The One Who was and is and is to Come

Death has to be named plain. A weak view of God has to die. The habit of treating the Lord as useful only for the current crisis has to die. The idea that faith is just polished optimism, or that religion is a set of slogans for hard days, has to die too. No sugar-coating this. If Revelation 1:4 is true, then every small, homemade version of God we carry around is rotten framing and needs to be torn out.

Revelation 1:4 “John to the seven churches which are in Asia: Grace be unto you, and peace, from him which is, and which was, and which is to come; and from the seven Spirits which are before his throne;”

John wrote that to real churches under pressure. Men and women running shops, raising children, paying taxes, burying loved ones, and dealing with state power that wanted worship pointed the wrong direction. He did not hand them a soft religious blanket. He put a load-bearing beam in front of them. God was not a local tribal helper. He was not late to history. He was not aging with the world. He was, and is, and is to come.

Naming What Must Die

What must die first is the lie that the present moment is king. Our culture bows to whatever is urgent. The phone buzzes, the bill comes due, the doctor calls back, the argument flares up in the kitchen, and suddenly today acts like it owns the whole house. Grocery shopping can turn into a panic drill. A man stands by the meat cooler at Kroger, doing math in his head, shoulders tight, checking whether ground beef or chicken thighs will stretch to Friday. If he is not careful, his fear starts preaching louder than Scripture.

Another thing has to die. The old identity that says, “I am what I can hold together.” I know that one well. When my construction company hit a rough patch years back, I acted as if keeping payroll met on Friday made me sovereign. I was still a Christian on paper, but in practice I was trusting my own hands, my own bid sheet, my own hustle. That kind of false security looks solid until rain gets in the walls. Then the rot spreads.

Religious certainty built on personality has to die too. Biblical faith is not chest-thumping confidence in our own read on every detail. Cultural optimism says things will work out because people are resilient. Religious pride says things will work out because I know the right words. Biblical faith stands on the character of the eternal God. That is a different foundation altogether. One rests on mood. The other rests on the throne.

John’s phrase also kills the fantasy that history is random. Rome looked permanent in his day. Its roads were solid, its soldiers armed, its coins stamped with authority. Still, Revelation opens by putting Caesar in his place without even naming him first. The churches needed that. So do we. Markets rise and fall. Neighborhoods shift. Health reports land hard. Family conflict can make a house feel colder than winter concrete. Yet none of that rewrites who God is.

Here’s the bottom line. What must die is every false refuge built on timing, control, image, and self-made certainty. The One who was and is and is to come does not fit inside our emergency plans. He is the Lord over the past that shames us, the present that presses us, and the future that scares us. Until the old scaffolding falls, nobody starts building on solid ground.

Then comes the dying:

The Descent into Death

Dying to those false refuges is not neat work. It feels more like demolition than decoration. Anybody who has torn out bad flooring knows what happens. You pull up one warped board and find mold, nails, water damage, and work somebody hid years ago. The soul is no different. When a believer starts taking Revelation 1:4 at face value, buried trust in money, reputation, routine, and control gets exposed. That hurts because those things have been carrying emotional weight for a long time.

The Lord often does this work by stripping away the illusion that we can master time. A traffic jam on I-75 can preach a hard sermon. You are late, your chest is tight, brake lights stretch red in the rain, and every minute feels stolen. Or you sit in a clinic parking lot waiting on test results, watching windshield wipers drag across the glass, and the future suddenly feels locked behind a door you cannot open. In those moments, flesh wants a god who works on demand. Scripture gives us the eternal Lord instead.

That is where biblical faith parts company with cultural optimism. Optimism says, “Set your mind right and keep moving.” Religious certainty says, “If I say the right thing, the outcome will match my plan.” Biblical faith bows lower. It admits that the God of Revelation is not managed by our schedule. He was God before the diagnosis, during the diagnosis, and if healing delays, He will still be God. That truth is solid, but receiving it can feel like a death blow to pride.

