Douglas Vandergraph

There are chapters in Scripture that feel like instructions, chapters that feel like stories, and chapters that feel like warnings. Then there are chapters like Ephesians 3, which feel less like something you read and more like something that reads you. This is one of those passages that quietly dismantles small thinking about God, small thinking about yourself, and small thinking about what the Church was ever meant to be. Ephesians 3 does not shout. It reveals. And what it reveals is not a new idea, but an ancient reality that most believers live their entire lives brushing past without ever fully stepping into.

Paul begins Ephesians 3 by calling himself “the prisoner of Christ Jesus for the sake of you Gentiles,” and that single phrase alone overturns how most of us understand suffering, limitation, and calling. Paul does not say he is a prisoner of Rome, of politics, of injustice, or of bad luck. He frames his confinement as belonging to Christ Himself. This is not denial of reality; it is interpretation of reality. Paul sees his circumstances through the lens of divine purpose rather than personal inconvenience. That distinction matters, because it sets the tone for everything else in the chapter. Ephesians 3 is written from a place of restriction, yet it speaks almost entirely about expansion.

The heart of the chapter revolves around what Paul calls “the mystery made known to me by revelation.” In modern language, the word mystery often means something confusing or unknowable. In Paul’s world, a mystery was not something unsolvable; it was something previously hidden that had now been revealed. This matters because Christianity is not built on secret knowledge reserved for the elite. It is built on a truth that was once concealed and is now open to all who are willing to see it. The mystery is not that God loves people. The mystery is who God includes in that love and how far that inclusion actually goes.

Paul makes the mystery unmistakably clear: Gentiles are fellow heirs, members of the same body, and sharers together in the promise in Christ Jesus. That sentence would have landed like an earthquake in the first century. This was not a theological footnote. It was a complete reworking of identity, belonging, and spiritual hierarchy. The people who were once considered outsiders were not being invited to the edge of the table. They were being told they had always been part of the inheritance, even if no one had yet explained it to them.

This is where Ephesians 3 quietly confronts one of the deepest temptations of religious life: the desire to feel special by exclusion rather than by grace. The early Jewish believers had Scripture, tradition, and lineage. The Gentiles had none of that. And yet Paul says the same Spirit, the same promises, and the same access now belonged to both. Not because Gentiles earned it, but because God designed it that way from the beginning. The mystery was not God’s backup plan. It was His original intent, finally revealed in Christ.

Paul goes even further by explaining that this mystery was hidden for ages in God, who created all things. That phrase dismantles the idea that the gospel is a reaction to human failure rather than the unfolding of divine wisdom. God did not scramble to fix the world after it broke. The inclusion of all nations through Christ was not an afterthought. It was embedded in creation itself. The gospel is not God responding to sin; it is God revealing His character.

Then Paul introduces one of the most staggering ideas in the entire New Testament: that through the Church, the manifold wisdom of God is now being made known to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly realms. That sentence is easy to read quickly and miss entirely. Paul is saying that the Church is not just a gathering of believers. It is a cosmic announcement. The way broken people are reconciled to God and to one another is a message not only to the world, but to the spiritual powers themselves.

This changes how we think about the Church at a fundamental level. Church is not primarily about attendance, preference, or personal inspiration. It is about revelation. It is God demonstrating, in real time, what grace looks like when it collides with human division. Every act of reconciliation, every moment of unity across difference, every expression of love that defies natural boundaries becomes part of a larger testimony that echoes beyond what we can see.

Paul anchors all of this in Christ, saying that in Him we have boldness and access to God with confidence through faith. Notice what Paul does not say. He does not say we have access because we behave well enough, believe correctly enough, or perform consistently enough. He roots access in relationship, not achievement. Boldness here is not arrogance; it is security. Confidence is not self-trust; it is God-trust. Ephesians 3 is dismantling fear-based faith at its root.

Paul then pauses to address his own suffering again, telling the believers not to lose heart because of what he is going through. This is important because it reveals something about spiritual maturity. Paul understands that people often interpret hardship as failure or divine disfavor. He refuses that narrative. He reframes his suffering as part of the glory that is unfolding in them. In other words, what looks like loss on the surface is serving a larger purpose beneath it.

This leads into one of the most profound prayers ever recorded in Scripture. Paul does not pray for ease, safety, or success. He prays for strength in the inner being through the Spirit. That distinction matters. Outer circumstances change slowly, unpredictably, and often painfully. Inner strength, however, transforms how everything else is experienced. Paul understands that resilience of the soul matters more than comfort of the body.

He prays that Christ may dwell in their hearts through faith, and that they would be rooted and grounded in love. This is not poetic language; it is architectural language. Roots determine nourishment. Foundations determine stability. Paul is saying that love is not meant to be an accessory to faith; it is meant to be the structure that holds everything else together. Without love, spiritual knowledge collapses under pressure.

Then Paul asks for something that sounds almost contradictory: that they may have power to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge. He is praying that they would know something that cannot be fully known. This is not intellectual contradiction; it is spiritual invitation. Paul is acknowledging that God’s love cannot be reduced to information. It must be experienced, encountered, and continually rediscovered.

The goal of this prayer is not emotional comfort alone. Paul says it is so that they may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. That phrase is almost dangerous if misunderstood. Paul is not saying believers become God. He is saying believers are meant to be saturated with God’s presence, character, and life. Christianity is not about receiving a portion of God. It is about being inhabited by Him.

