is not confined to ancient Judah. It appears in our own lives when we become clever at justifying what we know is not right while struggling to practice what is good. We may pride ourselves on insight and experience, yet still miss the mark in simple acts of kindness or fairness. Jeremiah later explains what it means to know God through the example of King Josiah: “He defended the cause of the poor and the needy, and so all went well. Is that not what it means to know me? Declares the LORD” (Jeremiah 22:16). Knowing God shows up in how we treat others. When our actions turn selfish and harsh, it is a sign that something deeper is out of place.

The New Testament brings clarity to this idea by centering it in Jesus Christ. To know God is to know Him. Jesus said, “And this is eternal life, that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent” (John 17:3). This knowledge is not abstract; it transforms how we live. The apostle James writes, “If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God” (James 1:5), pointing us to a wisdom that reshapes the heart. Paul adds that Christ has become for us “wisdom from God” (1 Corinthians 1:30). In Him, the confusion of sin gives way to clarity. What once appeared wise is exposed, and what once seemed difficult becomes possible through His work within us. Through Christ, knowing God moves from distant concept to living reality, and foolishness begins to give way to true understanding.

The harsh reality of forsaking their Glory, God Himself, for idols made by human hands came down hard upon the nation of Israel. Jeremiah saw it clearly before it happened and spoke with urgency about what was coming. Scripture often provides the warning, while history supplies the details. The destruction of the temple, later described with greater detail by Josephus, confirms what God had already declared. As Jeremiah warned in Jeremiah 4:20-21, “Crash follows hard on crash; the whole land is laid waste.” He did not speak as a distant observer. He felt it personally: “Suddenly, my tents are laid waste, my curtains in a moment.” The devastation seemed relentless, leading him to ask, “How long must I see the standard and hear the sound of the trumpet?” It is a sobering reminder that when God’s glory is exchanged for lesser things, the consequences are not theoretical. They arrive with a force that reshapes both land and life.

That same pattern quietly repeats itself in our own lives, though often on a smaller scale. We may not bow to carved idols, but we are not immune to replacing God with things that feel more immediate or manageable. We hold tightly to what we can see and control, only to discover that those things cannot bear the weight we place on them. When life begins to unravel, the question of suffering rises quickly. How can a loving God allow such pain? I have wrestled with that question and have found that my explanations tend to unravel faster than the problem itself. Like Job, I eventually arrive at the realization that my perspective is limited. Scripture reminds us, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord.” The apostle Paul echoes this humility: “Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are his judgments” (Romans 11:33). It turns out that I am not as qualified to evaluate God’s plans as I once suspected.

Yet even in the presence of suffering, there is a deeper purpose unfolding. Alexander Maclaren reminds us that God’s actions are rooted in love, a love that desires a response from His wandering children. The New Testament reveals this purpose through Jesus Christ. Through Him, we are invited to know God not as a distant authority but as “Abba! Father!” (Romans 8:15). Jesus Himself said, “That they may know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent” (John 17:3). God’s aim is not merely to correct behavior but to reveal Himself, drawing us into a relationship where we can see Him and be at rest. In Christ, suffering is not the end of the story. It becomes part of a larger work in which God makes Himself known, and in knowing Him, we begin to understand life as it was meant to be.