Isaiah 46:9-10 “Remember the former things of old: for I am God, and there is none else; I am God, and there is none like me, Declaring the end from the beginning, and from ancient times the things that are not yet done, saying, My counsel shall stand, and I will do all my pleasure:”

There is a Gethsemane edge to this. Not in the sense that we share Christ’s atoning work. We do not. But in the sense that surrender is costly. A father kneeling by his bed after a blowup with his teenage son has to let an old identity die. The identity of being the strong one, the always-right one, the unbending foreman of the house. A wife facing financial stress has to let die the belief that peace comes only when every number in the account looks clean. A church leader has to let die the hunger to be seen as steady when he is actually scared.

This descent is where prayer gets more honest. Less polished. More plain. “Lord, I do not trust You here the way I claim to.” That is a hard sentence. I have prayed it over payroll, over marriage tension, over my daughter’s safety driving at night, over my mother’s health. The eternal God can handle honest confession. He is not rattled by it. Still, confession feels like death because it tears down the image we worked hard to build.

Luke 9:23 says, “And he said to them all, If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me.” Daily means the dying is not a one-time dramatic speech. It is repeated surrender. One board at a time. One idol at a time. One false certainty at a time. When the rubber meets the road, this is where faith gets real.

In the darkness:

Holy Saturday Waiting

There is a stretch after surrender where nothing feels settled. That is the Holy Saturday space. Christ was in the tomb. The disciples had promises in their ears, but they also had silence in the room. No choir. No sunrise scene yet. Just waiting with confusion, grief, and unfinished thoughts. A lot of believers know that space better than they admit.

Waiting tests whether we trust the eternal character of God or just prefer quick results. A contractor can submit a solid bid and still wait weeks for the answer. A family can cut spending, sell a vehicle, skip eating out, and still face another month of tight money. A man can apologize sincerely to his neighbor after a property-line argument, then live beside awkwardness for months. That in-between season reveals what kind of foundation we are standing on.

John’s language in Revelation matters here because it anchors waiting people in God’s identity, not in visible progress. He did not say grace and peace from the God who once acted but is now distant. He did not say grace and peace from the God who only matters later. He said grace and peace from Him which is, and which was, and which is to come. Past, present, future. All held together in the Lord Himself.

Hebrews 13:8 “Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever.”

Let’s get real here. Waiting exposes what we worship. At the checkout line, when a debit card runs slower than usual and your stomach tightens, you find out fast whether peace is tied to cash flow or to Christ. Sitting in traffic after a brutal meeting, gripping the steering wheel while somebody cuts across three lanes, you find out whether your soul needs control more than it needs holiness. Standing in the driveway after hearing bad news from family, looking at the porch light spill across damp concrete, you find out whether your hope can survive without immediate change.

Holy Saturday does not mean God is absent. It means God is not rushed. That bothers us because we are creatures of sequence and deadlines. He is the One who was and is and is to come. He does not panic in the middle space. He does not misplace the plan. He does not wake up to breaking news. The churches in Asia needed that steadying truth while living under pressure from a loud empire. We need the same truth while living under pressure from loud fears.

Waiting is not wasted ground when it drives roots deeper. Building on solid ground takes time below the surface. So does faith. In the stillness, the Lord kills hurry, strips out fantasy, and trains His people to rest in His unchanging rule. That work is quiet. It is also tough as nails.

But Sunday is coming:

The Unexpected Morning

Resurrection life often breaks in without fanfare at first. That fits the Bible better than our dramatic instincts. Mary did not begin Easter morning with a victory lap. She came weeping. The disciples did not spend dawn singing on the hillside. They were slow, confused, and locked away. The risen Christ met them in that fog. That matters because the eternal God does not only rule the grand future. He enters ordinary hours and turns them.

When Revelation calls Him the One who was and is and is to come, it is not just a statement about endless duration. It is a claim about active lordship. The God who governed Abraham’s days and Israel’s exile is present now and will arrive in full judgment and reign. His coming is not vague religious mist. It is concrete. Real history. Real justice. Real kingdom. That gave first-century churches steel in the spine because Rome’s clocks were not the final clocks.

