Author: Benjamin Dean

When the Bible speaks of God's holiness, it is not presenting an abstruse divine attribute that happens to apply to Jesus along with the Father and Spirit. Rather, in Jesus Christ, holiness becomes incarnate. The eternal holiness of God takes on human flesh, lives a human life, dies a human death, and rises with a glorified human body. In Christ, we see not only what God's holiness looks like, but what human holiness was always meant to be.
Making complex subjects simple is a genuine good — at least to the extent that it is possible. But we must not assume that only what is convenient, comfortable, or immediately comprehensible is worthy of belief. As one teacher used to say, ‘To communicate simply you must understand profoundly.’ Genuine clarity grows out of real depth. When ideas are oversimplified, they may appear attractive at first, but they tend to generate confusion later.
When we call God good, we are not applying an external standard to him, as if goodness existed independently and God happened to measure up. We are saying something far more radical: God does not merely conform to goodness. God is goodness.
What does it mean that God is good? One of the most searching answers in Scripture is also one of the simplest: God is good in the way a father is good. Not as a metaphor or a distant analogy, but as a living, personal, familial reality.
If you want to know what God is like, the Book of Exodus gives you one of the most direct answers in all of Scripture. Standing at Mount Sinai, Moses makes an audacious request: show me your glory. God's response reframes the question. It is not visual spectacle that captures God's essence.
There is a word that runs like a golden thread through the opening pages of the Bible, repeated so insistently that no reader can miss it. That word is ‘good’. God makes the light, and it is good. He separates sea from land, and it is good.
Some passages of Scripture are foundational in the strictest sense: without them, everything built on top collapses. Genesis 1:1-25 is such a passage.
The opening verse of Genesis is one of the most consequential sentences ever written: ‘In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.’
In 1897, the French painter Paul Gauguin, living in Tahiti, completed his most monumental work. He titled it — in three searching questions — Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?
Life was as bleak as it could be for Israel. A Pharaoh who ‘did not know Joseph’ had come to power (Exod 1:8).
At first glance, the opening chapters of Exodus might seem like a rapid and somewhat breathless series of events: a rising population, a paranoid Pharaoh, brave midwives, a desperate mother, a basket on the Nile, and a princess who breaks the rules. But beneath the surface of this narrative lies a carefully and brilliantly constructed literary structure, one that rewards close attention and rewards it richly.
The Book of Exodus has inspired generations of oppressed peoples. From enslaved Africans in the cotton fields who sang ‘Let my people go,’ to liberation theologians in Latin America and Africa who argued that Moses was the patron saint of all freedom fighters, Exodus has been a rallying text for those who yearn for justice.

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