Ephesians 3 refuses to let faith remain shallow, private, or manageable. It stretches the imagination, expands identity, and redefines what is possible. Paul ends this section with a doxology that has been quoted so often it risks losing its impact: God is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us. Notice where the power is located. Not in heaven alone. Within us.

That sentence dismantles passive spirituality. God’s power is not merely something we wait for; it is something already at work. The limitation is not divine willingness, but human awareness. We often ask small questions of a God who has already placed extraordinary potential within His people.

What Ephesians 3 is doing, quietly but relentlessly, is moving faith from the margins of life to the center of existence. It is telling believers that they are not spectators in God’s story. They are participants in a revelation that began before time and continues into eternity. The mystery is no longer hidden. The question is whether we are willing to live as if it is true.

Ephesians 3 does not end where most people think it does. Yes, Paul concludes with a doxology, but the chapter does not close the conversation — it opens a way of living. What Paul has done up to this point is strip away every reduced version of Christianity that tries to make faith manageable, predictable, or safely contained within personal comfort. Now, in the closing movement of the chapter, he forces the reader to confront a question most believers never ask directly: What kind of life would you live if you truly believed God was doing more than you could imagine — not someday, but now?

The danger of familiarity with Scripture is that we begin to hear phrases instead of truth. “Immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine” becomes inspirational wallpaper instead of a disruptive claim. Paul is not offering encouragement for difficult days. He is making a theological assertion about reality itself. God’s activity is not capped by human expectation. It is not limited by human imagination. And it is not dependent on human readiness. The only qualifier Paul gives is “according to His power that is at work within us.” That phrase shifts responsibility in an uncomfortable way.

Most believers are comfortable believing God is powerful. Far fewer are comfortable believing that God’s power is already at work inside them. That idea introduces accountability. If God’s power is present, then stagnation is not a lack of divine ability. It is often a lack of human surrender. Ephesians 3 quietly challenges the habit of postponing obedience until conditions improve. Paul is not praying for future empowerment; he is revealing present reality.

This is why the Church matters so deeply in this chapter. Paul does not envision faith as an individual project. The mystery is revealed through the Church. Not through isolated spirituality, not through private enlightenment, but through a community shaped by grace. The Church, at its best, is not impressive because of its organization or influence. It is impressive because of its contradictions. People who should not love each other do. People who should not belong together do. People who should not forgive do. And in that living paradox, the wisdom of God is displayed.

This is also why Ephesians 3 is deeply uncomfortable for performance-based religion. Paul never once ties fullness of God to spiritual achievement. He does not pray that believers would become more disciplined, more knowledgeable, or more impressive. He prays that they would be strengthened internally, rooted in love, and filled with God’s presence. These are not metrics you can measure publicly. They are realities that reveal themselves under pressure.

When Paul speaks of Christ dwelling in the heart through faith, he is not describing a symbolic visit. The word “dwell” carries the sense of settling in, making a home, remaining. This means Christianity is not about hosting God occasionally. It is about allowing Him to rearrange the furniture. Many believers invite Christ in but resist His renovations. Ephesians 3 does not allow for that kind of selective surrender.

The prayer for comprehension of Christ’s love is equally unsettling. Paul does not pray that believers would feel loved, but that they would grasp love’s dimensions. This suggests intentional engagement. Love here is not sentimental. It is expansive, demanding, and transformative. To grasp it means to let it redefine worth, identity, and belonging. You cannot truly grasp the love of Christ and still cling to shame-based self-understanding. One will eventually dismantle the other.

This is why Paul says the love of Christ surpasses knowledge. Knowledge can inform behavior, but love reshapes desire. Knowledge can change what you think; love changes what you want. Ephesians 3 is not interested in creating well-informed believers who remain internally unchanged. It is aiming for people who are so saturated with divine love that their lives begin to make sense in a different way.

Being “filled to the measure of all the fullness of God” does not mean perfection. It means alignment. It means nothing in you is closed off from God’s presence. This is not about moral flawlessness; it is about relational openness. God’s fullness fills available space. Where fear remains, fullness is resisted. Where control dominates, fullness is restricted. Where love is welcomed, fullness flows.

Paul’s closing praise is not abstract worship. It is defiant confidence. From a prison cell, Paul declares that God’s glory is revealed in the Church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. This is not optimism; it is conviction. Paul believes that what God has begun cannot be undone by opposition, suffering, or time. The mystery revealed in Christ is not fragile. It is eternal.

Ephesians 3 invites believers to stop living as if faith is something they manage and start living as if faith is something that carries them. It challenges the instinct to shrink God down to the size of personal comfort. It calls the Church to remember that it exists not merely to serve its members, but to reveal God’s wisdom to the world — and beyond it.

If this chapter were taken seriously, it would change how believers approach prayer, community, suffering, and purpose. Prayer would become less about persuasion and more about participation. Community would become less about preference and more about formation. Suffering would be interpreted less as interruption and more as context. Purpose would stop being something people search for and start being something they live from.

The mystery is no longer hidden. The love is no longer theoretical. The power is no longer distant. What remains is a decision — not whether God is able, but whether we are willing to live as if He already is.

And that is why Ephesians 3 does not just explain the gospel.

It exposes whether we believe it.

Your friend,
Douglas Vandergraph

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