Revelation 1:8 “I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending, saith the Lord, which is, and which was, and which is to come, the Almighty.”

That same truth starts raising dead places in regular life. I have seen it in plain clothes. A subcontractor I knew spent years burning bridges with crews, always blaming somebody else. After conversion, the first sign of life was not a microphone testimony. It was him calling two men he had cheated and making payment plans. Slow. Embarrassing. Costly. But real. Resurrection has calluses on its hands.

I have seen it at my own table. There were seasons when I carried work stress home and turned the house into an extension of the jobsite. Short answers. Hard tone. No patience. When the Lord dealt with me, the first sign was not a feeling. It was going back to my wife and kids and owning what I had built with my mouth. A dead thing had to stay dead. In its place came a different kind of strength, quieter but more solid.

The unexpected morning also changes how we read the future. Cultural optimism says tomorrow will be better because progress keeps rolling. Religious certainty says tomorrow will be better because my tribe has the chart figured out. Biblical faith says tomorrow belongs to the coming Lord. That is sturdier than optimism and humbler than swagger. It does not deny suffering. It refuses to crown suffering king.

Jeremiah 32:27 says, “Behold, I am the LORD, the God of all flesh: is there any thing too hard for me?” That verse lands different when tied to Revelation. The One who was and is and is to come is not boxed in by the wreckage behind you, the pressure around you, or the uncertainty ahead of you. Morning can come where you quit expecting it. A marriage can begin speaking honestly again. A conscience can get clean. A fearful believer can stand steady in a hospital hallway. Not because people are impressive, but because the Almighty is alive and present.

Then comes the dying:

Learning to Live Again

Resurrection life still requires practice. A man raised to new obedience can slip back into old habits if he starts building with rotten lumber again. So living in the truth of the eternal God means daily habits that match reality. Scripture open before the day runs you. Prayer that is plain and honest. Church life that is more than attendance. Repentance that gets specific. These are not flashy tools, but they do solid work.

Living again also means treating present pressures as temporary tenants, not owners. At the grocery store, you buy what you can afford without letting shame preach to you. In traffic, you refuse to let delay become an altar where anger burns all afternoon. In neighborhood conflict, you choose straight speech over passive-aggressive games. In health concerns, you ask for prayer, keep appointments, take the medicine, and refuse despair the final word. Practical Christianity has boots on the ground.

The eternal identity of God changes relationships too. If He was faithful before I got here, faithful while I am here, and faithful after I am gone, then I do not need to dominate every room. Fathers can listen longer. Husbands can apologize faster. Business owners can tell the truth about numbers instead of bluffing. Church members can stop acting as if every inconvenience is a crisis. Building on solid ground makes a person steadier under load.

No sugar-coating this. New life still meets resistance. The old reflexes do not vanish overnight. Fear still taps you on the shoulder when the bank account dips. Pride still flares when somebody disrespects you. Impatience still rises when healing takes longer than you wanted. But resurrection life means those old masters no longer own the deed. Christ does. The One who was and is and is to come is not only the object of doctrine. He is the Lord who governs Monday morning.

Here’s the bottom line. Biblical faith is not bright-eyed denial, and it is not religious swagger. It is steady trust in the eternal, present, coming God. That kind of faith can stand in a checkout line, a hospital room, a tense family dinner, a rain-soaked jobsite, or a silent sanctuary and remain upright. Not because the believer is naturally tough, but because the foundation is real. Call to die to every false support. Receive the life only Christ gives. Lord, tear out what is rotten, keep us honest, and plant us deep in the truth that You were, You are, and You are to come. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Introspective: Where in your life are you still acting as if the present pressure has more authority than the eternal God?

Contemplative: Hold this in your mind for a while: the One who was and is and is to come rules your past, your current strain, and your unknown future at the same time.

Action: What one concrete act of surrender will you take this week to build on solid ground instead of a false refuge?